summary: breaking up with your ex-fiancé, caleb, is like trying to cancel your gym membership: unfortunately, you'll be locked in for a lifetime. but at least being his ex comes with some nice perks. period care on demand, cuddles whenever you like, and a solution to all of the problems that come with an old apartment. he's a constant in your busy life. a little crazy... maybe a lot crazy. but soon, you come to accept that rather than forsake him for it.
contents: nsfw (sexual themes but no actual sex), kinda crack and angst, implied death of minor character(s), implied that caleb drugs you, swearing (you know me), yandere and themes of possession and obsession, reader has a cat hence the header images, 9k words
original thought post + read on ao3
It's just after 9am when your doorbell rings. You glance up, eyes wide like a cat caught in the midst of pawing a glass over the edge of a table. Your breakfast sits in front of you, half-eaten. Grabbing a napkin, you hastily wipe your mouth before scurrying over to the front door. Swinging it open, you find a young delivery boy holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
"For Miss—"
You take them from him and sign his tablet, uttering a quiet, "Thanks," before closing the door. You've been receiving a fresh bunch every week for about a month now, ever since you separated from your long-time partner. The flowers from last week sit in a vase on your island bench, casting you a disapproving look as you set the fresh bouquet down nearby and go on a scavenger hunt for another vase. Finding an old pitcher instead, you undo the bouquet and arrange the flowers inside it, adding some water and the provided flower food afterwards.
With your breakfast growing colder by the second, you plop down in the opposite chair and finish it off, your bites rough like sandpaper and chewing menacing like it's not the right grit. Your brow heads inch toward each other, forehead creased and shoulders tight as you eat. He has to stop doing this, you think…
Finishing your breakfast, you wash up your plate and other dirty dishes. Drying yourself off, you dive for your phone and scroll through your contacts, searching for the name with the love hearts only to remember you removed them a few weeks ago. Pressing the call icon, your phone starts to ring. Almost instantly, the line connects.
A rather chirpy voice comes through the speakers, "Good morning, pipsqueak. How are you feeling today—?"
"I told you stop sending me flowers, Caleb," you ground out, your mood thoroughly soured by his unwanted generosity.
"Did you?" He chuckles awkwardly, definitely remembering your last phone call to him a week ago. "It must have slipped my mind. Whoopsies."
"Caleb," you grumble. There's no winning with him. His love is like the fresh air, fuelling your flame. But his warped ideals are the glass placed over the candle, snuffing it out until only grey tendrils and hardening wax are left behind. Your simmering heat dies. Ashes in your heart. You release a defeated sigh. "At least, send them every fornight, okay? They don't wilt that quickly…"
"You got it. Oh, and by the way, how are your cramps? Your period should start in a couple of—"
"Caleb, oh my god! You still track it?!" You exclaim, affronted. It's bad enough that you couldn't recover all of your panties from his abundant collection. Must he track your cycle as well? You suppose it's better for your lover to care more about your reproductive health then not care about it all. But that doesn't apply to exes.
"'Course I do. I can send you some chocolate if you're having cravings. Do you want dark or nutty? That brand you like also came out with an orange flavour if you wanted to try it." You pinch your brow, settling down on the couch as you feel this stabbing pain in your stomach, like some demon slipped out of hell, twisting your guts in its grotesque hand. You're rendered speechless.
"Do you have enough pads?" Caleb asks, continuing to obsess over you the way you wish he wouldn't. "Why don't you text me the ones you need and I'll pick them up for you? I was heading to Linkon this afternoon, anyways."
"No, you weren't, Caleb…" You mutter, growing more exhausted by the minute. "Just give it a rest, okay? I already have all of the chocolate and pads I could ever need. And you don't need to come over."
"Didn't you say your tap was leaking? I can fix it while I'm there. And I'm sure your cat misses me, too. I bought her some treats while I was at the pet store the other week. I should be there about three. Oh, and I can buy some groceries on the way. How about I make us some braised chicken wings for dinner? My treat." You don't even get a chance to respond as he continues on, "Alright, I've gotta get going. Fleet stuff. But I'll see you later, alright? And don't worry about cleaning your place up. Just take it easy."
"Fine. Bye," you utter, quickly hanging up and slamming your phone down on the coffee table. Leaning back, you clutch your abdomen. God, that guy is such a pain in the ass. Just barges in on your life whenever he wants. Giving and giving until you can't take anymore. That's the main reason things fell off between you two. The Fleet was stressing him out, and rather than keeping that stress at work, he'd let it out on those who threatened your relationship. Threatened as in offered to grab something from the top shelf for you, or even smiling at you just a little too much to the point where Caleb became worried they would try and take you away from him.
When he became like this, you can't say. But the man you walked away from most certainly wasn't the one you ran toward. He understands that you're not a possession that can be stolen, or a naive girl that can be misled by creepy older men. But despite his understanding, he still clings to this archaic idea of protection. Your radient light shouldn't be dimmed by the stains of humanity. It should be kept pure. In the palm of his hand.
Moving out and finding your own place was challenging enough. Of course, Caleb wouldn't let you carry any of the boxes or handle any of the white goods. Nor would he let you pay for the rent or utilities. But at least he let you decorate. Oh, and gave you this illusion of space with his recent absence. But your address is ingrained into his mind alongside bittersweet memories of your time together. Your laughter is sewn into his soul, your intellect the sparks that set his neurons alight. Your body is branded into his.
Quiet meows pull you from your daze. You cat, Mittens, stretches before you, paws spread and rear high before her spine curves into an arc. She must have heard Caleb's voice and grew curious. Brushing up against your leg, she meows again, her soft fur sticking to your lounge pants. You give her few head scratches, spouting utter gibberish in a baby voice about how Caleb will be coming over later today. She perks up at the mention of his name, a purr starting in her chest.
Unfortunately for you, your sweet kitty, Mittens, loves your ex-fiancé. She's never been as affectionate with you as she is with Caleb. And he spoils her rotten. The most expensive treats, the prettiest pink collar with her name embroidered into it. Her cat tower remained at his place in Skyhaven because of its size, but you brought along the numerous cat beds, scratching posts, dangly toys and other bizarre cat things Caleb bought for her to your new place; they fill an entire bedroom. And to say she loves them would be an understatement. But the little plushies and other items you've given her over the years? She couldn't be less disinterested.
Resigned to your fate, you fetch a heat pack and chuck it in the microwave, letting it get nice and toasty while you choose a movie to watch. Thankfully, it's your day off, so you have no objections to taking it easy. You end up picking a comfort film and settle back onto the couch, pouting as Mittens goes to sit on her fur-covered cushion that also has her name embroidered into it, but this time, with a crown (guess who bought it?).
The time flies by, 3pm steadily approaching between films and grabbing snacks. There's no knock on the door when Caleb arrives, just the jangle of keys and shameless thud behind him before he removes his work boots. You don't even turn around. He's still in his colonel uniform, you can smell it. Guns, sweat, and unreported violence. The rustle of grocery bags overpower your senes.
Caleb leaves them in the kitchen before stalking into the living room, a big grin on his face as he comes over to you. "Hey, honey." He wraps you in his arms, your face smushed against his shoulder as he squeezes you tight. "I missed you." Drawing back, he cups your face, the heat of his hands soaking through his gloves, into your cheeks. "Where's my kiss?"
"Ca-leb," you groan. "We're separated. Sep-ah-rated. I'm not kissing you."
"Oh, come on, baby. I've had a long day. And besides, it'll make you feel better." His boyish charm is difficult to resist. But you must. As you're about to say no— "Please." Your ancestors must be looking down upon you with disdain as you begrudingly lean in and give him a peck.
"One more?"
"Oh, fuck off."
"Fine, fine. But I expect something a little more generous after dinner." Releasing you, Caleb retreats to the kitchen, going through his overnight bag you knew he'd end up packing.
"I'm not sleeping with you, fuck wit!" You call out to him, remaining on the couch to sulk. His laughter rings off the walls, geniune amusement. You bet Mittens has her tail curled around his calf right now, seeing as she's disappeared from her cushion.
He doesn't shout back. He knew you never liked it when he shouted. And his voice is loud enough, unmistakeable in the quiet of your apartment as he says, "I never implied you should. All I meant was that you're being a little curt. Breaks my heart, you know?" You can envision his sad pout, those cunning, puppy eyes staring at you.
Every retort dies on your tongue. Pushing off the couch, you head to the kitchen and see Caleb feeding Mittens a pureed treat. She laps at it happily, excited every time he pinches the packet and sends another meaty curl springing up from the opening.
"Can you get changed, please? Don't tell me you're gonna fix my tap in that." Your eyes roam over his uniform, noticing the small splatter of blood on his sleeve. The sight causes you to gulp.
"Why not? I thought you liked it when I wear my uniform," he teases, squeezing out the last of the treat for Mittens. Once she finishes eating, he pats her head and cooes gently, "There we go. That's my good girl."
"Caleb." You fold your arms across your chest, your patience wearing thin. He should be saying that to you. "Just hurry up and get changed, okay? You can use my shower or whatever. But don't use all of my body wash. I don't have much left."
"Don't worry. I bought you another bottle just in case." Caleb stands up, Mittens pawing at his leg while he unveils an extra large pharmacy-exclusive bottle of your go-to body wash. Of course, he had time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you. No! Of course, he made time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you.
Without another word, your ex-fiancé begins unpacking the groceries he bought, putting them away without any difficulty (he has pictures of your kitchen on his phone, all of the drawers and cupboards labelled accordingly). You help him with maybe one of the bags. He's awfully fast. Sunlight streams in through the windows, illuminating his dark locks. It feels like old times. Noon grocery shopping or after work convenience store runs. Delicious home cooked meals. Lazy Sunday morning sex with breakfast to follow. You miss those times. You miss who Caleb was back then. Who he never stopped being. But not who he ended up becoming.
Your kitchen is spotless by the time he ducks off to your bathroom. You rest against the coutertop, your fingers pressed to your lips, mind off in the clouds. There's a weight that's missing. He kept your engagement ring. You remember that conversation like it was yesterday, though the wound is but a scar left behind.
"I'm not taking it back. It's yours." Caleb huffed, incredulous as to how you could offer up your ring to him like that, the ring he gave you to symbolise the lifetime you'd spend together.
"Caleb! I'm serious. We're over!" You held out the ring to him, inching it closer despite his obvious hesitation. All he had to do was take it from you, and then your soul would finally be freed. You'd be finished with him. For good—or so you thought.
"I told you, I'm not taking it back. I don't care if we're over. I don't care if you pawn it off or throw it in the ocean. It's yours."
"Then keep it safe for me, will you?" You countered, grabbing his wrist and placing the ring in his palm. All your love, in his hand. His to protect. Forever more.
You wonder what happened to it—the ring, that is. If he still has it. He definitely still has it. Probably keeps it in his bedside drawer and stares at it longingly before bed each night like the pathetic loser he is. Your loser… (un)fortunately.
A traitorous grin stretches across your lips, concealed by your hand. You immediately scowl at yourself, mumbling like a mad woman about getting your head in the game. But it's difficult to when you see a fluffy tail swaying until its out of your sight, obscured by the wall. You bet Mittens has wandered down the hall to sit outside bathroom… Yep, you can hear her scratching at the door.
Sighing, you trudge down the hallway, eyeing your precious little baby who must get inside that steamy room with Caleb. Oh, how you wish that was you—! Stop it! You shake your head, intent on banishing those thoughts before they take root and fester. Reaching the bathroom, you go to open the door when the handle turns. The door opens. Not just a little ajar thing, no. Like some freak of nature Caleb opens the door wide, chilly air flooding his soaking wet body, your towel haphazardly slung around his hips.
"Hi ba… by." His voice drops from high-pitched to his familiar resonance, expression turning from over-excited to bewildered in seconds.
"I was. Getting the door." You glance down at Mittens who happens to be licking the water droplets off Caleb's ankle, your cheeks heating up at the speed of light.
"Riiiiight." He quirks a brow at you, mischievous smile on his lips.
You gesture to his (or rather, your) towel. "You couldn't grab a clean one?"
"There were none left in the linen cupboard." He shrugs, quickly catching the edges of the towel as it begins to slip. All you can see is wet, rippling contours. Taut skin. Veins running up his hands and forearms, those on his hips disappearing beneath the pink, Egyptian cotton. It's been a little while…
"You're such a liar, Caleb," you mutter. "You didn't even look! I put fresh ones in there the other day."
"Really?" He says as if he's surprised. His hand comes to his chin. Everyone talks about ovulation cravings, but none dare speak of the beast you become as your period approaches. "Hm… I can't remember seeing any—"
"Because you didn't look—"
"But you don't have many, right? Isn't it better to save them, anyway? We might need them for later tonight." You gasp at his insinuation.
"Caleb!"
"What? You're thinkin' about it, too. There's no need to be shy about it. I thought we got over that a long time ago—"
"Oh my god, shut up!" You groan, your frustration palpable as you stomp away from him, fingers pressed to your temples. You've got a headache coming on. And Mittens will be all damp by the time she and him emerge from the bathroom. You'll have to dry her off while Caleb works on your kitchen tap. The agony that persists. Must life only bring suffering?
Only once the sun kisses the horizon is Caleb finally fiddling with your kitchen tap, twisting it, unscrewing it, examining it while you struggle to keep Mittens away from him. Since you dried her off, she's been strutting through his legs, flopping over and demanding belly rubs almost every minute he works on your tap.
As she does it again, you slide her across the floor and scoop her up in your arms, bouncing her like a restless baby as Caleb flashes you a grin.
"She's really missed me, huh?"
"Yeah. She used to start meowing at like 2am when we first moved in here. And she wouldn't stop until I got up to feed her. But now, she's calmed down a lot." You release her on the ground, watching as she inevitably bounds over to Caleb.
"That's good to hear. But I wish you told me she was giving you trouble. I would have visited if I knew she was keeping you up at night." Caleb dismantles your tap with ease, laying each part out on your sink so he can assess them one at a time.
"That's why I didn't tell you, dummy. I needed some space. I still need some space, actually," you remark.
"I've given you plenty of space, honey."
"You still track my cycle," you grouch.
"Okay, yeah." He picks up one of the parts, sniffing it like that rusty scent will tell him something other than that your apartment is overdue for a reno. "But it's not like I'm reviewing your discharge nightly."
"Anymore," you quip. "I bet you miss doing that, freak."
"You don't have to be so mean, you know? Especially not to the person who's doing you a favour right now." That shuts you up. You glare at him as Mittens begins to meow, anxious for an ounce of that handsome man's attention. As she stretches up, paws on his shorts, hind legs and torso elongated, he bends down and lifts her beneath the underarms. His fingertips overlap. You forgot just how large his hands are. Merely seeing them is different to seeing them wrapped around something. You gulp.
Caleb places her arms over his shoulder, one hand beneath her rear as he continues going through each part of your tap. You don't say anything else as he works, intent on watching her drift off to sleep with her little furry head on his shoulder. Your chest pangs. Everything you've tried to convince yourself you don't need is before you… It's times like these that make you forget those moments when you were curled up in bed, crying as Caleb just had to put another innocent person in their place for 'flirting' with you (showing basic kindness). If he would just change—
You stop yourself. There's no use relying on someone else to change. For someone cannot change unless they truly wish to. And Caleb, you're sure, feels justified in his actions. He can't see his wrongdoings, only how his 'righteous' actions upset you. What he does is not the problem, but he himself is. Or at least, that's how you understand him to be. If his perceptions have changed in the short time you've been apart, then you'd welcome that with open arms. But…
"Looks like it's your o-rings," Caleb says, holding up four little rubber rings.
"My what rings?" Your brow furrows. They really need to rename those to something else.
"Your o-rings. They create a seal between parts, so water doesn't leak out of places it shouldn't. It looks like one of them was loose. But to be safe, I'll replace all four." He sets them down and stalks off, returning with a packet of assorted replacement rings. It doesn't take him long to find the perfect match, and it's all too soon before he's re-assembling your tap, attaching it back to the sink like it hadn't been touched in the first place. He turns it on then off, waiting for any leaks. But there are none.
"Thanks, Cay," you murmur, gracing him with a sweet smile. A high unlike any substance can give him. He beams back at you, attempting nonchalance and thoroughly failing at it.
"It's alright. Wasn't too complicated or anything. But if you have anymore trouble with it, let me know. I can try replacing the washers next time to see if that'll do it." He packs up his few tools and leaves the kitchen, likely heading to his bag which he undoubtably left in your bedroom. You scoff. There's no way he's sleeping in your bed tonight. The couch is calling his name.
It's a little early for dinner, but seeing as Caleb hasn't returned for a minute longer than he ought to, you start pulling out the ingredients he meticulousy packed away earlier in the afternoon. He's probably going through your dirty laundry basket. If you're missing a pair(s) of panties, you'll know who the culprit is that's for sure.
By the time he waltzes back into the kitchen, Mittens trailing behind him, you're already measuring out the ingredients for the sauce.
"Hold on there. Are you starting without me?" Caleb pouts, clasping his heart like it hurts. You roll your eyes at him, snapping the lid back on the soy sauce.
"What does it look like I'm doing, dummy?" Now where is that darn hand grater when you need it? You start pulling open drawers, a bulb of ginger in your other hand as you frantically skim through knives and spoons. It's not long before Caleb is by your side, magically retrieving the grater you swear wasn't there a second ago.
"Looking for this?" He can barely contain his smirk.
"Thanks," you mutter, your eyes narrowed as you take the grater from him. Returning to your array of little bowls, you grate the ginger into one before mincing garlic into another. Meanwhile, Caleb soaks the chicken wings in water and a pinch of salt. But of course, braised chicken wings simply aren't enough for dinner. He also bought your favourite noodles, bean sprouts, and other yummy ingredients to make stir-fry noodles.
Easily, you and Caleb slip into a familiar routine, him at the stove while you man the chopping board. Mittens is off rubbing her scent all over Caleb's work boots. All that's missing is oldies jazz playing in the background. You wonder where you put your speaker as you chop the spring onions. A bit of music wouldn't hurt, right?
The onion slips, but your clouded mind doesn't react fast enough. The blade comes down and pierces your skin. A thin red line appears. A whimper escapes you. Caleb is beside you within a second, prying your hand off the knife and setting it down so he can examine your finger.
"You alright?" He asks, his voice slightly gruff.
"Mhm," you hum, trying to pull your hand back, but he won't let you. His grip is like a vice, clamped up in concern.
"Go sit down." He finally relents, releasing your hand. "I'll grab the first aid kit."
"I'm fine, Cay—" He's already stormed off, en route to your bathroom to grab the bandaids and disenfectant. Petulently, you throw yourself into one of chairs at the island bench, groaning about how he's making a big deal out of nothing (even though he can't hear you right now).
When he comes back, he sits beside you and diligently patches up your finger, chastising you lightly for not being more careful. After all, it's not the first time you've done this when cooking with him. His presence can be so distracting… But it's not like there's anything else for you to do in the kitchen other than chop. There's no way he'll let you near the stove when he's around. Maybe he'll put you on dish duty next time. How exciting.
You're banished to the couch while Caleb finishes up with dinner, your sweet kitty oblivious to your indignation as she finds a way to sit inside of your ex's boots. To leave her scent all over them simply isn't enough. She must infuse herself with the lining, coat the insole with her fur until he's forced to recall her every time he gets dressed for work.
Once Caleb finishes cooking, you help to set the table, watching with keen eyes as he plates everything. It looks delicious, steam rolling off crunchy fried noodles and tender chicken wings sparkling beneath the overhead light. Before digging in, you set out a bowl for Mittens, the clang of the metal on the floorboards enough to rouse her from her cosy spot.
Caleb's shoulder brushes against yours as you sit down, the cotton fabric of his t-shirt catching on yours. You can feel his heat, fabric sliding over skin. An ephemeral touch, replaced by hairs on edge as you yearn to close that small gap between you. He loads up your plate first, giving you the best looking chicken wings before dishing himself out a couple.
You start with the noodles, and oh boy are they divine. Perfectly crisp. The bean sprouts go so well with the salty flavour. Picking up a chicken wing, you bite into it and find that Caleb's cooking has only improved since you last saw him. Taking another bite, it dawns upon you that you forfeited a man who's good both in bed and in the kitchen. You should be ashamed of yourself!
As the silence stretches on, you decide to break it with, "How's therapy going?" Caleb nearly chokes on his chicken wing's bones.
"The-rapy?" He coughs out, clearing his throat before chugging half a glass of water.
"Yeah. Remember? I said that if you wanted to get back together, then you'd have to start going to therapy."
"I know, but I… didn't think you were being serious." Caleb's brow puckers in thought, his hand on his chin as he recalls that fight you two had in the days leading up to your separation.
You sigh dramatically. "Of course, you didn't."
"Hey…" He turns to face you, expression slightly pouty yet undeniably serious. "Look, pips, I don't need to go to therapy—"
"Princess, you're deranged." You twirl your chopsticks in your noodles, gathering them up in a bundle. "You need to go to therapy."
"I'll have you know I'm not deranged." He says, defensively.
"Yes, you are, Caleb. And even if you weren't, I'd still want you to go to therapy or at least maintain a journal or something."
"I have a journal." You cast him an 'oh, really?' look, which he nods at. "I'm serious. I have a journal. I write in it nightly."
"What do you write about?" You ask, pointing your noodle-ladden chopsticks at him antagonistically.
He chuckles in awkwardly. "Uh, it's a secret. There's no point having a journal if I tell you everything I write in it."
"I didn't ask you what you wrote, dummy. I asked what you write about. Work stuff, airplane model stuff, daily life stuff. What? What goes in there?" He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, suddenly avoiding your gaze. You've got a bad feeling about this.
"Don't tell me it's a log of my discharge." His eyes widen. Caught red-handed. "Caleb!" You nearly shriek.
"What?" He winces, acting as if his unspoken admission is competely normal and natural.
"At least tell me it's in a physical journal." You silently pray his answer is 'yes'.
"Of course, not. I can't visualise patterns and trends in a physical book," Caleb says like that's painfully obvious and absolutely essential to the nature of his journaling. "I've got it on a spreadsheet. I can show you sometime, if you'd like. Actually, I noticed as I was going through your laundry that your recent discharge was slightly yellowish. Has that been happening for long or—?"
"Caleb!" You exclaim, almost dropping your chopsticks.
"If it persists, it could be a sign of an STI. Have you been having sex with other—?"
"No!" Your eyes are like those of a deer in headlights, heart pounding defeaningly loud in your ears, and chest heaving. When did you get so worked up? Quiet ensues, neither one of you sure what to say next. Eventually, you utter, "Okay, one, gross—"
"That's not gross—"
"Two, you don't even keep a journal. A journal is supposed to be for mindfulness, Caleb!"
"Well, I would say that tracking your cycle is pretty mindful, wouldn't you?"
You groan, clearly frustrated with his smart ass attitude right now. "You see, this is why you need to be going to therapy."
"You don't want me to track your cycle?" He pouts, ready to turn on the puppy eyes should your temper rise. Of course, that's all he got from what you just said.
"No, you fuck wit. Just listen to me," you grit out. "Yes, I want you to track my cycle. But also, we're not together anymore, so you can stop tracking it now. But even if you do track it, you can just use an app. You don't need to be going through my underwear on a daily basis to figure out where I'm at in my cycle. It's not normal, Cay."
"Well, dating is pretty rough these days." He shrugs, cupping his chin pensively. "I can't imagine many men going to the lengths I do to take care of their partners."
Setting your choptsticks on your plate, you run your hands down your face, exhausted by his antics. "What I'm saying is that it's weird, Caleb. God, you never listen to me."
"Don't say that, baby. You know I always listen to you." He leans over, palm on your shoulder to comfort you. But you push him off.
"No, you don't. You never listen to what I say. You always just do what you think is best for me without asking what I want." Your words hang in the air, floating atop wispy steam. The food's getting cold.
In a gentle voice, Caleb murmurs, "Let's not do this anymore, okay? This conversation isn't going anywhere, and it's only upsetting you."
"You're upsetting me!" You lash out, on the verge of tears. Unexpected, they crept up on you. Your appetite shrivels up and rots in your stomach. Sniffling, you grab your plate and take it to the kitchen counter, wrapping it in aluminium foil and turning on the oven. After placing it inside to keep your half-eaten dinner warm, you dash down the hall, making it to the bathroom to wash your greasy lips.
"Honey…" You hear Caleb coo. Why does it always have to end like this? You, balling your eyes out. Him, unwaveringly oblivious to the pain he's caused you. And your steadily approaching period doesn't help either. Your hormones are out of wack. But at least he doesn't tip toe around you. That would be worse. To be treated like some bomb about to explode any minute. At least respects you enough to argue with you like you're his equal. As if you could call that spat a true argument.
Ducking into your bedroom, you see that indeed, you were correct; his overnight bag rests at the foot of your bed. With tear-filled eyes, you grab it by the handle and drop it on the floor, climbing under the covers to cry in peace. But it doesn't last for long. You're only graced with five mintues before there's a knock on your bedroom door. Caleb doesn't bother to ask for permission to enter, he simply slips inside, sitting on the edge of your bed and stroking where your head is beneath the quilt and blankets.
"I'm sorry," he utters, regret in his voice.
"For what?" You grumble, muffled by the layers between you. But he hears you all the same.
"I'm sorry for making you feel you like I don't listen to you. And I'm sorry for making you cry. It was never my intention to do either of those things." He pauses for a moment, waiting for you to accept his apology. But those magical words never come. With a deep breath in, he concedes, "I know that I can be a little overbearing sometimes. But it's for your own good, I swear." You push the covers back, fresh air swarming your red, puffy face.
Sitting up, you wipe your snotty nose on your arm, swallowing thickly before mumbling, "If your overbearing nature is making me feel unheard and upset, then how is it good for me?" He opens his mouth, retort ready when it withers away. That look in your eyes—it's as if he's been thrust back in time to a month ago—broken. All he succeeded in doing by coming here (besides from fixing your tap) was to shatter your spirit. And even worse, up until this very moment, he felt justified in doing so. But now…
"I'll go to therapy, okay? If it's that simple to make you smile again, then I'll do it. I'm sorry I didn't start sooner." You shake your head. The perfect answer rejected.
"You have to go to threrapy because you want to. You have to want to change. You have to want to get better. It's not about me, Caleb. It's about what you want," you stress. He licks his lips, inredulous, tasting the metaphorical saltiness of your tears. Don't you understand? Caleb can't exist without you. Whatever you want—as long as it's good for you—Caleb wants, too.
"I want to. Go to therapy—"
"No, you don't—"
"Well, I'm going to go anyway, alright? Whatever helps get us back on track. I want you to know that I haven't given up on us. And I'm pretty sure you haven't either." Caleb grabs a tissue from your bedside table before inching closer to you, carefully patting away the wetness of your cheeks. Your lips are swollen, quivering slightly as you feel your tears renew from his sweet affection.
With his hands on either side of your face, tissue in his lap, Caleb leans down and plants a kiss on your forehead. He trails down your temple and cheekbone, coming across to the reddened tip of your nose and then dipping to your lips. His kiss is light and fleeting, nothing too overwhelming as your emotions spill over. Resting your head against his shoulder, you snake your arms around his torso and squish him like a teddy bear. A soft chuckle arises. He embraces you just as tightly if not more.
"You're the worst ex." You mumble into his shirt, a big sniffle following behind.
"Yeah?" He replies, teasing lilt to his tone.
"Yeah." You rub your face against him like a feline; Mittens doesn't deserve to have all the fun. Speaking of the devil, she jumps up onto the bed, nuzzling at Caleb's side in an attempt to make your sacred cuddle a group hug.
"Caleb."
"Mhm?"
"I love you," you murmur, squeezing him a fraction tighter. He chuckles quietly, big warm hands rubbing circles into your back soothingly.
"I love you, too."
That night, you reluctantly let him sleep in your bed, his warmth lulling you into the deepest sleep you've had since separating.
Your heart is racing, jitters crawling up your spine as you futz with your hair. You're supposed to be going on a date tonight in—you tap your phone screen. It lights up. 17:52—8 minutes. More precisely, it'll be your first official date with Caleb since you two separated. He's been good for the past six months, going to therapy and keeping his distance (thanks to the cameras he installed all over your place when he was minding Mittens (you were away on a short business trip)). Slowly, you've been growing closer, falling back into old patterns you never really shook off. He's taken care to listen to any problems you've raised, and learned to let you initiate (for the most part).
But of course, Caleb is still Caleb. You can hear him enter through the front door from where you stand in your bedroom, hunched over your vanity.
He coos to Mittens, "How's my favourite girl?" You hear the rustle of treats. Must he feed her? She just ate an hour ago… Huffing, you give up on your hair, resigned to accept the awkward curve of your fringe. Grabbing your perfume, you rip off the cap and douse yourself in that luxurious scent.
"Pipsqueak?" Caleb's footsteps grow louder. He opens your bedroom door. "There you are, honey." You gaze at him through the mirror, eyes roaming over his tailored suit with delight and settling on his orange striped tie. A smile breaks out across your face.
"I'll be done soon, okay?" You tell him, heading over to your wardrobe and unveiling your shoe collection, many of which, Caleb bought for you on a whim. 'I thought these would go with that cream dress you like.' 'The bow reminded me of you.' 'Weren't you searching for a pair of heels just like these?' Skimming through your options, you settle on a sleek pair. Thankfully, you taped your toes together in advance. Slipping the heels on, you wobble a bit when standing up. But Caleb's there to catch you. He grasps your forearms and holds you steady, leading you forward like a parent does to their toddler. That's what you feel like in these fuckers anyways. A wittle baby.
"You okay? You know, you don't have to wear these if they're too hard to walk in," Caleb reminds you. But you shake your head, intent on surviving the next few hours in these beautiful (tortuous) heels.
"I'll be fine, Cay. I wanna look pretty for our date tonight." You tell him. He chuckles lightly, halting and stepping closer to you. His hands trail across to your waist, gripping you firmly.
"You look very pretty, honey, with or without heels." He grins at you, leaning in for a kiss, but stopping short of your lips. He wouldn't dare to ruin your lip combo before you've even reached the restaurant. "Tell you what, I'll keep a second pair of shoes for you in my car. How does that sound? You can change into those once you get tired of these."
"Mhm, yes, please." You nod, scampering off to retrieve your comfiest sneakers. Handing them to Caleb, you follow him out your bedroom door, grabbing your handbag on the way out. Mittens is happily munching on some gourmet treats as you two lock the apartment up. On the kitchen counter, you notice a small plate with a delicious looking slice on it.
Pointing to it, you say, "For me?"
Caleb whips around, a big grin on his face. "Yeah, I made some banana bread this morning. Thought you'd like to try it."
"I'm watching my weight—"
"I know, I know. That's why I only brought you a slice. Try it, won't you?" Staring at him for a few seconds, you eventually sigh.
"Fine. I'll try it later tonight." You abandon the treat and rejoin Caleb's side, ready to leave for your date. Mittens is oblivious to your departure, unperturbed by the lights going out as she finds the jacket Caleb left on the couch for her to sleep on.
The drive down town is short, accompanied by some nice jazz and light chatter. Caleb gets the door for you once he's parked the car and keeps an arm around your shoulders as you walk up to the restaurant's entrance. Heading inside, the hostess greets you both and leads you to a quiet table at the back Caleb specifically reserved. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out your chair for you and pushes it in before taking his seat opposite you.
"You don't have to be so chivalrous, you know?" You remark. Table water and two cups are placed in front of you. The hostess leaves you both to go through the menu.
"I wanna make a good impression." Caleb shrugs, a little shy. You chuckle at that.
"I think we're past that stage, don't you?" You flip the menu open, the insanely high prices jumping out at you. Gulping, you read through the offerings. Weird pairings. Beijing this, Parisan that. You remind yourself that Caleb can afford this kind of fine dining.
"Well, it never hurts, does it? And I've always been chivalrous, pipsqueak." You glance up. He hasn't even opened his menu.
"Aren't you going to read the menu?" You gesture to it, bemusement creeping into your voice. He graces you with a reassuring smile.
"I'll have what you're having."
"Cay-leb," you grumble. It's always these little bullshit games when it comes to him. You thought he got past that months ago. "What if I want a salad?" You challenge, the menu pressing awkwardly against the sides of your fingers. It's rigid. The binding is stiff. Perhaps, they were freshly printed? But these aged pages tell a different story.
"You're not having a salad, honey. We're at a nice place. Why don't you have the roast duck instead?"
"You been here before?" You ask, wondering if he's brought other girls here during the time you've been apart. But as soon as that thought enters your mind, you cast it out. Caleb wouldn't. He's not like that. And neither are you. But he doesn't have to be so smug about this all.
"Well, I had to make sure you'd like it," he replies off-handedly, signalling to a nearby waiter that you're ready to order. You expect Caleb to do the talking once the server arrives, but instead, he nods at you.
For a moment, you stare back at him, the gears slowly turning in your mind. And then—"Hi, um, I'll have the Beijing roast duck and my partner would like—" You glance down at the menu, saying the first dish you see, "The teriyaki glacier 51 toothfish, please." The waiter smiles at you and gathers up your menus.
"Any drinks?" You turn to Caleb and find him to be rather unhelpful. He's wearing this proud smirk, enjoying seeing you struggle like this.
You stutter, "U-uh, yes, please. Just a bottle of red wine."
"Which one, miss?"
"U-uh." You hadn't even gone through the drinks menu! Of course, a place like this has about 30 different varieties of red wine to choose from. "What. Do you recommend?" You ask, your words clunky like this is your first time speaking to a waiter.
Flipping open the extensive wine list, the server points to the reds section. "The 2017 Côte D'Or Bourgogne by Benjamin Leuroux is my personal favourite. The fruit fades into the background, allowing a lightness to take centre stage. Very refreshing and moderately affordable." You eye the $380 next to the wine's name. Very affordable, indeed. "But if you're looking for something premium." The waiter directs your attention to the next page. "I'd suggest the 2013 Chambertin Grand cru by David Duband. Only two barrels were produced from vines over 50 years old. It's beautifully balanced with a broad range of earthy notes complemented by florals and a wild berry that creates a smooth finish. A truly exquisite wine, I can assure you." For over $2,500, you'd be expecting a pretty exquisite fucking wine, yeah.
Again, you meet Caleb's eyes, figuratively on your knees and pleading for him to utter a few words. But now, he seems distracted. He looks at you without really looking at you, smiles at you without smiling.
"Um. We'll have the first one you suggested. Thank you." You grin at the waiter, watching as he retreats before facing Caleb. "Hello-oh? I could have really used your help back there, dummy." He seems to recover from his daze, blinking back to reality at the sound of your irritated tone.
"On the contrary, I think you did great. I should let you take the lead more often," he says playfully.
You roll your eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah. I never wanna do that again. You didn't even give me enough time to look at the menu! And now I just ordered a $400 wine—" His phone buzzes, promptly shutting you up. With a grimace, Caleb pulls out his phone and checks the notification.
"Sorry, honey. Work stuff. I'll be back in a minute, alright?" He pushes his chair out, rising to standing. Your eyes widen, your lips forming into a pout.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah," he breathes out, quick to reassure you. "Let me handle this and then it'll just be you and me, okay? No more interruptions." You nod earnestly, watching with sinking shoulders as Caleb weaves through the tables to the exit. He's a busy man, you know. But it's hard to remember that when he always prioritises you. If he's not on a mission, then he'll be at your doorstep at the first sign of trouble, no hesitation, no 'Sorry, honey, I have a meeting' or other commitments coming between the two of you. You wonder what's so important that it could disturb him during your date. Maybe something went wrong at the HQ and he'll have to return right away. You sincerely hope not.
As you wait for him to return, you admire the patrons surrounding you. You see glittering pearls and shiny bald spots, beer bellies and opulent diamond rings. The overhead chandeliers are warm and cosy. A pianist in the corner plays, their fingertips agile and skilful. It isn't too long until Caleb sits before you once more, his phone out of sight.
"You okay?" You murmur, your brow puckered from concern.
"Yep. Everything's been taken care of. So where were we?" Caleb replies, sounding rather chipper. Your conversation comes easily, slipping into something comfortable. There's a push and pull, the two of you on the edge of your seats as you lap up the other's words like excited puppies. The food arrives all too soon, the wine poured by a different waiter to the one who took your orders. You have a sip, tasting the subtlety of the fruit. It really is quite refreshing and smooth on the way down.
"D'you like it?" You ask Caleb as he sets down his glass (he won't pick it up again for the remainder of the evening).
He shrugs. "It's a bit bland for my liking, but it's alright. How's the duck?" You pick up a tender slice with your fork and pop it into your mouth. Savoury-sweet bursts on your tongue. You can taste the onions it was roasted with. There's this slightly gamery undertone that you don't mind. Overall—
"It's pretty good. D'you wanna try it?" You hold out a slice to Caleb. Leaning forward, he bites it off your fork, sitting back and tasting the duck.
"Mhm. It's nice," he says, beginning to cut into his own meal. You sample the toothfish you ordered for him and find it to be similar to king crabs with a hint of cucumber and honey. It's a delicacy. But you end up preferring your own dish to his.
"Told you you'd like the roast duck." Caleb smirks. His plate is empty, save for any spilt sauce.
"Yeah, yeah," you sigh offhandledly, reluctant to admit that he was right all along. After finishing your meal, you head to the bathroom to clean up. In the meantime, Caleb pays for your date. When you emerge from the ladies room, certain your makeup still looks good, you find him waiting for you nearby with the bottle of wine in hand.
As soon as you make it out of the restaraunt, you're slung over his shoulders, laughing giddily and kicking your feet while he walks back to the car. He sets you down in the passenger seat and fetches a blanket he conveniently had on hand, wrapping you up in it as you giggle uncontrollably. You only had a couple of glasses of that wine, but there's a buzz in your system. Your body feels hot, and the world moves slowly. You slip off your heels and get cosy as Caleb settles into the driver's seat and gets the car going.
Back at home, you stumble inside, barefoot, while Caleb nurses your heels, back-up shoes, handbag, and the wine. You dash over to the couch and collapse on it, your cheeks aching from smiling the entire ride home.
"Cayyy-leb," you coo. Mittens jumps down from the couch and runs off, probably to greet your date.
"Coming, honey." Within a minute or so, Caleb comes into view, holding the plate of banana bread he left at your place earlier and a glass of water.
Sitting next to you, he hands you the water and says, "Let's sober you up, huh?" You take a sip from the glass, eyes following Caleb's movements as he undoes the cling wrap covering the banana bread and places the plate on his lap. Picking it up, he aeroplanes the slice to your mouth, feeding you a generous bite between your chortles.
"How is it?"
"Yum-myyy." You grin, happily accepting the next bite he offers you. "Mhmmm, Caleb."
"Yes, honey?" You cover your mouth with your fingertips, intent on delaying the next bite.
"Caleb. I love you." Not an odd thing to say. But something you haven't said since that night all those months ago. The liquor has loosened up your tongue. You can't stop yourself from admitting, "And sometimes, I wish I didn't break up with you. You're so handsome and kind to me. But you've got a few screws loose, you know? Like… I think you're a bit fucked in the head. But I still like you." Caleb stares at you for a moment, mouth half-open, unsure of how to react. And then, he chuckles, shaking his head lightly.
"Is that so? Well, I like you, too, pipsqueak. I love you."
"I love how you take care of me," you counter. "And I love your cooking. And I miss your homemade lunches. I miss having you around and waking up with you by my side. And I miss our intimacy. I really miss it... I wish that we could rewind or something, that we could… I don't know. Be together again? Even if you're a little crazy, I still want to be with you. I just don't want to you to hurt me again."
Another bite of banana bread down the hatch. Only one little piece to go.
"Honey…" Caleb grasps your jaw, thumb swiping a crumb past your parted lips and onto your tongue. You taste the tip of his finger before it flees, hand falling down to your knee. "We'll talk about in the morning, okay?" So much he wants to say, lodged in the back of his throat. He chokes on it, lips sealed in an attempt to contain his heartfelt feelings.
You accept the final bite of banana bread Caleb pops into your mouth, munching on it calmy as you stare at him. The only man who's ever loved you like you were the very thing that kept him alive. With reverence. With respect. But also at times, with obsession. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy. That wine must have been stronger than you thought.
Quietly, you say, "I love you, Cay. I want…" You sway a little, finding it hard to keep upright. Caleb wraps his arms around you, pouting at the sight of his precious girl trying to fend off sleep after a long day (or rather, a teeny-weeny dose of valium). "I want to elope with you. Let's just get married. Somewhere in the moutains. Or maybe on an island. Just the two of us, and maybe a few friends." You yawn like a lion cub, adorable in Caleb's eyes as you snuggle into his warmth.
"Honey…" His tone holds a warning. He can't let himself fall prey to your sweet temptation. His fingers card through your hair, feeling the soft strands with a hesitant, yet elated smile on his face. Slowly, you drift off, knocked out real good before Caleb carries you to your bedroom. In true chivalry, he removes your makeup and changes you into a comfy pair of pajamas.
Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, he whispers, "'M sorry," before straightening up and booking it to your front door. He's out for the early hours of the morning, staining his hands and suit crimson with the blood of that friendly waiter. After ordering Liam to dispose of the body, Caleb returns to your apartment; orange burnishes the dark sky. The sun rises as he showers, burgundy like that damned wine trickling down your drain. Eventually, he joins you in bed, your bodies fitting seamlessly together; the underlying scent of body wash that clings to your skin are the same.
His therapist taught him a valuable lesson, probably because he wasn't a therapist but a cardiac surgeon instead. Rather than quitting an addiction, you should learn to hide it better (or at least, that's what Caleb heard during a 2am phone call with the esteemed doctor last week). He'll give you the perfect life and pick off anyone who dares to disrupt that one-by-one. That's what scared you away. But how can you be afraid of something that's hidden from your view, unknown until Caleb makes a silly mistake. But that won't happen, he's certain of it now. Your separation didn't teach him to let something breathe so that it may flourish. Rather, it taught him to keep something in a spacious cage so it believes it can flourish.
elle's notes: just in case you were confused, when caleb leaves the restaurant to take a phone call, he's actually arranging with liam to have the waiter that recommended you wine picked up. He also cooked the banana bread with valium (or diazepam), which calms your nervous system and induces drowsiness. thus, when you eat it later on, coupled with the alcohol in your system, you fall asleep relatively quickly after the valium takes effect.
@starkissedxav - it's been a while, but i hope you like this!
side header images from pinterest (not mine, obviously). but i did take the centre photo of caleb when playing his myth ages ago. sword divider at the end is from fairytopea, and pearl dividers by anitalenia.
DOUBLE ENTITY FUCK ME UP. DOUBLE ENTITY SAVE ME. MORE DOUBLE ENTITY IMMEDIATELY PLEASE. MORE PLEASE ASAP MORE DOUBLE ENTITY YES PLEASE.
part 1.
the bite mark heals wrong on purpose.
he lets it scar into the borrowed skin, a puckered crescent on the side of his throat that pulls when he turns his head. he touches it constantly. pressing his fingers into the ridge of it while he stalks through corridors, tracing the shape of your jaw in the tissue, remembering the crunch of your teeth through false muscle and the spray of black. the startled, furious blaze of your eyes as you spat a piece of him onto the floor.
what a mate you would make.
the thought keeps circling, lodging deeper with every orbit. your scent is fading from his skin. it's been weeks since the pinning, since the biting, since you carved an exit through his walls and vanished. the fading is a torment.
he presses his nose into his own forearm where the last trace lingers and breathes until there's nothing left. then he follows you.
across levels. through corridors. past the territories of lesser things that scatter when they feel him coming because he's meaner than usual. sharper. a predator with an itch under his skin that won't settle.
he killed a smiler last week for crossing his path at the wrong moment. tore it apart with an efficiency that was closer to irritation than hunger, and stood in the aftermath thinking about how your hands would look covered in the same black viscera. how your teeth would look buried in the throat of something that deserved it.
how you'd snarl at him over the kill, blood on your chin, daring him to come closer.
he wants to claim you so badly his form flickers when he thinks about it. the human suit rippling at the edges, destabilised by a want so vast it can't fit inside a borrowed body.
he imagines the weight of you beneath him. the clicking going soft. the purr breaking open into gentle surrender. the moment you'd stop fighting and let him in and the sound you'd make (that sound, the one he's never heard but can feel the shape of, the frequency that means yours, i'm yours, take me) and the imagining makes him grind his teeth so hard the false jaw creaks.
you've been avoiding level 0. he can tell. you're staying on the upper levels, keeping to territories he doesn't fully control, running your patrols through corridors where his influence thins. smart. strategic.
the fawn has learned where the wolf sleeps and is keeping her distance. and every day the distance lasts, the itch gets worse.
patient. he needs to be patient. he has three thousand years of patience.
the patience is wearing thin.
and then you get hurt.
he feels it before he sees it. a spike in the ambient frequency of level 4. your frequency, hot and bright and suddenly wrong. jagged. the clean hum of your power stuttering like a light about to blow.
he moves. fast. faster than he's moved in centuries, tearing through level transitions with a force that peels the walls behind him.
he finds you in a wide room with cracked ceiling tiles and two howlers circling your body. you're on your feet, barely, your human shape shredded and flickering. black blood (yours, not theirs) is pooling beneath you, dripping from a wound in your side where one of them caught you with a claw.
three wanderers are huddled behind you. you're shielding them. of course you're shielding them. injured and outnumbered and still putting your failing body between fragile humans and the things trying to eat them.
one of the howlers lunges. you catch it mid-air, your real teeth tearing through its shoulder, but the second one hits you from behind and you go down. your scream is layered in frequencies that crack the ceiling tiles above you and the sound, the sound of you in pain, reaches him at the doorway, and something inside him snaps so completely the human suit tears apart into ribbons.
the face dissolves. the borrowed skin, the careful muscles, the crooked grin, all of it shedding off him in strips as his true form erupts through the seams. vast and dark and jagged and furious. old fury. the kind that predates the concept of anger. the kind that lives in the marrow of a thing that has never, in three thousand years, felt protective of another living creature. white-hot, all-consuming, murderous rage.
he hits the first howler so hard it separates into two pieces against the far wall.
the second one wheels on him, snarling, and it's bigger than him. not stronger but bigger, all limbs and teeth and frantic desperate violence, and the fight is real. a genuine challenge. the howler catches his flank with a claw that tears through his true form, and the pain is exquisite but he doesn't slow down. he drives the thing into the floor with the weight of his full power, and it screams, thrashing, its jaws snapping at the place where his throat would be if he had one in this shape.
and then you're there. at his side. snarling, clicking that rapid threat-rattle, your human shape barely clinging to your frame. you latch onto the howler's back with your real teeth and rip. a long strip of the thing's hide tearing free in your jaws. the howler screams again, twisting, trying to reach you, and the momentary distraction is enough.
he pins the thing flat and tears through its core and the howler comes apart beneath him in a shower of dark matter and dying sound.
silence. the fight took less than a minute. the room is wrecked, ceiling half-collapsed, the floor slick with black.
the wanderers are gone. fled during the chaos. smart.
you're on the floor.
he turns and finds you curled on the cracked tile, shivering. your human shape is in pieces, flickering in and out, your true form bleeding through at the edges, too weak to hold the mask. the wound in your side is leaking bright, hot frequency into the air, your power guttering like a candle in wind.
you're spent. burned through your reserves fighting two howlers except you're young, your power is still growing, and you burned too bright too fast and now the tank is empty.
he approaches slowly. his true form folding down, condensing, the vast dark edges pulling in until he's manageable. still not human. he doesn't have the energy to rebuild the suit right now and doesn't care to. he moves close. crouches beside you. extends something that could be a hand if hands had too many joints and wraps it around you, careful, gathering your shaking form against his chest.
you flinch. a weak snarl vibrates through your body, but the teeth behind it have no force. you're trembling. the clicking in your throat has gone thin and rapid. not threat now. pain. fear. the sound of something young and hurt that doesn't know how to ask for help.
he lifts you. holds you against his cooling form and stands. you weigh nothing to him. you weigh everything to him.
backrooms bend around him and the corridors shorten, the exits realigning and he carries you home.
the nest is new. he built it after the bite. after the decision. after the word mine settled into his frequency and stayed. soft walls. low warm light. piled blankets and a temperature he's adjusted to run warmer than his default because you run hot.
he built it for two, and he laid the foundations thinking about you, imagining your scent soaking into the fabric, imagining your warmth pressed into the space beside his. a home. for a mate he hadn't claimed yet. presumptuous. he didn't care then. doesn't care now.
he lays you down in the centre of it. you curl into the warmth and a small sound leaves your throat, involuntary and exhausted, the hum of a creature recognising comfort even through pain. he starts rebuilding the human suit. pulling the face back together piece by piece. sandy hair. blue eyes. lean frame. it takes longer than usual. the fight drained him too. but he wants the human shape for this. wants hands that can hold you gently. a mouth that can press against your skin without tearing it.
the suit settles. he lies down beside you in the nest. presses close. his borrowed chest against your shaking back, his arm curving around your waist, and he clicks.
not the want-click. not the mating trill. a different frequency. older, softer. the sound an entity makes for injured young. he didn't know he knew it. didn't know it was in his repertoire. but it pours out of him, this low rhythmic clicking interspersed with soft chirring coos, pressed against the back of your neck. safe. here. rest. safe. i'm here. nothing will touch you.
you're not sleeping. entities don't sleep. but your body enters a stasis. a deep restorative stillness that draws the remaining power inward, concentrating it around the wound, beginning the slow work of rebuilding. your frequency dims to a whisper. your human shape stabilises into a thin, translucent hold.
so young. burning so bright and now so dim. he watches the light of you flicker and gutter and something in his chest (a feeling he didn't know he had, a feeling that has no business existing in the oldest predator alive) aches.
he clicks. coos. his borrowed nose nudging against your jaw. his mouth pressing against the skin behind your ear, making soothing sounds that vibrate through your skull and into the stasis.
he pulls the blankets tighter around you. adjusts the temperature of the nest warmer. checks the wound. it's knitting, slowly, the torn edges drawing together. good. you're healing. you're going to be fine. you're going to be fine because he will personally tear apart anything in this place that tries to hurt you again, starting with himself if necessary.
he's fussing. he's aware he's fussing. he doesn't stop. his hand smoothing your hair back from your face. his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. running his thumb over your brow the way he's seen wanderers do for each other.
tender, clumsy gestures copied from the creatures you love, repurposed for you.
and then, slowly, gradually, in a way that makes him itch, you curl into him.
your body turning toward his. your face pressing into the hollow of his throat. your arms winding around his torso and holding on. soft, needy sounds leaving your throat. the low keening hum of a creature in pain recognising warmth, recognising safety, letting itself be held for the first time.
your clicking has changed register. gone slow and rhythmic. a comfort-frequency. a sound you've never made for him. a sound you've never made for anyone.
he wraps both arms around you and pulls you flush against his chest and tucks his chin over your head and closes his eyes. the purr starts. low and deep and steady, rolling through both your bodies. your clicking syncs to it. two frequencies finding each other in the dark and locking in. harmonising.
he holds you while you heal. doesn't move. doesn't shift. barely breathes. his nose pressed into your hair, filling his lungs with your scent, and you're clutching him in your half-aware state, your fingers curled in the fabric of his borrowed shirt, your face buried in his throat where the scar from your teeth sits raised and permanent. you nuzzle the scar in your stasis. rub your cheek against the ridge of it. scent-marking the wound you made.
his eyes sting. he didn't know the suit could do that.
hours pass. your frequency brightens. the wound knits. your human shape solidifies and the translucence fades and your grip on his shirt tightens and he feels the moment consciousness returns because your whole body goes rigid.
one second you're soft and clinging and making comfort sounds against his throat. the next you're a coiled spring. you tense. process. assess. and before he can speak you've flipped your weight, thrown a leg over his hips, and straddled him.
your hands close around his throat. tight. your eyes blazing. your teeth, the real ones, bared behind lips that have forgotten how to be human.
he looks up at you. your hair wild. your eyes burning. your fingers digging into the false skin of his neck with a pressure that would crush a human windpipe. pinned beneath you, his hands open at his sides, his expression calm and warm and infuriatingly amused.
he chuckles. a low, fond, rolling sound. "unruly."
"where am I?" your voice is hard, layered in threat-harmonics that make the nest blankets vibrate.
"our nest."
the word our hits you like a slap. your snarl peels back further, inhuman teeth fully extended, clicking rapid and sharp. "your nest. where are the wanderers? what did you—"
"they ran. they're fine. and it's our nest." his hands come up, slowly, carefully, and settle on your hips. his thumbs tracing circles through the fabric. "I built it for two."
you snarl down at him. every line of your body screaming threat, your hands clenching his throat, your true form pressing against the edges of the human shape.
he chuckles again. his head tilting back against the blankets. his eyes tracing your face with open, greedy admiration. "you're so pretty when you're angry. you know that? all teeth and clicking. you almost died tonight and the first thing you do is try to strangle me." his thumbs press into the curve of your hips. "I like you so much."
"let me go—"
but you're not leaving. your hands are on his throat and your thighs are clenched around his waist and you're growling but the growl has a tremor in it, something shaky and unsteady underneath the fury, because you remember.
you remember the stasis. you remember his clicking, his cooing, the soothing sounds pressed into the back of your neck. you remember curling into him. nuzzling his scar. making that sound, that soft keening comfort-sound, that you've never made for anyone.
"you held me," you say accusingly. horrified.
his mouth twitches. "you held me back."
and the truth of it silences you for a beat. your grip on his throat loosens. your eyes flicker.
he moves. fast. his hands leave your hips and fold around your wrists and he draws them away from his throat and rolls you, tucking you into the blankets, curling his body around yours with a strength that isn't aggressive but is older, absolute.
you snarl and snap your teeth at his jaw and he lets you, lets the bite graze his chin, and wraps you tighter.
"you're not at full power." murmured into your hair. his arm banded across your waist, holding you flush against his chest. "you burned through your reserves fighting two howlers by yourself, which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and incredibly brave, and we'll discuss it later. right now you're running at half capacity. you're spent. and if you keep struggling you're going to put yourself under again, and to avoid that, i'll have to pin you properly and neither of us will enjoy that."
you snarl.
"okay, i'd enjoy it."
you bite his collarbone. through the shirt. he hisses a breath and his arm tightens and a clicking trill rolls through his chest. the want-sound, involuntary, because your teeth are on him and his body doesn't distinguish between violence and foreplay where you're concerned.
but the bite is gentle. that's the thing that makes his breathing stutter.
you bit down and held but you're not tearing. you're pressing your teeth into the meat of his shoulder and holding. your jaw locked, your eyes closed. growling. the growl vibrating through his collarbone and into his chest. and then your body softens, fractionally, grudgingly, and you're leaning into him. your face buried in his throat. your legs tangling with his. the growl thinning into a low, continuous rumble that's closer to purring than either of you would admit.
he sighs, long and slow and aching. pulls you closer. his hand cradling the back of your skull. his nose in your hair, breathing you in.
"there you go," he whispers. "easy."
you growl louder in protest. your hips grind against his. friction and warmth and the unmistakable heat of arousal bleeding through both borrowed skins. his jaw clenches, his arm tightening around your waist.
you're doing it again. the fighting-while-pressing-closer thing. snarling at him while rubbing against him. biting his shoulder while tangling your legs through his. every sound you make says enemy and every movement you make says closer.
two predators wrapped around each other in a nest built for mating, grinding together in borrowed bodies, clicking and purring and scenting each other's throats while pretending this is still a fight. his borrowed cock is hard against your hip and your body is hot and damp where you press against his thigh and neither of you is acknowledging it.
he runs his nose along your jaw. you tilt your head. involuntary. giving him access to your throat and then catching yourself and jerking back. he clicks softly, soothingly, nuzzling into the space you offered for half a second.
"you're healing faster like this," he murmurs against your jaw. "nesting and contact speeds the recovery. your frequency syncs to mine and the resonance compounds and you rebuild faster." a pause. the grin pressed against your skin. "that's why you should stay. it's purely medical."
"you're full of shit." muffled against his collarbone where your face is buried.
"i'm full of concern for your wellbeing," he says lightly.
"you're full of shit and I can feel your cock against my hip."
he hums, grinning. "that's also concern."
you bite his shoulder again. harder this time. he groans. the clicking in his throat becomes ragged and he rolls his hips against yours before he can stop himself, and the friction pulls a sound from you. a high, sharp, hungry sound that you swallow immediately but too late because he heard it. he always hears it.
"stubborn thing," he breathes fondly. "so stubborn. snarling at the one who carried you home and built you a nest and held you for six hours while you healed."
you chew on his jaw. "I didn't ask for any of that."
"you nuzzled my scar in your sleep."
silence. your clicking goes rapid and embarrassed.
"I was unconscious."
"you were in stasis. entities don't lose awareness in stasis. you knew exactly where you were and you chose to stay."
more silence. your face presses harder into his throat. hiding. your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on.
he runs his hand down your spine slowly, tracing each vertebra through the borrowed skin. you arch into the touch despite yourself, your body chasing his hand, and a low whimper escapes before you can choke it.
"stay," he says quietly now, the cockiness thinning into something bare. "stay and heal. let me take care of you."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need it. i'm not asking if you need it." his hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "i'm asking if you'll let me."
you're quiet. your breathing is unsteady, hips still pressed against his thigh and the heat between you hasn't cooled. you're trembling from the effort of wanting and fighting the wanting for some reason he doesn't yet know at the same time.
"you can't keep me here," you say, smaller now.
"i'm not keeping you. the exits are open. you can leave whenever you want."
and you both know you're not leaving. not yet. not with his scent in your lungs and his warmth around you and your wound still knitting. your body syncing to his frequency with every breath.
you squirm, testing his hold. his arm tightens. you squirm harder, growling, and he sighs, rolling you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. his weight settles over your back, hips pressing you flat into the blankets, pinning you with his body. his chest against your shoulder blades. his mouth at your ear.
"stay." firm. warm. the cocky edge creeping back in. "stay and heal. or—" his hips press down and the hard length of him grinds against the curve of your ass through the borrowed clothes and your breath catches. your fingers claw the blankets. "or I mount you right now, and I should warn you..." his lips brush the shell of your ear, his purr rolling through your spine. "the mating cycle, once it starts, is not going to be gentle. and it's not going to be short. you'll be under me for days. so if you'd prefer to heal first—" a kiss behind your ear, soft and tender. "i'd recommend staying still."
you go still, flat on your stomach, his weight on your back. his mouth brushes your ear. his hard cock presses against you through layers of borrowed fabric. and the sound you make, low and grinding and frustrated, is the sound of a creature that wants very badly to call his bluff and is just wise enough not to.
"fine." gritted out, your face pressed into the blankets. "fine. i'll stay."
"good girl."
you snarl. he grins against your neck. rolls off you, slowly, drawing out the drag of his body against yours, and settles on his side beside you. you stay on your stomach for a long moment, breathing hard. your fingers slowly unclenching from the blankets. then you turn your head and look at him with one furious, burning eye.
he's propped on his elbow. watching you with that infuriating, adoring, patient expression. he reaches out and brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone.
"such a stubborn, pretty thing," he murmurs, leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. your forehead. the bridge of your nose. the corner of your scowling mouth. soft and hungry, lingering, each kiss tasting you, breathing you in, his lips warm against your skin.
you don't pull away. your scowl softens by fractions. your eyes closing as his mouth traces the line of your brow.
his lips find the curve of your shoulder blade. he pushes the borrowed shirt aside and presses a kiss there. then another between your shoulders. then a trail of them down your spine, slow and warm, his mouth learning the shape of your back while his hand rests gentle on the curve of your waist.
you make a sound, low and needy. the clicking in your throat has gone slow and rhythmic. the comfort frequency. the safe sound. and he hears it, his eyes closing and his mouth presses harder against your skin, his purr filling the nest.
"stubborn," he whispers against the small of your back. "vicious. impossible. the most beautiful thing i've ever seen." another kiss. "you almost died tonight and you're still snarling at me."
"'m not snarling," you mumble into the blankets. your body lax now. warm and loose, heavy with exhaustion. your hand reaching back blindly until it finds his forearm and your fingers curling around it, holding on.
"you're absolutely snarling." his mouth curves against your warm skin. "it's my favourite sound in the world."
your grip on his arm tightens. he moves back up, settling behind you. wraps himself around your body and tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply, and you let him. you let him hold you while you heal, your two frequencies locking together in the dark.
ours, he thinks, his nose in your hair, his arm around your waist. his mate. fierce and stubborn, healing in his arms.
okay now double entity bb and companion. entity entity enemies to forever lovers… meet cute of you got too close to my territory and i almost tipped ur body apart teehee :p but now we are locked forever together ❤️
he's the oldest thing in the backrooms. he knows that. has known it for millennia, alone in his corridors, drifting through levels in a form no human mind could hold. apex. unchallenged. the top of a food chain that never needed a second link.
and then you show up.
you're new. that's the first thing he registers. the startling, impossible newness of you.
entities don't just appear. the backrooms births them slow, growing them in the dark like fungus, layering consciousness over time until the walls spit out a hound or a skin-stealer or a faceling. he's watched it happen a thousand times. it can take years.
you took months, and you came out wrong. wrong in the sense that you're too much, too fast, too bright. a frequency the backrooms has never produced before, burning hot against the edges of his territory like a fresh wound.
one day you weren't there and the next his borders are vibrating with a signal he can't identify, and when he investigates he finds a trail of dead lesser entities with their forms shredded across three levels. the kills are clean. purposeful. a warning posted in viscera.
but you're clumsy about it. that's the infuriating part.
he follows the trail and finds you stumbling through a corridor like a newborn fawn on legs you haven't finished learning, tripping over your own power. bumping into walls. your human shape flickering in and out because you can't hold it steady yet, your true form bleeding through at the edges every time you lose focus.
you're a baby. a catastrophically powerful baby who has been alive for approximately five minutes, and is already causing him constant, relentless, skull-splitting headaches.
because you're growing. visibly. daily. the frequency you emit gets louder every week. the lesser entities that used to test your borders stop testing.
he watches you tear through a pack of hounds on level 3 with a brutality that makes his own hunting instinct prick, and your form is steadier than it was a month ago, your movements surer, the clumsiness burning off in real time.
you're learning faster than anything he's ever seen. at this rate you'll be the second most powerful thing in the backrooms soon and the trajectory beyond that is deeply, disturbingly interesting.
and you're wearing a human shape. a good one. better than it should be for a creature your age. not the sloppy mimicry lesser entities use to lure prey, all wrong proportions and uncanny smiles. yours is crafted. detailed. beautiful in a way that makes him stop and stare, which he has never done for anything in his entire ancient existence.
he's the original shapeshifter, and there's finally someone around who can challenge his craftsmanship.
you're crouched over a group of wanderers when he finds you next, shielding them, guiding them toward a safe level. your body between them and a thing with too many legs that was stalking the corridor. and as he watches from behind a wall, you turn and face the creature and your true form bleeds through, vast and blinding and furious despite its youth, and the thing disintegrates.
and then you turn back to the wanderers and your face is soft again. human. kind. you touch the smallest one on the shoulder and point them toward the exit, watching them leave with tenderness. real tenderness. you feel tenderness for these fragile sparks with their seventy-year lifespans and their breakable bodies. you protect them with a ferocity that makes his corridors hum.
why? you're an entity. you're a predator. you're growing into one of the most dangerous things these walls have ever produced, and you're coddling humans.
he doesn't understand you. he wants to understand you. the wanting is a new sensation and he doesn't trust it.
so he tries to approach, and you snarl at him.
full-body, frequency-shaking, the-walls-leaning-away-from-you snarl. your human shape cracks at the edges and he catches a glimpse of what's underneath, and his form stutters because you are powerful. young and clumsy, still learning but powerful, growing stronger by the day in a way that shouldn't be possible for a newborn. the force rolling off you makes his skin prickle in ways he didn't know he could prickle.
"stay away from me."
your voice is layered in harmonics that say i will rip you apart if you take another step, and he believes you might try. he takes another step anyway because he's an ancient idiot, and also because the threat is doing things to him he doesn't have vocabulary for.
you vanish. slip between levels with that clumsy new grace you're developing. half liquid, half stumble. gone before he can blink.
he stands in the empty corridor vibrating with adrenaline and arousal and annoyance in equal measure.
his body is doing a thing it's never done. not for the hounds, not for the facelings, not for any of the entities he has encountered over millennia, including the ones he could, technically, mate with. he's existed alongside other entities for eons and felt nothing. no pull. no heat. no interest in their forms or their frequencies. they were features of the landscape. irrelevant.
you snarled at him and his whole body lit up.
this is a problem.
so he chases you. as predators do. across levels, through corridors, between the cracks in the walls. you're infuriatingly good at evading him. better every time, your control of the exits improving daily, your ability to mask your scent trail developing at a rate that drives him genuinely insane.
and sometimes (this is the part that makes him want to tear wallpaper off the ceiling) you play.
you let him get close. close enough that he can taste your frequency in the air, that electric sweetness that's become a fixation. close enough that he thinks this time, this time i'll catch her. and then you twist away at the last second and the burst of speed is just a fraction faster than necessary. not evasion. performance. a taunt.
you look over your shoulder and he swears, he swears, the corner of your mouth twitches before you disappear.
you're playing chase with him. and the playing is somehow worse than the evading because the evading was survival and the playing is choice. you're choosing to stay near. choosing to let him close. choosing to dance at the edge of his reach and dart away laughing in frequencies he feels in his marrow.
he's equal parts aroused and furious, and the two feelings have blurred into a single vibrating state he can't shake.
and you're killing things along the way. lesser entities that made the mistake of targeting wanderers in your territory. he watches you tear through them with brutal efficiency that's refining itself daily. the fawn finding its legs, the stumble turning into a sprint.
you're magnificent. you're getting more magnificent every week, and the growth curve is staggering. you fight with a ferocity that has no right to exist in a creature your age, defending humans that could never defend themselves. the contradiction of it (the violence and the gentleness living in the same body) makes him pace, itching with urge to—
he manages to catch you once. pins you against a wall with his full weight, true form pressing against yours, and the contact is electric.
your frequencies clash and tangle, the walls cracking around you. he holds you there, straining, using every advantage his age gives him, and demands answers. what are you. where did you come from. why do you protect them. why won't you TALK to him. he's been here for millennia. he's the first thing the walls ever made. the least you could do is have a conversation.
you scowl at him with flat, cold eyes. and then you twist. your form bends in a direction his can't follow, a trick you must have learned this week because you couldn't do that last time. and you're gone. sliding through his grip like mercury.
his hands are tingling where your skin touched his. your scent is all over him. sweet and electric, layered with that warm undertone that shouldn't exist in an entity, the note underneath the power that smells like... he doesn't know.
he doesn't have a reference point. he's never smelled anything like it. new, like you. dizzying and addictive. he buries his face in his own arm where your frequency lingers and breathes deep, greedy, rolling the scent through his senses until his form shudders with it. he wants to press his face against the source. against the crook of your neck. against the pulse point you built into that pretty human throat. he wants to taste the skin there. find out if the scent translates to flavour.
he roars. the whole of level 0 shakes. three levels away, you hear it. the corner of your mouth twitches.
fine. fine. if you're so fond of the little humans, he can adapt. he starts letting wanderers pass through level 0 unharmed. it goes against every instinct but he does it, because he's noticed that you follow them. you shadow wanderer groups through the backrooms and where they go, you go, and if he makes level 0 safe enough, maybe you'll follow them in.
it works. you trail a group through his corridors and he feels you cross the threshold, and his whole level sings. you're on his territory now. his home turf. every wall, every floor, every flickering light answering to him.
and this time he comes prepared.
he builds a human shape. studies the wanderers the way you study them, maps the features, constructs a face from the best pieces he can find. sandy-haired. blue-eyed. lean. angular jaw. crooked grin.
he puts on the suit and examines himself. rolls the shoulders. tests the smirk in a reflective surface. decides it's very good. if you're so fond of the human form, if you chose to wear one before you'd even finished learning to hold your own edges, then he'll meet you there.
he can play along. he can play along better.
he finds you on level 0 in a corridor that bends only for him. you're crouched beside a sleeping wanderer, adjusting a makeshift blanket over their shoulders with those careful hands.
you look up when his footsteps register and your whole body goes taut, ready to bolt, ready to fight. and then you see him, and surprise flickers across your human face, real and unguarded, because you were expecting the true form, the ancient vast thing that chases you through walls.
you were not expecting a boy with blue eyes and a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, radiating the energy of a creature that has spent three millennia being the most dangerous thing around.
he tilts his head. the grin widens. the suit ripples at the edges, barely held, seams visible if you look too long. he doesn't care. he wears the imperfection openly.
"like it?" drawled. cocky. testing the shape of human arrogance on a borrowed tongue. his eyes raking over your human form with a slow, appreciative drag that he makes sure you catch. "built it just for you. figured if my pretty little territory invader is going to keep slipping through my fingers, the least I can do is look good while she does it."
your eyes narrow. your body is still coiled to run but there's a beat, one beat, where your gaze tracks from his face to his shoulders to the lean line of his waist.
he watches you look. lets you. shifts his weight against the doorframe so the borrowed muscles move under the borrowed shirt because he is ancient and powerful and also, apparently, not above peacocking for a newborn entity he's been chasing for months.
"it's sloppy," you conclude flatly. your human voice carrying undertones that strokes down his spine.
"it's my first try." he pushes off the wall. takes a step toward you. "i'll take notes." another step. his eyes dropping to your mouth. back up. "you know, for a creature who's been alive for five minutes, you're the most infuriating thing i've encountered in three thousand years. won't talk to me. won't fight me properly. just keeps scurrying through my walls helping humans—" he says the word with a fondness that surprises him, "and smelling like that."
you openly bristle. "smelling like what?"
"like i want to put my mouth on your throat and stay there."
and then he's moving and you're moving and the chase through level 0 is different this time because he knows these halls and the halls know him.
every exit you aim for seals shut a second before you reach it. he's herding you. corralling you. using the corridors like a net, and you're fast but he's home, and for the first time your new tricks can't save you.
he catches you at a dead end that didn't exist thirty seconds ago. pins you against the wall with the human body and you snarl, that full-frequency, form-cracking snarl, and he leans into it. absorbs the force of it, head tilting curiously.
his hands on your wrists. his weight pressing you flat. his borrowed hips pinning yours against the wallpaper and the contact...
through the human suits, through the false skin, the frequency of you pouring into the frequency of him. he can feel your power. younger and rawer than his, burning hot where his runs cold, and the clash of temperatures sends a shudder through both of you.
"got you," he breathes, his face inches from yours. eyes pale blue and half-lidded. that crooked grin. "my slippery, pretty thing. finally."
you bare your teeth. your human shape is flickering, your true form pressing against the suit's edges, and the glimpses he catches make his grip tighten. you're beautiful in both skins. the human one with its crafted warmth. the real one with its blazing, raw, impossible power.
"you're so fond of your little humans." murmured. his borrowed nose tracing the line of your jaw. "so gentle with them. so patient. and with me you're all claws and snarling." his lips brush your cheekbone. his scent washing over you at close range. old, cold, vast, the deep mineral smell of something that has existed for a long, long time. and underneath it, a musk you haven't encountered in any other entity. rich and dark and ancient. it fills your lungs and your pupils dilate. "it's not fair. I built a whole face for you."
"i'm not interested in conversation," you hiss, and underneath the hiss, a clicking.
rapid and sharp, rattling in the back of your borrowed throat. a threat display in a register that predates language. sub-vocal. primal.
his pupils blow wide, and a purr rolls through his chest in answer. deep and involuntary, resonating through the wall behind you. through the floor, through the false bones of both your suits.
his body responding to your threat with a mating call.
"no?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, tilts his head. that slow predatory angle. his eyes dark, his grin sharpening. "what are you interested in? because i've been chasing you for months and you keep running but you don't run fast enough and we both know you could. so either you're slower than I think—" he leans in, his mouth at your ear, his voice dropping to a register that makes the lights pulse, "or you like being caught by me."
your frequency spikes. he feels it lance through him, hot and sharp. and he grins against your ear because that was a reaction, a real one, and it tasted like wanting.
"that's what I thought."
a low chirr rolls from the base of your throat. involuntary. you clamp down on it immediately but he heard it, felt the vibration press against his collarbone where his chest meets yours. a responsive sound. the vocal equivalent of leaning in. and his purr deepens into a rolling, possessive rumble that makes the plaster behind your head crack.
you twist in his grip. testing. your wrists straining against his hands and your hips shifting against his and the friction sends a bolt of heat through both of you that neither can hide.
his jaw tightens and your breath catches. but you're still trying to escape, still snarling, still clicking that rapid threat-rattle. the trying has changed shape though. the struggling is pressing you harder against him instead of pulling you away. your body arching into the contact even as your mouth promises violence. and he knows it. reads the dissonance between your sounds and your movements.
"there you go," he murmurs, low. his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists. "fighting so hard. snarling so pretty for me, but pressing closer the whole time." his hips roll against yours, slow and pinning, and a sound escapes you that isn't a snarl and isn't a threat. a high, thin, shaking note that makes his purr stutter and restart louder. "you feel that? that's what you do to me. three thousand years and nobody's made me make this sound. just you. just my pretty, infuriating, impossible—"
he nuzzles your throat. can't help it. can't stop himself. the scent is right there, concentrated at the juncture of jaw and neck, and he presses his borrowed nose into the soft skin and inhales until his whole form vibrates.
a clicking starts in his own throat. rapid, rhythmic, a staccato pulse that means want, want, want in a frequency older than the walls. his mouth follows, lips parting against your pulse, tongue grazing the skin. tasting.
and the taste is. god. better than the scent. richer. layered. the flavour of new power and old warmth and the electric sweetness underneath.
he groans against your throat. the groan cracks into a purr cracks into a clicking trill that no human mouth should produce, and the sound of it vibrating against your pulse and makes your back arch off the wall. involuntary.
your hips press against his, grinding, and both of you gasp. for one second, neither of you is performing. just two ancient things locked together in borrowed skins, clicking and purring in frequencies that make the corridor lights swing on their fixtures.
and you can feel him now. his scent flooding your senses at close range, that deep cold mineral musk that fills your head and makes your thoughts go liquid.
you hate how good it is. how your body responds to it, leaning into the source before you can stop yourself, your nose pressing into the crook of his neck to chase the smell and the clicking in your throat softening from threat into something dangerously close to curiosity.
he smells like the walls. like the deep places. like permanence. and against him, pressed this close, his borrowed body hard and cool and vibrating with that rolling purr. it feels good. it feels so good. and the goodness is a betrayal of every snarl you've ever aimed at him, and you can feel your resistance dissolving in the heat between your bodies.
he feels it too. feels the shift. the snarl going breathy. the clicking losing its sharp edge. your nose in his neck, breathing him in, and the intimacy of it, you smelling him, voluntarily, seeking his scent the way he's been desperately seeking yours, makes his whole form tremble with possessive hunger.
"that's it," he whispers urgently against your pulse. "i'm right here. i've been right here, little one."
"shut up," you breathe into his throat, but your lips graze the skin as you say it, and his hips jerk forward. a clicking trill pours out of him that he couldn't suppress if he tried.
his mouth traces the line of your throat. half kiss, half territorial claim. his purr is constant now, layered, harmonic, and he can feel yours answering. vibrating against his chest through the false skin. an echo. a response. two predators locked in a feedback loop of sound and scent. his canines lengthen for half a second, grazing the tendon in your neck, before he pulls them back.
"you taste even better than you smell." mumbled into your skin. his hands tightening on your wrists. his hips rolling against yours, slow, grinding. his purr deepening as yours answers. "do you have any idea what you do to me? three thousand years of nothing. no one. and then you stumble out of the walls on your fawn legs with your pretty face, and your impossible power. now I can't think about anything except—" his teeth graze your throat again, sharper this time, the mask slipping, "this. right here. the taste of you. let me have one more. just one more. I need—"
and you let him closer.
your wrists go slack in his grip. your head tips back against the wall, baring more throat. the gesture is submission in the language of predators. an offering. a door cracking open. the sight of it makes his vision swim with greed.
he presses in. his mouth opens wider against the exposed column of your neck, tongue flat against your pulse, tasting the frequency of you directly from the source. and your purr is loud now. loud and unguarded and rolling through both of your borrowed bodies and your free hand (he didn't notice your wrist slipping his grip) comes up and tangles in his borrowed hair, tugs, and the sound he makes against your throat is broken and animal.
your mouth finds the side of his neck. his breath catches. your lips part against the false skin, and he feels your tongue trace his pulse point, curious, testing, tasting him the way he's tasting you, and his whole body goes rigid with want.
your breath is hot against his throat. your teeth graze the tendon. he shudders and tilts his head to give you access and the vulnerability of it is staggering. the oldest predator alive, baring his throat to the newest, purring so hard his suit is cracking at the seams.
"yes," he breathes, eyes shut, his hand cradling the back of your skull now, holding you against his neck. "yes, go on, taste me, i'm yours to—"
you bite him.
you lunge forward and sink your teeth, your real teeth, the ones that don't belong to the human face, into the side of his borrowed throat. deep. through the false skin and the false muscle and into the absence underneath. black blood sprays across your mouth. across the wallpaper. across the floor.
a chunk of his fake throat tears free in your jaws and you spit it sideways, and the blood is on your lips and your chin and running down your own borrowed neck in dark rivulets.
and he laughs.
head thrown back, throat open and ruined and pouring black, laughing with a sound that shakes the corridor lights loose from the ceiling. laughing because the pain is extraordinary and the violence is extraordinary and YOU are extraordinary.
you just tore a piece out of the oldest thing in the backrooms with your brand-new teeth. your eyes are blazing with fury and arousal. your mouth is painted black with his blood and your purr is still going, still vibrating in your chest, mixing with the snarl, mixing with the clicking.
you wanted him. you let him close. you tasted his throat and then you ripped it open, and the duality of it, the curiosity and the savagery, the purring and the biting, is the most beautiful thing he's witnessed in three thousand years of seeing nothing worth looking at.
"oh," he manages, between laughs, blood dripping down his chest. his voice ragged and delighted and wrecked. "oh, you're going to be fun."
you shove him off while he's laughing. bolt. disappear through a crack between levels that he didn't know existed, which means you carved it yourself, just now, on the fly, ripping a new exit through HIS level with the brute force of your growing power. and that fact alone makes his ruined throat purr harder than the blood should allow.
he stands in the empty corridor, bleeding and grinning, licking the residual taste of you off his lips.
your scent all over his skin, your teeth-marks open and wet and pouring black down the front of his borrowed shirt. your blood on his tongue, sharp and sweet and electric and new. and underneath the pain and the blood: the ghost of your purr.
the memory of your nose pressed into his neck. the fraction of a second where your tongue traced his pulse and the curiosity in the touch was tender. you tasted him. you wanted to taste him. and then you tore him open because the wanting scared you and violence is the only language you trust.
the wound is already closing. the suit rebuilding. the black blood sinks into the carpet and the walls absorb the spatter and the corridor cleans itself because level 0 is good at keeping his secrets.
he touches the healing wound. presses his fingers into the tender new skin where your jaw clamped down. it's going to scar. he's going to let it scar. the oldest entity in the backrooms, wearing a bite mark from a newborn like a trophy.
and standing there in the empty corridor with your taste on his tongue and your mark on his throat, the decision crystallises.
he's going to claim you. not catch. not chase. not kill. claim.
you're going to be his. his territory. his mate. the thing that shares his levels and his nest and the vast dark silence that has been his only companion for three thousand years.
you with your brand-new teeth and your fawn legs and your tender human hands and your clicking threat-rattle and that one moment, that one devastating moment, where you pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in and your purr went soft, and your body went still and you wanted him.
before the fear kicked in. before the teeth followed. for one fraction of a second you wanted him and he felt it in every frequency he possesses.
he heard you.
he pushes off the wall, rolls his shoulders. fixes the suit's collar where your teeth destroyed it. runs his tongue along his bottom lip one more time, chasing the last trace of your taste.
and goes after you at once.
you're fast. you're getting faster every day. you carved your own exit through his home level with raw power that shouldn't exist in a creature your age.
he doesn't care. he has time. he has millennia of patience and your scent in his lungs and the taste of you on his tongue and a bite mark on his throat that proves you got close enough to touch. and he has the memory of your purr. that one small, involuntary, answering sound that you made against his chest before the fear swallowed it.
you can run. you can snarl. you can tear his throat out as many times as you like. he'll heal. he'll follow. he'll keep coming until the snarling softens and the purr comes back and you let him close enough to answer it with his own.
the hunt isn't a hunt anymore. it's a courtship.
mine, he thinks. the word settling into his frequency like roots into soil.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
♡ TW: dystopia, sex-trafficking, sexual slavery, vore-ish, forbidden love kinda, angst, size difference, predator x prey, subjugation, sexism allegory, master/slave dynamics
♡ FEM reader
Rabbits are born sluts.
That much has always been clear. Damn useless creatures except for one thing—being used. They’re everywhere, in the several hundreds, easily hunted, easily trained by carrot and stick, and easily broken when put under it.
And you, you’re the same, a dime a dozen among the other dumb bunnies in the burrow. You’re not any different.
And yet, from where he stands atop the mezzanine, lording over the pleasure den down below, his own empire, time and time again his eyes stray from admiring his rich guests and the cold cash they spend on his fluffle only to land on you.
His hunters had come back with you a month ago in a cage of a few dozen others. Dwarf rabbits—nothing special. Cute though, like any other bunny breed.
You didn't need any taming nor much training. You were the first of your batch to make it out onto the floor. In fact, he’s sure you made record timing if only they kept track of such things.
But you’re not broken. No, that would suggest there was something there for them to break. No, with you there wasn’t any pride or dignity for them to strip away. You were just slaphappy from the get go, showing no resistance, going with the regime like resisting wasn’t even an option. Of course, it wasn’t an option. But most animals, even docile ones such as rabbits, will put up some type of fight, however meaningless. You, however, remind him more of moon jelly—no matter the harsh waves, it’s still going to continue to do what it always does and drift along like nothing matters.
He’s never seen anyone be so casual about being treated like dirt. Looking at you, it doesn’t make any sense to him.
He’s well-aware of how plenty among his slaves try to fake it the best way they can, eager to avoid the bitter bite of unsatisfactory customers, while some have had their bodies trained for so long they enjoy it now—but in either case, he’s still able see the defeat and animosity behind their painted expression, if not anything at all. Others who’ll play along all sweet and nice such as you do ultimately prove themselves to be dumb little things who thought that if they could just bide their time with good behaviour, they would somehow make his handlers lower their guard enough to create an opportunity of escape, only to test their luck and fail miserably or come to the conclusion that such an opportunity would never exist, then be left with nothing but that same catatonic look of utter brokenness.
But there’s none of that in your eyes. You’re not trapped in the moment like the others, nor do you hoard any such silly agenda as trying to escape it.
For you, it seems somehow like you’re simply at ease with it. It’s almost as though it falls natural to you, but he’s not sure what to call it. You’re just… happy-go-lucky about it—like a doll come to life, programmed to do what a doll does—eyes round and blank like two polished marbles, only ever looking far off into the distance as though you can’t see the things around you.
At the same time, he gets this annoying feeling as though you’re seeing something no one else can.
In all honesty, he’s got no idea what you are. And it bothers him like you would not believe.
Which is why he’s decided he needs to keep you closer. Friends and enemies and all that. Though, he doesn’t find it prudent to give you so much credit as to call you his enemy as that would imply you pose a threat. Still, he doesn’t enjoy things he doesn’t understand, and you, well, even though you’re nothing scary, he’s taken by this desperate need to put his finger on you for some reason. And to do that, he figures he’ll just put you under his thumb and be done with it in the best way he knows how.
He’s certain he’ll feel better about it all after he’s had you beneath him. Then, all these thoughts he’s been having will be proved as nothing more than a waste of time after he’s reduced you to what he knows is true for all bunnies. Prey at his mercy, and nothing more.
The girls that get handpicked for the mezzanine are usually all on their knees trying their best to earn their keep and not get sent back down to the den where customers get to do what they please with them any way they want. Being on the risen floor is like a blessing in that way—a chosen few, honored ones, saved from the fray below given an opportunity to please just one man instead of a dozen a day.
Typically they’ll be rare breeds, red-listed, and now, even though you don’t stand out as anything special, mundane dwarf rabbit that you are, you’re going to be one of them. You should see it as a fucking godsend.
And yet, you don’t seem to grasp the value of it in the slightest.
Two girls a little way from you are putting on a show for him, kissing and touching each other all for his viewing pleasure. Despite their performance, from where he sits on his comfy throne of pillows and throws, his eyes look past them onto you where you’ve placed yourself before the balustrade, peacefully staring passed it into the thin air, beyond the cesspit below, ahead at something unknown like always.
Only this time, he demands to have his answers.
“What’s got you looking so pleased?”
It seems you hadn’t noticed his approach, and yet you don’t spook by it either, that way your head slowly turns, looking up at him for the first time with those very big eyes, to where he looms above, stone-faced with his hands down his pockets.
Being a polar bear, he’s used to his size and presence invoking fear in everyone around him. It’s a natural response to the largest predator. He’s always viewed it as a sign of respect. A fact that everyone knows he’s not the one you should test your luck against.
You, however, don't regard him any differently than you would a fellow bunny. Giving him no signs of being in a rush to please him. You just stare, as though waiting for him to explain himself.
“You seem like you' got something you’re looking forward to.” His voice is brisk, demanding, “I want to know what it is.”
You blink then. Slow in your answer—way too slow to understand the dire situation you’ve landed yourself in, or maybe, simply unbothered. He really can’t tell, and it’s beyond frustrating at this point—trying his very hardest to read your mind and failing so miserably in the pursuit he has no other option but to wait oh-so-patiently for you to indulge him.
“We’re getting stew for supper today,” you say at last, looking back through the guardrail at his workers, flooding through the gate on the ground floor, carrying sacks of potatoes over their backs.
His nose scrunches at the prospect. You're really looking forward to that slop? Suppose you have to be that humble when you’re at the bottom of the food chain. Even so, he hasn’t heard any single one of his bunnies, of which he’s had hundreds, ever show any type of enthusiasm regarding the food.
“You like stew?” he asks. Patience tested, but curiosity unsated.
You shake your head then, a small smile of all things gracing your face, contradicting yourself, “Not really.”
His brows furrow. Is this a game or something? If so, it’s not amusing. His teeth grind. “Not really? Why are you so cheery then?”
You look up at him once more, blinking again, both like you’ve never really thought about it as well as though you think it’s obvious—so obvious that you find it odd to even be sparing it a thought.
“Well, you see… When there’s stew, they serve carrots on the side. And I really like carrots.”
You look back to the potato sacks just in time to catch sight of the crates of carrots now being brought in, and the smile on your face as you watch them is unlike anything he’s ever seen—warm, excited, blissful even.
Affronted by it, he leaves you abruptly, thinking an expression like that has no right in a place like this.
Content slaves are never a good thing. Content slaves forget that which they are—slaves. They start taking what little they have for granted. They become ungrateful, and demanding, and then the uproars happen. That’s it. That’s what he dislikes about you. That’s what’s been making him so uneasy. You don’t beg or scramble. You’re nonchalant, and that type of sangfroid is nothing short of insolent. What’s worse, it could inspire others.
He won’t have that.
You think you have something to be happy about? Perhaps it’s time he reminded you—you have nothing.
He regards you keenly from the mezzanine, watching you enter the dining hall down below. The spring in your step is pitiful to behold and so is the dead still you come to when you're wandering eyes can’t find the tub of chopped carrots usually on display right next to the potatoes.
You keep the metal dinner bowl to your chest, this tiny rumple between your brows as your eyes become more searching the farther up the line you get. And then, when it’s finally your turn, you cock your little head over the display, voice softly inquiring to the workers on the other side, “Are all the carrots finished already?”
“No carrots today. Dietary restrictions. Boss-man’s orders,” is the strict reply that returns, given like a slap to the face.
“Oh…”
You blink then, as you do—that very empty type of blink like you’re resetting yourself the way he’s seen you do with other customers.
And then, just as always, you slip right back without a hiccup. “I guess I’ll just have some potatoes then.”
It’s disappointing. He’d thought for sure you’d give him a little more grief than that. But no. You even tack on a polite little “Thank you,” after being served, before hopping out of line like there was never anything more to be wanted.
You don’t make moves to sit with any of the others, he notices. Instead, you make your way alone up the stairs to where he is like you’ve already accepted the mezzanine as your new place.
He’s not sure why, but for some reason he hides himself so as not to spook you into going somewhere else. And from behind the coverage of a pillar, he continues his stalking, observing you as you sit yourself in the same spot as before, in front of the balustrade.
You proceed like earlier to look through the bars down at the burrow below. It’s empty and quiet now with everyone busy in the dining hall, and he realizes he’s never actually spared it a glance during supper before. It’s a strange sight. Like a battlefield after the battle.
You don’t eat in a mad hurry like the others. Actually, it takes five minutes before you even touch the potatoes, and when you do, it’s one piece at a time, calmly, taking your sweet time, like you’re trying to enjoy yourself.
He finds himself wondering if you’d eat carrots the same way. And before he even knows it, he’s standing right behind you once more with the same question as earlier.
“What’ you looking at now?”
And just as before, you don’t spook by his presence. This time, you don't even bother turning to acknowledge him as though you might have known he was there all along.
“The burrow,” you answer. “How different it looks when it’s empty.” His thoughts exactly. “It’s sort of peaceful like this, don't you think?”
No. Peaceful is not the word that came to mind. “I think you’d have to be mad to find peace in a place like this when in your position,” he states plainly, as if in an attempt to shake you out of whatever sordid outlook you were trying to impose on him.
“That might be,” you agree, a soft smile gracing your face. “But I think… you have to find beauty in the dark when you can, or else dark will be all there is.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end listening to you. “It’s like, sometimes good madness will save you from bad madness. You know?”
“No.” And that’s the problem. He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. And he’s starting to realize it’s not because you’re withholding the answers.
“Why aren’t you upset?” he asks then. A fair question, he thinks. But you only look at him oddly, making him explain once again just like you did earlier. The gumption of you is unbelievable, he thinks as he supplies the requested context on your behest, “I took away the thing you were looking forward to. Typically, that would make someone upset.”
You look as though you still don’t quite understand, but then a light breaks across your face. “Oh, you mean the carrots?” You don’t seem any more upset by understanding he’d removed them on purpose. Instead, you just give your head a tiny shake. “It was only a small thing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His fists ball at his sides.
“But I didn’t.” Your head tilts, gesturing down at your tray. “I should have told you I liked potatoes. Then you’d have taken those away instead.” You then snort with a giggle, but he doesn’t get why or how you would find it funny.
And again, he’s left with the same question. “Then why aren’t you more upset?”
You think about it for a moment—a moment like another eternity to him.
“Well, I… I am upset…” you admit—the smile on your face positively unnerving. Perhaps you really have gone crazy. But then that would mean you were crazy from the start, from before ever even coming here. “But… I can’t exactly let my life fall apart over carrots. That would just be silly. Wouldn't you say?”
He swallows thickly, trying to stifle the many foreign things he’s feeling inside, finding that he can’t exactly argue with your answer, even though it makes little sense. People get upset over smaller things all the time.
Just look at him and how upset one bunny is making him.
He turns away and starts walking then, muttering under his breath, “Silly, indeed.”
He goes to his bedroom alone that night. Some of the chosen had tried cheering him up, but they all failed miserably. You were not one of them. No, you made zero effort trying to earn your keep.
He knows you’d come if he called for you. You’d have to, and you’ve never been one to refuse a direct order. Still, somehow, even though he’s the one with all the power, having to call on you makes him feel like you’re stripping him of it.
The next couple of days pass all the same, with you continuing to drive him nuts.
At this point, he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why. Lounging on his throne, his chin resting on his palm as he appraises you with jaded eyes. Having come up with a new strategy—if robbing you of your small delights doesn’t enact a response, maybe he’ll have better luck in spoiling you…
“Eat,” he says, but like always you don’t seem to take it like an order, standing there, in front of the big platter of carrots he’d had his workers bring up.
It’s not the same kind they serve with the stew—flecked and spotted with mold, boiled to get rid of the bugs. No, these are quality. Crisp, bright, freshly plucked and washed just this morning.
And still, instead of throwing yourself at them, you have the nerve to act calm, asking, “Where’ the other girls?” while looking around like you’d feel ashamed starting without them.
“They’re for you,” he clarifies, sanctioning your approach.
Still, you stay put. Chewing your lip with your buck teeth. “Is that really okay?”
He can’t believe it. Are you really feeling guilty—in a place like this that only ever takes and gives nothing back?
No one in their right mind would be asking about others when standing in your shoes. He knows for a fact that all the other girls you seem so concerned with would have been halfway finished gorging that platter without sparing you a single thought.
Suppose he’ll make it easier for you. “Eat it all, or I throw it out.”
With that, a new smile takes your lips—one of which he’d not seen before or expected—small, bashful, coy, like you’re having a different conversation than the one you’re having. Bowing your head with a soft-spoken, “Thank you.”
You’re quiet as you eat. Slow with it like you’d been with the potatoes. Taking your time, enjoying yourself, savoring it, eating like he’s not right there observing you. It’s like you’re back in the wild. You, an oblivious little thing in a carrot field, and him, stalking you through the long grass.
“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he questions after a while.
“Ask about what?” you wonder, peering up at him from where you sit.
“Why I’m being nice.”
You seem to find that funny. “I don’t ask you why you’re cruel.”
That’s fair, he thinks. Though he’s never really thought about it like that.
And then you say, “I’m sure I’d have little luck understanding the mind of a man like you anyway.”
“A man like me?” he repeats, finding it interesting—wanting to arrest you on it. “And what kind of man do you think I am?”
It’s a dangerous question—you seem to understand that—taking your time to answer it just like you were with the carrots. “I suppose… a confusing one.”
You’re not wrong, though it’s a cleverly safe answer. He’s sure you’d have liked to have said something different if only it weren't for the likely threat it would pose to your life.
“Do you want me to ask?” you say then. And this time, he’s the one waiting for you to explain, looking at you with a halfway raised brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”
He scoffs. You’re proving to be a little more cheeky than what he was expecting. “I’m fattening you up to eat you.”
You laugh again. This time from your chest, bursting with it. He’s not sure a genuine laugh like it has ever rung out through the chamber. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever even heard one like it whatsoever.
“Well, it’s a pretty good final meal.”
He dismisses you after you finish.
Days pass without the two of you speaking. And he, stewing in it, is more confused than ever.
He used to lord over his palace like a king, fuck all day and watch his subjects with gold coins and power in his eyes. Now, he can’t remember the last time he spared even a single glance over the mezzanine without it being to look for you. He still hears the squeals and sighs of pleasure. But he can’t even picture the scene. No, his mind is otherwise busy.
Busy doesn’t even cut it. Plagued might. Yes, he’s plagued by you.
Plagued by you and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. It’s a joke. He’s never been one to edge himself. But now he hasn’t fucked in ages. And you’re to blame.
What’s the matter with him? All his life, he’s known what’s been what. People like to complicate things, make it sound like more, make it sound different from what it actually is. They romanticize and they fetishize, but at its core, it’s always been basic. Bunnies are weak and easily broken, and deserve to be treated accordingly. There’s nothing more to it than that.
He’s going to find you, and when he does he’s going to do to you what he should have done from the very start—break you like the weak and breakable thing you are.
“Know your place, slut,” a catty voice bites out. “You might have been popular down on the ground, but up here, I'm the fucking favorite.”
From behind the pillar he witnesses the scene, forgetting his objective. Five chosen ones all stand in a ring around you, who’s pinned to the ground by three others, two holding your arms down and the last of them on top of you with a fist wrapped tightly around the root of your ear. She’s got something in her hand—a shiv, fashioned from some scrap-piece of metal with unknown origins—pointed with a poke up under your chin, looking just shy of drawing blood.
“If any of us see you trying to take my spot again, I’m gonna fucking gut you from cunt to belly button—understand?”
You don’t say anything—unable to with the make-shift blade threatening to slice your throat open. But your silence is an answer in and of itself, if it weren’t interrupted by him clearing his throat and stepping into view.
“Master–” all eight of them gasp, those standing shuffling away with a bow whilst the three others remain deadly still, waiting for his verdict with eyes wide.
“Get up. All of you,” he says, passing his judgement swiftly, not giving any one of them room to plead innocence or condone their crimes with silly reasonings, “There’s customers downstairs in need of attending. Go make yourselves useful.”
A wave of displeased moaning followed, nearly amounting to a protest. Even so, their disgruntled pouting was premature. He wasn't finished.
“And once you’re done, you can all stay down there.”
Pouting turned to pleading fast, all of them shaking their head with hands clasped together in prayer, “But, master, please—she had it coming, she never does anything, she—”
“One more word,” he stops the tangent, closing the gap with a slow saunter, standing multiple heads taller than all of them, even the one who thought herself so high and mighty just a moment ago. He makes sure to return her look of entreaty without mercy, saying, “And I’ll be the one gutting you.”
They all scurry shortly after that, tears in their throat as they hurry down the stairs.
You get up to join them—never one to make the wrong assumption, probably thinking he’s one to tar everyone with the same brush. And normally, he’d do just that, because in his eyes, there’s no telling people apart in any other way aside from separating product from customer, with himself being the only outsider. But then came you.
“Not you, Carrots,” he says, stopping you. “You stay right there.”
You remain still as he approaches. You don’t flinch, your eyes don’t flitter—it’s utterly uncanny, he’d believe it if you told him you were without senses, like a ghost.
“Why didn’t you fight back?”
It’s the question that’s been on his mind since you first showed up here—not a lick of resistance in you.
“I’m not fond of pain,” you answer. “So, I try my best to avoid it.”
His teeth grit, very nearly growling. “You have a bad habit of not answering the question being asked.”
You chew your lip, looking as though you’re not quite sure how to explain yourself. “Well… fighting it would only make it worse, wouldn’t you say? And besides… I don’t want to do to others what I don’t want being done to me.”
So, you believe in karma. That’s an interesting mental state—not one he’s ever understood too well. It’s always seemed like a comfort to those who don’t have the strength to take their own revenge, hoping that some higher power will do it for them.
“Also, we bunnies have a saying,” you continue, now with that unseemly smile of yours. “If you’re at first getting fucked, you might as well try to enjoy it.”
Something violates him at that—a chill of all things. Thinking, that’s not karma. No, not at all.
That’s resignation. An even odder mental state.
“Though… I don't think most of us take it to heart,” you add with a small laugh.
It makes no sense to him. In fact, it shocks him like you’ve just pulled out a knife and stabbed him with it. And yet, he thinks he might finally get you now. Any moment might be your last and you’ve accepted that as a fact of life. The same way he accepts and expects his stomach to growl, you accept and expect yourself to be the one to sate it.
You’re the only one so far. The only one to successfully internalize that truth without breaking under the pressure.
“Will you bring the girls back?” you ask then, seemingly taking his silence as an invitation, and using it as an opportunity to think about others as if you can afford it.
He doesn’t know why it angers him the way it does. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Like always, you don’t quiver under his growl like others would have. No, instead you keep insisting, “It’s cruel to send them back down after—”
“I thought you said you didn’t question cruelty.” he cuts you off.
And still, it’s like you don’t even care. “Well, I'm only asking because… it sort of feels like my fault, is all. I don’t want to be the reason they’re punished—”
“I’m not punishing them for you,” he interrupts, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I'm punishing them because they were cocky enough to think they could create a hierarchy not governed by me.”
He picks the shiv up from the floor, holding it up and inspecting it with a grimace like its very existence is an insult.
“Tch—I should have killed them, and you’re asking me to save them.” He shakes his head, then finds your face again.
“You wanna know what bores me more than anything? When beggars start thinking they can be choosers.”
Gracing your jaw with the blade, he sneers. “Do you think you can be a chooser?”
And just like expected, you reset yourself with a blink, then utter a passive, “No.”
“And that’s why you’re up here, and they’re down there.”
In all your time up here, he hasn’t once touched you, but within the next passing second he’s got your small body caged in his, trapped between himself and the balustrade where he always finds you, sitting, staring, thinking about things hidden from him.
“You’re the only one who gets it.” Knife cast aside, he uses his paw instead, dwarfing your chin and cheeks as he aims your head out to look across the den below. Fangs by the lop of your ear, blowing on the soft fur with his whispers, “You’re the only one who understands the laws of true wilderness. The rightful order of things. You know what you are and have accepted your place—made nature your common sense.”
Your feet dangle below, toes gracing the floor just barely, slipping in their stance where he has you hoisted against the guardrail, clutching onto it with your hands—knowing if he’d let go, you’d go toppling over it. And yet you don’t fight back. Knowing it’s all out of your hands, you remain just like putty in his.
“Look at them,” he continues, a disgust in his voice and in his narrowed eyes, spitting, “They all think they can be something different. Prey thinking they can hunt the hunter. Hunters thinking they can be loved by that which they hunt. It’s all false.”
He slips his hand from your chin to your neck, keeping a firm hold, though not squeezing, just enough to feel your pulse on his finger.
“You and me, we’re the only ones who see it for what it truly is,” he murmurs. “And why… I’ve decided I’m not gonna fuck you…”
His other paw, which up until this point had been holding the guardrail just shy of yours, now lifts and places itself over your heart, feeling it beat in his palm as he continues, “No, you deserve more respect than that… Which is why… I'm gonna give you the honor of being my first live kill.”
Betraying yourself, your heart does, nearly to his surprise, skip a beat upon him confessing his intention. But of course, despite your seemingly perfect composure, it would be utterly unnatural were it to remain steady.
“I’m gonna give you more carrots than you can eat,” he resumes, now forgoing your ear, nuzzling your cheek instead. “Then, when I've finally fattened you up enough, I'm gonna eat you whole—live and kicking.”
Swallowing thickly, he chuckles under his breath, setting you down on your own two feet again. Leaving your body cold as he begins walking away, with his final sentiments being, “And then we’ll both at last be done with this farce and become what nature intended.”
Weeks pass, and you remain alone on the mezzanine. He doesn't bring the old girls back, nor does he enroll any new girls either. It’s just you and him, in a silence so loud it’s gutting. And still, you’re fed a platter of carrots every day, and you never fail to finish every last one.
He doesn’t touch you again. No, instead, he maintains a distance. You catch his gaze linger though, just like it had since the beginning—on you while you eat, while you mind your business, even while you sleep, you’ll hear the low rumble of his breath, stalking you. It’s as he’d said, like hunter and prey.
Also now, on his throne, watching you where you sit, by the balustrade, looking outward at the burrow. No one wants to be there—not the girls, and not the men who come to see them either—they might think they do, but the truth remains. What they want can’t be found here.
And yet, you suppose it comes close enough.
“You’ve been fattening me up for a while now…” you announce, cutting the silence. And then you turn your head back, flashing him your signature smile from over your shoulder. “Is this the part where you finally eat me?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at you like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.
“Do you want me to run?” you propose then—not sure if you’re trying to make it easier for him or perhaps harder.
“Do you really think you’ll be able to stand still?” he mutters back. No mockery in his words. No humor in it at all.
You shuffle around to face him better, still smiling even though you know it probably doesn’t look too convincing anymore. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be much quicker. I wouldn’t get far.”
His voice seems tight, suggesting, “I’m sure you could if you tried.”
You sigh then, “We both know that’s a lie.”
And then you get up, chest getting tougher the tighter your throat snares, making it hard to breathe, and so you take a big one and release it just as sharply, scoffing, “Besides, I don't think my heart would be able to take it. I’d die from the ache before you could make the kill—and I wouldn't want to spoil the fun.”
You place yourself about halfway toward him, before his throne. Submissiveness being your only weapon, you present yourself just so, linking your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll just stand right here and close my eyes if that’s okay.”
You hear him get up. You’ve always been so good at turning everything off, but right now you’re just not able—feeling the burn of salt swell up beneath your eyelids, pressing for release. You don’t want to let them, but they escape despite that, trickling down your cheeks.
You’re not afraid of dying. You’re not really afraid at all. That’s not it. It’s not fear. It’s something far less reasonable than that. Something audacious that couldn’t care less about the circumstances, even when it makes no sense. No sense at all.
His finger brushes your cheek, catching the wetness and wiping it away. You don’t open your eyes, but you feel the air from his breathing reach you, getting warmer with his approach, soon on your lips.
“Don’t,” you object before it can happen. “You said so yourself…” Voice a soft croak, sniffling, “It isn’t natural for prey and hunter to mate.”
You hear him swallow thickly, abiding by your words as he mulls them over again the same way the two of you had done now for the last month since your first meeting.
“I know…” he says at last. Voice no louder than just for you to hear, very nearly desperate, “So let’s forget about it. We can pretend, can’t we?”
It’s tempting, but too fickle. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“So, what can I do? Tell me.” His paws brush your arms, carefully, without claws. “What do I have to do to make you mine?”
“Well… that’s a question you have to ask yourself, isn’t it?” Your eyes peel open, meeting his. “It all depends on one thing.”
You appraise each other like that. Him, waiting for your conditions, and you, feeling your heart rift for reasons beyond being prey before a predator, as you state the ultimatum, “Do you want me to be afraid of you? Or do you want me to be in love with you?”
You bite your lip and look down, as though planting your foot. Even though you know what you’re asking is an affront to nature, it remains true nonetheless, “You can’t have both.”
There’s a pause. Your heart beats out of your chest, fearing what to expect—a bite or something entirely different you don’t have the nerve to name.
“You’re right…” he says at last. “Hunters don’t mate with prey.”
The beating in your chest ceases—gets cut loose and drops. You knew it all along and yet that does nothing to ease the desolation it leaves behind.
A hooked finger slips under your chin, lifting your head.
meeting phainon was like meeting your real-life prince charming. he's handsome, kind, and did I mention hot? you would have definitely continued simping over him if not for what those comments beside his head revealed to you (wc 1.9k)
note: inspired by those chinese short stories where the mc sees 'bullet comments' like in live streams
tags: normal au, stalking, hidden cameras, yandere
The first time you met Phainon was on a hot, summer day. You remember clearly the sweltering heat of the sun, its rays burning hot over your living room despite the open windows. Even with the fan turned on at the highest speed, it did nothing to alleviate the discomfort (actually, it was made even worse because the spinning blades just tunneled hot air straight to your face). All in all, it was a shitty day. You lay on the couch in just shorts and a bra, switching through random channels on the TV while fanning yourself. It would have been a typical day, if not for the knocks coming from your door.
That's weird. You don't have any visitors. It couldn't be your friends because they all went back home, leaving you alone in this miserable city.
"Hello? Is someone home?"
A melodious voice rang from outside. Though faint, it caught your attention.
Holy shit, his voice is hot!
Startled, you got up and almost ran to the door before remembering your outfit. Grabbing a random shirt, you stumbled messily towards the entrance while simultaneously putting it on.
"Um, hello? Wait, is no one here right now…?"
The man's words drawl out as you open the door. In your haste, you accidentally slammed it, creating a loud bang! You would have been wallowing in embarrassment right now if not for the sight in front of you. By the gods, this guy has to be one of the hottest people you know. White, glowing hair reflecting off the sunlight like a halo; clear, cyan eyes that shimmer like the sky; tall, lithe yet athletic physique judging by the muscles clinging to his tight shirt; and that strong, pretty face that gives off an attractive, boyish charm.
In a daze, you didn't catch yourself staring until the man waved his hand in front of your face. Blood rushed to your face in embarrassment at being caught ogling a random stranger. Before you can apologize, he just laughs like it's something amusing. And dear god, even that chuckle made your heart flutter. In your ears, that bright, cheerful sound felt like music.
Can someone really be this perfect?!
The man hands you a small box. You don't even know when you extended your arms, but he dropped it on your palms. It was warm.
"The name's Phainon! I just moved in today. What's your name?"
Meeting Phainon was like meeting a real-life Prince Charming. He's kind but not a doormat, confident but not arrogant, and friendly but not pushy. Since that day he gave you the meal, you've both exchanged numbers and have been in regular contact ever since. In the mornings, you'd greet each other on the elevator. You eventually came to learn that he's recently transferred to your university, studying Aerospace Engineering. He's also in the campus debate club — and a good one at that. Sometimes, in campus, he'd cheerfully ask to join you for lunch when you're both on break. Of course, you'd never reject him (why would you? food is best eaten when admiring a pretty face), scooting over for room while ignoring your friends' teasing glances.
The guy's a literal ray of sunshine. He's funny, handsome, and extremely reliable.
Especially the last one.
Today, the pipes in your bathroom gave up and randomly burst. Thankfully the landlord was quite a nice lady and immediately took the initiative to call over a plumber without blaming you. Unfortunately, luck was not on your side because for some goddamn reason, all the ones in your area were unavailable today. Unfortunately, this means she'd have to close the supply valve to prevent further flooding. The only silver lining is that it's only the sink pipe. Were it anything else, you'd look like an old woman with deep wrinkles from how much you're frowning.
Thank the heavens because Phainon — your dear, ever reliable neighbor Phainon — offered to help when he heard about it. Here he is in your bathroom, inspecting the pipes.
Phainon.
In. Your. Apartment.
"Hm…"
"Is that a 'hm?' or a 'hm?!' ?"
Phainon chortled at your comment. "Perhaps a bit of both. Partner, these pipes might need a little bit more help. I need my equipment for this."
"Oh god." You buried your face in your palm, groaning at the thought of paying extra to fix it. If it's as bad as Phainon said, then it definitely wouldn't be cheap. Just imagining how much you'd have to shell out already gives massive headaches. If he can't fix it, you're doomed.
"Is it really that bad..?"
"Well, we wouldn't know until we try, right?"
Phainon stood up from crouching on the ground. "I might spend some time here to fix it. Will that be okay?"
"Oh, yes, of course—"
Suddenly, a stream of floating comments like in live streams appeared right in front of your face beside Phainon. More and more came every second making them difficult to read, but you were able to catch some of them.
bigphailover231: Oh my god, this is when he installs cameras in her bathroom!! BABY'S FIRST ACT <3333
strawberry_cupcake: OJMGGGGG IM SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!
imjusthere: you guys enjoy this???
Fuck, are you hallucinating right now? Was it from the two redbull cans you drank this morning—
Wait. Cameras?
"Partner, you good? H-e-l-l-o [Name], you're dazed right now." Phainon waved his hand in front of your face, tilting his head at your expression, looking amused. "If you're not comfortable with that, that's fine. I don't want to force you."
bigphailover231: 'I don't want to force you' TOP 3 BIG LIES OF ALL TIME LOL
Yeah, okay, I'm definitely going insane right now. First, there's no way comments can appear out of thin air. Second, Phainon would never do that. Goodness, I need to sleep!
"Sorry, I'm just a bit tired. Go ahead! Thanks, Phainon. You're a really big help."
Phainon returned your smile with one of his. Like always, it made your heart flutter. However, as you return to your room and Phainon went back to his to get some equipment, you can't help but feel a tiny knot form in your gut.
Initially you tried to dismiss it as some energy-drink-induced hallucination. All you needed to do was stay off Redbull and Monster drinks for the next week— and maybe getting some actual sleep. However, as the days pass into weeks, they just continue to appear. Most of the time it's when you talk to Phainon, but sometimes you'd catch them in the corner of your eye. You've never been a believer of the supernatural even as a kid, but now you're starting to seriously doubt it.
Campus? A glimpse from somewhere over the other side of the lecture hall.
Random cafe? A blur from the next booth.
Groceries? A chime from what you assume to be an influx of them.
Every single day, you'd either see it or hear it and it's driving you insane. You don't know when it started but your attraction for Phainon faded from admiration to a now-settling, deep uneasiness. You really, really don't want to doubt him, but the sheer accuracy of these comments are making it impossible not to. If these are just hallucinations, then why the fuck are they so accurate?
In the middle of the campus lecture, when the professor finally gave a break, Phainon 'accidentally' bumped into you.
waitingfornewscenes: yeah no, this guy changed classes just for [Name] LMAOO
needforSPEED: bro couldn't have chosen a better excuse?
"Hey, partner! Didn't know we have the same professor, haha! I had to change classes because of some issues. Wanna study together?"
In the cafe while hanging out with friends and trying new sweets, Phainon came out from the next booth and looked 'surprised' when he saw your group.
yadayadaaaaa: COINCIDENCE MY ASS????/ next he'll say 'i didn't expect to see you here!' i bet omfg
imjusthere: holy stalking
"I didn't expect to see you here. You like this cafe too? What a coincidence!"
In the supermarket getting groceries, he'd be there buying vegetables too. 'Coincidentally' he's not buying much and would be willing to help.
bigphailover231: offering to carry groceries??? day 10 of manifesting a man like Phainon… real life is a scam </3
strawberry_cupcake: right there with you, sis </3
Each and every time this happens, that tightness in your gut grows larger and larger. When you remembered the comments talking about hidden cameras, you desperately scoured every nook and cranny of your small apartment to look for them. You closed all the lights and investigated by shining the phone flashlight everywhere carefully, watching for the telltale glint of those lens. When you found two in the living room, one in the bathroom, and three in the bedroom, you almost vomited right then and there. Unfortunately, when you reported it to the cops, they said they can't do anything about it because 'nothing happened.' That moment lost your little trust for police enforcement completely.
Slowly, you started to withdraw from friends and going outside in general. Just the thought of seeing those comments or hearing its notifying chime brings undeniable anxiety. If you could, you'd stay the hell away right now and couch-surf with friends. Regrettably, they're all strapped for cash right now and couldn't afford another roommate. Plus, this was already the cheapest single-bedroom apartment without being absurdly far from the campus. And even more, you can't just move out and find a new apartment with roommates because you can't afford it. In other words, you're doomed.
But as much as you want to stay at home, the bills don't pay themselves. Thankfully, your part-time work didn't involve much customer service so you could stay in the kitchen rather than the front register. However, it only barely helps with the paranoia. You didn't want Phainon to be suspicious of your changed behavior so you tried to distance yourself subtly. His puppy-dog eyes glistening with unshed tears and hurt would have moved your heart if not for the comments floating beside his head.
It was late at night when you finally returned home. The skies were dark and only the street lights illuminated the area. Desperate to save as much money as possible, you practically ran speedwalked back to your apartment. The moment the door closed was also the moment you finally breathed a sigh of relief. Tired, you shrugged off the black jacket onto the floor and didn't even bother picking it up. Taking off your shoes, you immediately went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And when that was done, you sluggishly dragged your body to the safe haven of your bed to finally get some rest.
Exhaustion finally caught up as just laying on the bed for a few minutes, beneath a blanket and surrounded by pillows, was enough to pull you to sleep. Your eyelids felt heavy and you were about to welcome the soft embrace of dreamland when, suddenly, a familiar sound chimed in the air.
In that very moment, your body stiffened as your eyes snapped wide open.
You looked around frantically, careful not to move too much. However, as your eyes scan the room, the sinking realization that he couldn't hide anywhere settled like ice in your veins. First off, you're not rich enough for a closet. Second, there isn't any furniture big enough to hide behind. Which means…
; yandere, this is based on a cliche trope so do with that as you will, pathetic phainon but #he gets his way, plot device sunday, manipulation, brief mention of self-harm + suicide threat (it's used as a manipulation tactic), proofread to the best of my ability...
; becoming enamoured with phainon is an inevitability that you had no chance of ever resisting. but it stings how he'll never see you beyond a dear friend from kindergarten. the moment you move on, however, begins a shift in your dynamic with him -- he wants you back, desperately so.
; push-and-pull trope with phainon. oneshots masterlist can be seen here.
I. Love is a bitter fruit grown from trees.
“I’m Phainon! What’s your name?”
The first time you met him, his small hand reached out, waiting for you to take it. You did.
A duo is often composed of an extrovert and an introvert: at the age of seven, you knew full well who was who between you and your newfound friend, Phainon. He has a birthmark resembling that of the sun located at the side of his neck. It suits him well, you can’t think of anything but the sun when describing him. He shines like one, is warm like one, and basks everyone with his golden presence like one.
You wondered often: If he is the sun, then what would that make you?
Ideally, you’d be the complementary moon for him. During childhood, you tried to force it down your own throat by using the yellow crayon for him, and the blue one for you in your schoolwork doodles. Sun and moon, yellow and blue, light and dark – phainon and you. Growing up a bit more, you soon came to realise that you are no moon.
You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on.
A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.
As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!”
Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher.
While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.
Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”
You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm.
High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more.
Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length.
You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so.
He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t.
Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper.
He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long.
Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon.
Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is.
“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.
“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”
You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”
He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”
You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.
To be young is to be naive.
You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school.
In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school.
“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either.
A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead.
“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”
You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora.
That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay.
After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!”
You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion.
The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.
Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum.
The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend.
Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again.
“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”
Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you.
He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”
Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest.
Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon.
“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”
“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out).
The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.
“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”
“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”
“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”
You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand, “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”
II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.
Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.
“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along.
After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t.
Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do.
You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy?
But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend.
Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”
The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.
Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”
The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed?
He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.”
But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”
You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”
You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”
Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”
Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor.
“Ah. You like him?”
You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”
“I won’t.”
His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense.
“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”
Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:
“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”
You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”
He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”
Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…
“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”
Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot.
He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”
Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves…
You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him.
“Phainon, I…”
He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection.
“Yeah?”
You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”
You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.
His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”
“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”
“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”
You nod, too fragile to face him.
“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.
“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”
You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.
Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts.
Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort.
“It’ll be alright.”
He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.
But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.
“Thanks a lot… sunny.”
He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”
The sun: Hey
The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry???
The sun: crazy right
The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn
The sun: do you need help packing up? :)
You: No
You: He’s telling the truth.
You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?
The sun: what
You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.
Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”
“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off.
“Yeah?”
“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”
He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”
‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”
“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”
“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”
“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”
“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”
“...”
“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm.
“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”
You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”
“Phai.”
“Huh?”
“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.”
You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again.
“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”
Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there.
You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future.
In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.
Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are.
It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere.
III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.
Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately
Phainon: did i upset you?
Phainon: :(
The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.
“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”
You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking.
He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor.
Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead.
“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.
He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”
Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”
Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention.
Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle, “Sorry…!”
“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you.
“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”
You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”
He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”
Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”
“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”
“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.”
Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”
“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”
“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”
You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time.
He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you, “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”
Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”
“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:
“I get it.”
“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”
He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class. Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”
Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”
Phainon sees it as clear as day.
Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s.
He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy?
You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?
Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him.
Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it.
You are.
You really are trying to replace him.
Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced.
Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.
He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield.
Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them.
He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him.
His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep.
He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light.
Is it because he refused your confession?
He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does?
Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you.
This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you.
Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul.
IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.
“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”
He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”
“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”
“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”
You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”
The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”
A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”
Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.
Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.
He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,
You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up.
“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”
You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”
You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM.
Phainon smiles, “Really?”
“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”
He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”
“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.
You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long.
With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”
You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”
He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”
Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”
Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close.
He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”
You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence.
Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?
It probably is.
He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”
You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”
“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”
“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.
“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”
His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”
You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.
If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?
kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
WARNINGS: obsessive tendencies, mentions of murder and death, graphic depictions of violence, gore, descriptions of blood and vomit, slight body horror, mentions of weapons, non-consensual affection. YANDERE/DARK CONTENT AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. 7.1k words.
ALSO CONTAINS: direct references to the game 'No, I Am Not A Human'
The thermostat in your house seems to be working wonderfully well for the kind of situation it's currently stuck in.
The whirring of the air-conditioning unit it's attached to fills your ears. The thermostat seems to do its job, with the occasional beeps chiming in. Its LCD is displaying changes to the temperature, but you barely care about it, as the room has always felt the same kind of cold to you for months now (so you think the little numbers on the display hardly have any audience to inform anyway) but despite that, the machine continues to hum, its sound mixes with the monotonous reporter on your TV.
“An unidentified cosmic event has caused the Sun to release energy far exceeding the safe levels in the UV index. Please be informed that temperatures in daytime hours are now considered fatal.
Whirr, hum, whirr, hum. The white box is trudging its years-old components to make sure your skin doesn’t melt off. The sun had become a̗̾ͣ͘n̡̻̱͎͙̦̯̿ͯ͊ͤ̉o̪̥̞͇̖ͨ͋ͫͅmͨ̚͞a̠̠̫̙ͫͪ̀̈l͌̈͆͌ͬ̓̌ơ̯ͧͮͣü̱͓̱̭̩̾̊̇́͞ͅṡ̜̝͎̥͉̞̬̂ͬ too hot apparently, too hot that the sun rays people used to bask into now burns them into a crisp.
Along with the sun reverting back to its archaic reputation of being the deadly laser that formed this godforsaken earth (it seems to have changed its mind now — not surprising really, after witnessing the shit humans have been up to lately), there also seems to be a long stream of problems coming along with it.
“IPC officials have scouted at least twenty thousand dangerous individuals c̳͊̄͑͞r̩͕̦̹̩̘̲ͥ̿ͬẹ̢̓ͬ̉̀̏̆a̫͠t͇̣̞͖̽ͨ͆͠u̸͈̣̤͔̤r͍̊͆̒ͪͬ̚e̜̗̘͛ͨͣ̿͛ͣͣs̱̮̥̊ͥͯ́ͣ̆ that are suspected to have come after the deadly solar flares. These unidentified visitors are a major concern of safety, please be guided accordingly.”
Hum, whirr, hum, whirr, hum.
“Be wary of these traits, if spotted in an individual, escape immediately.”
The reporter on TV disappears from your sight, replaced by a plain white infographic with the logo of the Interastral Peace Corporation in the top part. The bold letters spelled out “signs” of the dangerous individuals.
-Visitors are believed to have come underground, so they have soil buried beneath THEIR fingernails, especially ones too deep in the nailbed.
-Rapid eye movement and bloodshot eyes.
-Insects inside the ears.
-Unnatural amount of teeth and bleeding gums.
-Rashes and skin irritations, especially in the hands and legs.
-Black patches in skin.
-Aversion to cameras and photography, they appear blurry in photographs.
After what felt like a long minute of staring at random bullet points and the IPC logo, the reporter returns on TV. There was no other news, so he just smiled at the camera. And then left these words to the viewer:
“Stay safe, don't get burned!”
He disappeared again, probably for good this evening, as the IPC numbers are the only thing left on your TV.
You turned it off, now the only sound that remains is from your air conditioner.
Whirr, hum, whirr, hum, whirr.
KNOCK
KNOCK KNOCK
“Hey partner! You good in there?”
Startled, you dropped your remote. Who the hell just comes up to a house like that? Filled with paranoia from the earlier newscast, your heartbeat races at the voice. Warily standing up, you headed to your door to look at the peephole.
“Hey…uh, I’m Phainon! Can I stay with you for the night? Please! It's scary out here and-”
“Sorry, I’ll have to decline.”
Outside was a man pale as snow, his white hair elevating the seemingly lack of blood flow further. You noticed that as you spoke of your decline, his stature slightly drooped, yet with the way he's leaning into your door tells you that he's on the taller side.
“Wa-wait! Hear me out please, I promise I’m safe! I just really need a shelter-”
“I’m sorry”
The man leans in further, his pleading blue eyes seemingly staring directly in yours. A sun tattoo on his neck came into view, momentarily catching your attention.
He looked okay, really, yet the prospect of having another housemate and losing them through your own hands have successfully cleaved off at least half of your sanity. The visitors are rampant in their mimicry of humans, and god forbid if you have to kill off another thing — whether it is a human or something that looks just like it.
You clutched your rifle tightly.
“...”
The other side goes silent. Thinking he just gave up and left, you turned your back and walked away from the door.
“...if you need anyone to accompany you, I can do that. You don't have to carry these burdens alone, okay?”
You don't know what has gotten to you — maybe his words did, but your hands reached to the doorknob and twisted it.
“Thank you so much, I thought I was finished out there.” Phainon heaves a sigh, slowly walking towards your couch before sitting down, his knees and legs slightly shaking.
“Are you a visitor?”
Phainon looks up to you wide-eyed before shaking his hands in front of him, his head shaking in disagreement at the same time.
“What? No! Of course not. Please, my promise is genuine, I’m willing to help you in exchange for a place to rest. Please, trust me.” He looks at you straight in the eyes with a pleading look in his.
“I was hopping from place to place before this house, you're my savior really, nobody is opening the doors for me I almost gave up.” He continued, his posture so hunched down as if trying to look smaller than you while saying it that you felt a little bad for him.
But you still can't shake the unease in your head. It's like a cold chill constantly reminding you that by doing this, you're back at the start of the cycle of endless doubts.
And then possibly losses.
He seemed like a good man, a pitiful one even, with the fact that he doesn't have a permanent roof against the sun that turned faulty on all of you. At times like… these, the humanity in you wishes that you could extend a helping hand to him — probably the last vestiges of instinctual human compassion trying to claw its way out of your heart.
But at the end of the day, you are indeed, human.
And you're scared, and hurt, and confused. Because humans exposed to the crushing pressure of survival are more likely to close their walls off in hopes of lessening their burdens.
(or more like trying to stop themselves from giving out pieces of them only for the other to take it to the grave. Again and again until they have no more pieces to tear off of their bodies.)
(strange humans, really.)
“Hey… sorry if this seems blunt, but keep your distance. The room upstairs is free and I’d appreciate it if you stay there more.” You offer him a thin, half-hearted smile before heading towards your kitchen.
So in hopes of keeping what's left of yourself whole, you hide.
You're not used to hearing breathing after all the times that you're alone with the hums and beeps of your air conditioner.
You glance at your side after seeing movement in your periphery, there stands Phainon in the doorway, looking in your direction. He looks around tensely, before stepping backwards, as if to keep distance from you.
“I’m sorry, I didn't know you're here.” He shoots you an apologetic smile before turning around.
Against your better judgement, you called out to him.
“Phainon.”
The man froze in his tracks, surprised with you suddenly acknowledging him. As for you, it was too late before you realized what you blurted out.
Oh well, you've been mulling this for a while now, better get over it.
“Uhm… let's talk?” You trailed off, before revealing a second cup in your hand and giving it to him.
For the first time since his two-week long stay in your house, he beamed. To be fair, the only time you acknowledged him prior is when you coldly told him to keep distance when you first met that night.
For the following days after that, he floated around your home. Using the kitchen after you, washing up before you, and just, living in parallel to you, never really meeting. You did the same to him, offering him measly nods and stares when coming across him.
Like ghosts learning to coexist in their lonely haunting grounds.
But you're tired of the charade you made yourself, wordless guesses of each other had worn down your already thin patience. There was a time where you stared up at your ceiling all night and realized you're living with a complete stranger, who stayed as a stranger because you refused to talk about it.
“About your…” You paused for a second, your mouth suddenly feeling dry, nonetheless, you continued, “...stay here, how was it?”
What the hell even is that? You mentally smack yourself. But alas, you really don't have any topic in mind to share and you're desperate to smooth out this problem as soon as possible.
“Pretty good, pretty good!” Phainon immediately chippered, his mood clearly going up from the interaction, “Ah! Did something happen? Need my help? You're usually not one to start conversations like this.”
“Ah… that.” You cleared your throat a bit, “I was just thinking about…how uh, cold we are no? I’m sorry you've been living in here for weeks now and I don't know anything about you except your name”
“No worries! I understand why you are so distant. Times like this… it's just safer when you're alone right?” He replies, eyes boring into yours for a minute before he turns his pupils away, “But! That's why I'm so thankful to you! You sacrificed your peace of mind just to help poor me. Ah, now that we're talking about that-”
Phainon suddenly leans down to grab something from the floor. It turns out to be a bag, he starts rummaging through it, bringing out a bunch of supplies. A pack of spearmint candies, canned goods, a pair of toothbrushes, tubes of topical medication and some hygiene products.
“Okay, I think that's it…?” He trails off as he shakes the bag to empty it. “Alright, here's my little stash, if you need anything just help yourself. I used to go out at night to buy groceries, however I kinda stopped after I ran away from my apartment. Still, if you need anyone to run up things for you, just call me~” He gestures with his fingers what looks like a running motion while his other hand points at your door.
You let out a small laugh, “Why would you bother? Just ask the delivery guy to drop the goods here.”
“Delivery?” He tilts his head, eyes darting to you again, “No way.”
“Uhm-”
“Why hire a delivery guy, I'll do it for you.”
You really don't know why he's so eager to talk and help you. Perhaps it's because of the fact that you really did sacrifice your peace of mind just to put a roof over him, but his enthusiasm when it comes to this entire “setup” is… a bit jarring to you.
It's the first time in a long, long while since you've seen such bright emotions.
“Phainon, I accept your thank you. But don't bother with the grocery run-ins or, actually, any stuff in this house. I'm simply worried about you just going back out there.” You sighed at him.
But that only earns you a laugh from him.
“Hah? I think,” He stops for a bit before bringing his face close.
He seems to have a liking at staring directly into you, now that you've noticed.
“They are the ones who should worry about me!” He suddenly exclaims, before laughing with a ‘just kidding, don't worry about me!’
“Oh, it's getting late now, night-night partner!”
What a weird guy.
“See Phainon, this is why we leave the essential groceries to the delivery guy.” You plopped down at the sofa, holding a bright blue, mixed berries flavored, children's toothpaste.
“I have never seen a mixed berry flavored paste before, I always had the boring rotation of mint, spearmint and peppermint. They taste the same almost every time by the way.” Phainon sits down with you, taking the box out of your hands to open it.
“Yeah right, you’ve never seen it because it's probably been years since you had the need for any toothpaste remotely the same as that, it’s made for kids ages 7 and below!”
About a month after your “talk” with Phainon, you've settled into a rhythm within the household. While the usual habits of staying in your respective rooms and using the sink one after the other still remained, the two of you now watch T.V. and do boardgames together, as a way of acknowledging each other's presence at least.
Phainon has never shut down the idea of doing grocery runs for you, always asking if you want something from the store every night. At first you only humored him for the sake of shutting him up, asking him to buy you snacks and skincare products, basically things that you don't need but want.
But then the actual supplies had depleted and you finally decided to heed Phainon’s request for a full grocery run-in. Absolutely delighted, he immediately rushed out of the door at sunset.
And now you are regretting your decisions because while Phainon is pretty on point on your snack cravings, he has absolutely no sense of what essentials to actually purchase.
A kid's toothpaste, some new tubes of medicine you're sure you're still seeing three of in your drawers, new perfume and a travel-sized shampoo.
That shampoo is going to last you three washes.
The food selection however is fine, and you thank him for that. But you've promised to just let the night delivery handle your toiletries no matter how much Phainon begs to be let out again.
“Okay… sorry, I got carried away and got lost in the store. Here, I brought some candy and popcorn, let's eat it while watching some movies?” He pushes a plastic bag in your direction before standing up and plugging your T.V. on.
If there's one more thing that's really good about Phainon is that he has all these knick-knacks on him. For some reason, in the middle of all things, the guy has found a set of DVDs, boxes of boardgames and some entertaining books. It gets you entertained too, and considering all that's around you, you're thankful for the distraction.
You lay there on the sofa, staring at your ceiling. And then on Phainon himself. He's tall, has a great build. His white hair is always disheveled but you’re quite used to it now. If there's anything that's sticking out, it is that he looks oddly paler than normal and the contrast of the bright yellowish-gold sun tattoo on his neck makes it all the more noticeable.
Other than that he looks healthy, on the normal side even. You really can't imagine what made a capable-looking guy run away from home.
Well, it's not like you can make sense of anything that's happening to the world right now anyways.
Maybe because you've spaced out while Phainon is in your sight too much, you've also noticed some things around him. How his disheveled hair sometimes forms an antenna in his head and how that always seems to break your thermostat, as if sending a signal to it.
“Duck your head Phainon, my poor air conditioner.”
Unfortunately, your warning came in a second late as the thermostat reading suddenly shot up, 19°… 33°… 55°…
And then back to 19°
And then it just blinks to its death.
“What- Oh fuck did I kill your air conditioner?” Phainon waves his hand to the white box, but fortunately it is still working, it's just that the thermostat is now useless. “Oh, just the thermostat. Don't worry, I think I can fix it as long as the main air-conditioning still works.”
“Okay, enough with the distractions let's go actually watch something,” Phainon settles beside you, opening a bag of candies before handing it to you.
You've now realized that the lights are also off, with the glow of the T.V. being your only source of illumination. The movie begins, and by the looks of it, it's going to be another romance movie.
Phainon does sound like he's a fan of the romance genre, with how much of it he has. You've never gotten to asking him where he gets his stuff. Maybe it's all that's left in his old place? Still with how much he gushes about the scenes, you think that maybe he genuinely likes it.
“Wouldn't it be nice to get married and walk together under some sunshine?” Phainon suddenly mutters, the scene of the couple playing together on the sunny beach.
“Huh?”
“I mean, don't you miss the warmth?”
Right, warmth instead of heat. You truly miss it. When sunshine kisses your skin instead of searing it, when you can take long walks in the afternoons until sunset. When sunrise meant new beginnings instead of just another day to survive.
“Yeah, of course, I miss it. Now I see how romantic basking under the sun together is, too bad it's a little too late of a realization” You just laughed the thoughts off softly.
[Dearest, it's not too late for us.]
Phainon wraps a blanket around your bodies, snuggling closer to you. Times like this make you realize how much you miss having something, someone, to be around with. In the past few months, Phainon has become a daily part of your life. Finally after a long time, you've been talking to another person again.
You think, for the first time, you felt safe. For there's finally someone that will watch your back when you decide staying guarded feels too heavy.
This time, sleep comes to you easily.
You are woken up with the sound of the faucet running.
Trying your best to roll around and block out the noise, you can't, because the sound of someone scrubbing something rouses you awake.
Now that you've noticed it, your throat kind of feels hoarse and sticky. A nauseating aftertaste still lingering somewhere in your mouth.
Crap, you inhaled all those sweets yet fell asleep without drinking water and brushing your teeth.
Rubbing your eyes, you still hear the scrubbing from the direction of your sink. Phainon must still be brushing his teeth with that stupid bright blue toothpaste. You laughed to yourself.
You've decided to just wait until he finishes brushing his teeth. However minutes have passed and you still hear the schick schick of his toothbrush. And the faucet has been running for a while now, so you decide to call out to him.
“Ack! O-oh… you're awake? For how long haha… Oh! Are you gonna brush your teeth? You ate a lot of sweets no? Just let me finish up.” Phainon frantically answers you, his hands almost throwing the bright blue tube of the toothpaste directly into the sink.
He then quickly spits out the foam before marching to his room immediately while yelling a ‘goodnight!’ to you.
You've always noticed that he takes an awful lot of time on the sink, sometimes just washing his hands absentmindedly or brushing his teeth at least a minute or two longer than usual.
Standing up, you headed to the sink yourself for your turn. Isn't that gonna scrub his gums off or something? You wondered while picking up your toothbrush that's sitting on the same cup where Phainon’s is.
You noticed however, that aside from the absolutely decimated bristles, its color is also…off. The bristles are yellowing and there are some wet, reddish stains on the handle.
It's strange, Phainon never came off as someone with bad teeth hygiene, at least not something that you can smell when he inevitably “accidentally” pushes his face close to yours. The bright blue children's toothpaste comes into mind, that certainly would not leave red stains, no?
Ah hell, did Phainon buy a separate fruit-flavored toothpaste behind your back?
Today, you have taken one good look in your home and have realized that despite the apocalyptic situation you’re in, the task of cleaning your house remains. Huffing about the thought of moving furniture to dust them off and unearthing the long forgotten storage boxes, you stretched your arms and back in preparation for it.
Honestly, you’ve thought about asking Phainon for help (since he’s always up in your face about wanting to do things inside the house), however the thought of having to explain the possible findings in your pile of stuff — stuff from before all hell broke loose, you decided against it and just distracted the guy by asking him to buy more snacks for you.
And this time, you gave him a long list, just to be sure, damned your savings will be.
You started with the easy tasks first, like dusting off the things sitting on top of your table and cabinets. You also went in and swept your floors and rearranged displaced furniture. To be honest, your shared living spaces like the living room and kitchen are actually just fine, probably from Phainon maintaining it. You feel bad for sending the guy away but it’s too late for regrets now.
The real problem here might just be your room.
You sighed at the thought of it, but it’s not like that would do anything, so you just decided to go and actually do it. On your way to your room, you passed by Phainon’s room with its door left ajar. Out of curiosity, you took a peek inside it. The room, as you expected, is pretty much neat and tidy. The bed covers and pillows are all arranged and folded, contrary to yours that you just leave as is after waking up.
You’re about to close the door when your eyes caught something further inside. In contrast to the orderly room, one of the bedside cabinets is not closed properly, on the floor in front of it lies a used tube of some medicine.
Tube of medicine?
You’ve noticed that every time you ask Phainon to fetch things in the grocery, he never forgets to buy some of this topical ointment. You even remembered your first real conversation, this medicine is one of those that fell from his bag. You never really paid attention to it, thinking that maybe it’s something that he needs to have daily.
However that reasoning didn’t stick with you, Phainon has been buying a lot of these tubes, to the point that it’s strange because — who uses that amount of skin medication all at once? And when you look at the tube on the floor again, you realize that it’s all flattened out, it’s content all used up.
Against your better judgement of not entering other people’s room without your permission, you fully opened the door to walk inside. It felt heavy and suffocating seeing the interior of this room once more, as it belonged to your old housemates.
When this apocalypse started, you were still very gracious back then, always willing to lend your home for people in need. They always come and go, telling you that they needed to come back for someone or something, and then you never hear from them again.
The last time you had someone stay a long time was a friend who was just visiting the city and a man who begged the two of you one night, claiming that something was coming for him.
Your friend was visibly scared of him, however you felt so bad for the trembling man that you let him in. All is well for a few weeks for the three of you.
Until it's not.
Until one morning, in this very room, you found your friend lifeless under the bed.
The man was gone too, and after you called the IPC, they have confirmed that it's indeed a visitor that you unwittingly let inside your home. Their masked faces offer no consolation (maybe except for one) as they cleaned the scene like it’s just a messy bedroom.
In this room, you had your first encounter with a visitor.
And in this room, you have sentenced yourself murder of a friend. You have killed someone because of your ignorance.
And therefore, you locked yourself up, vowing to never let in anyone again.
But just like how you've ignored your vow of isolation, you also forced yourself back in this room, and it's out of extreme curiosity of your new housemate. You laughed to yourself, I will always be a bad housemate huh?
You pulled the cabinet open, and what's in there bewildered you extremely.
A pile of flattened — you squint your eyes, Hydrocortisone tubes. It's a huge pile, there's probably more than fifteen of those. This is all so strange, where the hell is he using all these ointments?
Your mind floats back to the nightly IPC news segment you used to zone out into. You haven't seen it in a while since you've replaced it with movie nights with the snow-haired guy who keeps insisting that it will just cause you unnecessary stress.
Thinking back, they used to show a list containing visitor traits to look out for. Your entire body suddenly gets chills the moment you start listing it down to your head.
…insects, bleeding gums, weird teeth, itchy skin and rashes-
Itchy skin and rashes?
You look at the hydrocortisone tube in your hand, the green label boasts 100% effectiveness against rashes, burns and inflammation.
You drop it and leave the room
For how long are you going to keep denying it?
You rush into your room and lock your door. Breathing heavily, you curled up in front of it.
Phainon has always been an odd guy. He's just a bit weird and quirky… please, right…? But the months of denying your reality, months of desperate praying that it's not that comes crashing down right in front of you.
Phainon is indeed odd, but he's odd in an odd way, if that makes sense. He's clearly way too much of an experienced guy, based on his ability to repair all things inside your home and his life stories before this apocalyptic mess happened to be that stupid over simple things like grocery lists and medicine dosage.
He's weird in all the weird places, for the lack of better description.
But he's fun, charming… and you've seemed to have developed an endearment to him. He's cared for you a lot, kept you sane when you thought a visitor is trying to get inside your house, and he's just-
He's just someone that's easy to be with.
So the thought of possibly getting rid of him pained you deeply. Just right after getting used to having someone by your side again, how unfortunate.
Suddenly, you hear the front door open. You slowly lifted yourself up and swallowed the sobs threatening to fall.
You'll give him one last chance.
“Heya- oh, what's this broom for, did you clean something? You should've waited for me so I could help you!” Phainon exclaimed as he dropped a large bag of snacks that you had asked him to buy.
“Hm, no need, the house is actually already clean haha… did you clean it before?” You timidly answered him, which made his head tilt a bit.
“Well… yeah! What do you think? Pretty good right? I maintain our home daily just so you know, so don't bother with the cleaning,” Phainon laughs, sitting down on the sofa and opening his arms as if to showcase your very much cleaning living room.
“Yeah!” You try matching his enthusiasm but failing. You sighed at the attempt and just sat with him on the sofa, “Hey… can I ask you something?”
“Hm? Yeah sure, what's up?”
“Do you… have any skin conditions?”
Stupid, stupid, when will you accept it?
Phainon freezes up for a moment before turning towards you, “Ah… this is embarassing…did you go inside my room?”
“I- I’m sorry… I couldn't help taking a look because it was open, and I just so happened to see a used tube of those medicines you buy a lot… so I was curious.”
“Yeah, I have… a really sensitive skin that easily reddens if I get into contact with some triggers and I'm not really sure where to get it checked out because I don't know a clinic.”
“Sorry for worrying you,” Phainon offers an apologetic smile.
Liar.
For the first time in months, you missed your daily movie night with Phainon.
You stayed in your room, curled up to your bed, the rifle sits between the gap between your mattress and bedframe.
For the first time in months, you brought this out again.
You're frustrated with the long, black firearm beside you. It was given to you by an IPC soldier who sympathized with your tears after what happened that day.
Just pull the trigger if you feel unsafe.
Can you though? Can you do it to someone who has done nothing but care for your well-being? The one who made you smile and forget about the hellish world you're currently living in?
No, you absolutely cannot.
But evidence doesn't have feelings like you and it never lies.
The excessive use of medication.
There was also a time you noticed weird stains on his almost decimated toothbrush — it's not a new funny fruit flavored paste, it's fucking blood. And the reason he almost seems to eat away at the bristles is that it probably has more teeth to grind into.
And when he thinks you don't notice, he stares into you a lot, sometimes putting his face so close to yours because his eyes are always shifting and moving when his vision is not zeroed into you.
By gods, the first thing he did after getting your permission to stay is wash his hands off.
So dirt does not get into the stuff here, he said.
How many more signs until it sinks in to you?
“Just one more.”
Just one more confirmation to end all of this.
You clean your room that night.
And as if to mock your current predicament, buried beneath old photo albums and dusty plushies is a digicam. The Kodak logo on the top of its lens has almost faded away, however the thing still magically works after you left it plugged in for two hours.
Just one last confirmation.
One last chance to prove every accusation wrong.
You carry the small silver camera in your pocket and bring it out with you. Phainon immediately looks over to you and smiles. Your heart sinks with the gesture. I’m so sorry.
You smile back at him and head to the kitchen. Phainon is focused on the T.V. to notice that you didn't fully enter and instead slowly took out the device from your pocket.
click.
click.
click.
You then proceeded to grab a snack from the bag he brought home earlier. You can hear Phainon whining as to why you're going to eat that alone instead of sharing it with him when you go back to your room.
At first you blamed it on shaky hands and nervousness.
You opened up the camera with dread, praying to every god that all your assumptions are just due to unfounded paranoia.
But what gods? Have you seen the hell outside?
The first photo showed you something. It's definitely Phainon but he looks as if he's a fading memory, translucent and all flowy in the wrong directions.
The second photo isn't any better, it’s so blurry, so blurry you only see a white humanoid shape in the middle of your yellow walls.
The third photo is damning.
It was also the one that confirmed it to you like a punch in the gut that, no, you didn't take the photos wrong. There it was, the patterns of your yellow walls and the air-conditioning all vividly clear.
With Phainon nowhere to be found in the photo.
Tears started blurring your vision, but before you can even form a sob a knock comes in.
“Hey… are you sure you're really okay?” Phainon's worried voice can be heard from outside the door.
“Yeah..yeah! Uh, just tired so-” You tried forming a coherent response but he interrupted you.
“Are you crying?”
You didn't get a chance to answer as your door flung open. There stands Phainon with a distraught expression on his face.
And there you are sitting on the floor of your room in tears while holding a camera.
Didn't you lock the door?
“Phainon-”
In your shock, Phainon suddenly lunges at you, pinning your shoulders to the ground. The camera you're holding flies off your hand, rolling over to show to the both of you what's on the screen.
“What a̧̬̮̠̥̳̱͈͐̑̿ͬrͬ̊ͮ̇ͭȅ̱̰̔ͤ͊̓͛ you doing?” Phainon, as always, brings his face extremely close to yours. He's breathing heavily, and you can feel the warmth in your face.
It smells like berries and iron.
And there it was, droplets of blood falling from his mouth and nose, staining your shirt.
“Phainon…”
You liar.
His head stays down, but as his hand travels your neck, you panicked and kicked his abdomen hard. That was able to free you from his grip, you immediately stood up and stared warily at him.
He clutched his stomach while kneeling and looked up at you. His pained and shocked expression broke your heart.
You can't, you can't do it.
He didn't do anything wrong, he didn't…
But as long as that anomaly stays inside your home as if a remembrance of your past grievances, you'll never feel truly at peace.
Your tears finally flowed down this time.
Phainon attempts to stand up and reach out to you but you cut him off.
“I want you out of this house. Now.”
Phainon’s expression now fully transforms into shock. His eyes widened, he suddenly stood up and grabbed both of your hands. He comes close to you, trapping your body between his and the wall.
“Please…why..”
“Phainon. I want you out this instant.”
“Why-”
“Because you're a liar.”
And because you're supposed to kill or report the likes of him, but your fragile heart cannot handle it. So you just let him go.
“Leave!”
Phainon didn't utter a single word at all when you watched him pack up his things that night.
When he was about to go out the door, he suddenly turned to look at you one more time.
“Look at me please.”
“Please, dearest.”
You didn't.
Your gaze planted itself into the floor before you turned away completely. Nothing else aside from the door clicking shut can be heard from Phainon after that, it seemed like the action itself was enough of an answer for him.
You went to your room to sleep off your emotions. But instead you stared at your ceiling for hours, with no avail to rest at all.
Standing up, you headed to the kitchen to do yourself a favor and at least rehydrate all the tears you've cried out. You slowly make your way back to your room when your vision lands on the door. Just a few hours ago, you pushed him away in that very place.
Your feet absentmindedly go toward it instead. You stared at the white wood before slowly leaning towards the peephole.
However, instead of the desolate surroundings that you're always used to, you see Phainon’s head bent sidewards from his neck, golden eyes staring at you.
He smiles, wide, all the extra teeth visible.
You fell backwards in shock, the glass you're holding shatters to the ground and as if in response to you, you heard scratching from outside the door.
You didn't dare to look into the peephole again.
Have you always been alone all this time?
There's a bitter taste in your mouth when you think about how all the time you spent with Phainon is built on a lie. That all this time he's not a human at all.
What did he want from you?
Was it karma for your stupidity back then?
When you remember his voice happily greeting you, you feel your chest tighten.
What if…
But the last time you thought a visitor was just ‘alright’ someone ended up dead. How long would it be for Phainon and you? Just weeks like that visitor or would it take longer before he strikes.
And what you saw on the peephole the night you kicked him out.
There was no way of denying that.
You've reverted back to watching the monotonous IPC news channel every night. While you found out that Phainon has actually left all his collection of movies and books, you didn't dare to touch any of them at all.
Zoning out again, you become more aware of the temperature in your room. You take a glance at your thermostat, it shows no changes in the temperature, still the same number as it was.
But it was colder.
It feels colder.
Maybe your thermostat is failing you now, but you felt like it's been colder lately.
Or maybe you're just lonely.
You stand up and take a closer inspection at the little screen of your thermostat. The number isn't moving, but it's cold.
And you feel like something is w̩̙ͅȃ̶͉̫̠̎̌̀̾t̲̠̱̘̜ͤͤ͗͗̋c̻̠͍͚̍ͣ̆̍̒ͦͮ͝h͇̼̃̓́ͅi͉̞̻̐̾̊̂͐͝n̬͇͇̪̖͓̾̑̃̾ͧ̑͆g̡̠͓̠͕͈͑ͬ.
Ever since you've started living alone again, the sense of security you had isn't the same as when you're still together Phainon. While maybe it was a false sense of security considering his true self, it was still less empty than whatever you're feeling right now.
You have decided to leave the thermostat alone when suddenly the numbers started rising.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Ever since the last time you saw Phainon's true self in that peep hole, you've never looked into it again.
But the incessant knocking just keeps getting louder and louder, so you piled up whatever courage that's left in you and took a peek.
“You alone in there? Haha, of course you are.”
It was Phainon, and he's carrying a severed head of an IPC soldier. You lurched when he brought it closer to your view.
“I'm always watching you! And it seems like these guys do too, but… I'm the only one who can watch you, so they're gone now, don't worry!”
The measly snacks you've eaten earlier come back up as you breathe heavily through the taste of bile in your mouth. He never fucking left. He was just there outside your house all this time. He is the one that's making you feel all watched and exposed.
He looks a bit different too, his bloodshot eyes have gold irises in them. He's not even trying to hide it anymore. It's rapidly moving but it suddenly locks into yours when he realizes you peeked.
“You're in there right?”
You quickly shuffle away from the door and head towards your room. The rifle, the rifle, you need it right now.
knocknocknocknocknocknocknocknocknocknocknock
Jumping into your room, you quickly grabbed your rifle. You hunched down right below the singular window of your room. You're not sure if going outside would save you but you, but at this point you're willing to try anything.
The knocking has stopped.
You yelped when you heard a loud crash from the living room. Contrary to your earlier complaints of coldness, the room suddenly feels too hot, way too hot. When you feel sweat fall from your temple, you think that he's close to your room now.
Without hesitation, you immediately jump outside, thinking he's inside the house, however before your feet touch the ground, your body is snatched by an extremely warm pair of arms.
“Shh, it's okay, I got you.”
The voice is deeper than what you're used to, but there's no mistaking that this was Phainon. The arms that are holding you have red marks and blackening torn flesh in them, however he does not seem to mind as his grip on you is still way too tight.
Luckily, you've hit his hand with the body of the rifle and you manage to wiggle free. You turned around and aimed directly at his head. Point blank.
However, instead of seeing golden irises through the blood, you see Phainon's blue eyes staring at you. His expression is bright, and you see the sweet smile he always does when you see him lounging on your couch back then.
Ah… ah- what have I done?
Your mind blanks at the realization. Everything seems to slow down around you. Did you kill someone again? Phainon watches your dazed expression and takes your sudden freezing as a chance. He immediately lowers himself to grab your rifle before you can snap out of it.
You returned to your current situation when you heard a loud crack coming from Phainon. He broke your rifle in half with just a single hand.
He discards the now pieces of scraps and scoops up your body. His grip still remains tight, settling you on his shoulders as if he's carrying a sack.
“So you like that form better… I'll keep it in mind.”
His voice is lighter now, back to the one you've always heard asking about what to buy in the grocery. Same one as the greeting you've come to get used to in the mornings.
“Ever since I saw you, I've always wanted nothing but to keep you safe and remove all your worries.” He whispers to you, “After this, you wouldn't have to worry anymore.”
He's now tightly hugging your form, humming a tune while walking towards an empty field. Just like the rest of your town, it was desolate and contained nothing but weeds and soil.
After what felt like an eternity, Phainon suddenly stops walking and gently drops you into a shallowly dug hole in the middle of the field. It feels like a tomb. Phainon confirms that thought when he holds you by the neck and starts burying you in the soil.
You couldn't move, his legs pressing down on yours too. You stared at his blue eyes for an answer but he only gave you a bloody smile.
“It's not too late for us, dearest. It's never too late for us, we will walk under the sunlight again.”
He worked the soil pretty fast, your body is buried under it further. Your nails claw and dig into the soil, causing some of them to be uncomfortably stuck under it.
Your exhaustion gets to you and vision blurs. Suddenly you feel his lips on yours, offering a chaste kiss and a taste of iron. There you hear Phainon's strange last words before you blacked out.
“At sunrise we will be together.”
“See you tomorrow, sunshine.”
[seraph's note] “is the song he's humming supposed to be coronal radiance-” yes.
anyways, oh god i never thought i'd see the day where this thing is finished because i legit started this way back in november LAST YEAR and simply forgot its existence until this month
but yay visitor phainon has seen the light of day :”)
personally, i haven't played “no, i am not a human” at all but i have followed it on streams and such. some of phainon's scenes and imagery here are inspired by the character 'the pale man' in the game, but as always there has been creative liberties going on here lolol many things changed so of course it’s not going to be a 1:1 on the source material.
also there has been a trend of drawing characters in that distinct blue green screen of the game and that has been my biggest inspo for this.
want more? check out the [database.] for other content!
Hello!! Idk if you're taking requests but I'm begging youuu pleaseee do a yandere Caleb x nonmc reader!! Where nonmc thought Y Caleb is obsessed with mc so nonmc decided to step back and move on from their lives and disappear. Then many years later just when nonmc is settled down with their own happiness Y Caleb found them and this time he will never let them go, even if it means destroying what nonmc loves most. You take it from hereeee but I begggeddd you author-sannnn
୨୧ — SPOKEN FOR, AND AGAINST.
pairings: Caleb Xia x non!MC reader, very brief Caleb x MC
contents: dark content, mutual pining, stalking, timeskips, caleb post toring chip op, mention of gun, detailed description of a dead body so read at your own discretion, yandere!caleb, he’s kinda insane in this one in case that wasn’t clear yet lmao, 3K words
a/n: might have gotten a little carried away and put him on the more extreme side of the yandere spectrum whoops
You never understood people who said love was a choice.
To you, the sentiment lacked depth and true understanding of what love was. It explained away the concept from a purely analytical standpoint, where people were expected to be able to switch their feelings on and off at will. ‘If this relationship isn’t working, you could always choose to leave, choose better.’ They’d say, and it took everything in you to fight back an eyeroll.
You would have saved yourself from a lot of heartache if it was that easy.
You wouldn’t have needed to hold back tears when you stumbled upon a random alley to throw up after having one too many vodka shots, only to see the image that would be imprinted in your mind even years later.
The stop-motion scene before you showed the unmistakable broad shoulders of your longtime crush being caressed, then pressed against the alley wall. When you caught sight of who was kissing him, your eyes nearly bulged out.
What the fuck? Wasn’t she his…weren’t they—
You shook the scene from your mind, willing it to dissipate as if an iron-clad eraser had been taken to it, rubbing furiously and tearing it apart like a flimsy sheet of paper.
You had backed out of the alley on shaky legs, stomach still threatening to revolt despite being smacked right out of your tipsy haze. A million questions bubbled in your mind, and you weren’t sure why you were having such a strong reaction towards the situation.
Caleb Xia was not your boyfriend, you were the one with the stupid crush, so his alleyway hookups shouldn’t bother you this much.
It's said that when you’re attracted to someone, you start to notice them everywhere, and back in college, it was a rare occurrence for you to not end up in the same room as him one way or another.
Caleb sat a few tables away from you in the library, coincidentally picking the same times to study that you did. He would hover bare inches away from you when you stood in line to get lunch, so close you could’ve sworn you felt the warmth of his body against your back.
Then he started talking to you, and you were done for.
Already psychologically wired to see him everywhere; his charisma was like the final nail in the coffin that cemented your feelings for him.
Unfortunately, someone had let your little crush slip, and you braced yourself for rejection that never came.
In hindsight, you really wish it had.
Caleb started lingering outside your lectures, waiting for you, then offering you a ride home. Admittedly, you shouldn’t have brushed it off when he drove straight to your house without needing any directions, but you were too busy floating on cloud nine to do so.
Some days, Caleb would make the occasional detour to a cafe where he, rather rigidly, only ordered apple crumble pie at. And when you would walk back to his car side by side, your mind tricked you into thinking that his knuckles brushed over the back of your hand, just shy of holding it.
How naive you were to think that meant he reciprocated your feelings.
Thinking back on it now, you wholly believe his actions were more of a kindness to you, because Caleb was just too good a guy to embarrass you by outwardly rejecting you in front of your mutual friends.
But after seeing them together that night at the party, you did it for him.
The day after you found him outside your class, leg propped against a wall as he waited for you, you walked right past him. You made it all of two steps before a hand latched around your wrist. It wasn’t exactly rough, but it was firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
“Where are you running off to so fast?” That adorable chuckle of his almost made you forget yourself. “It looks like it’s about to rain. I can drive you home.”
You tugged your hand out of his and shook your head at him, “That’s not necessary, I think I’ll beat it if I head out now.”
“Come on, I really don’t mind—”
Never one to bite your tongue, the words tumbled out.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m gonna get dragged into some back alley in broad daylight.”
Caleb’s dark eyebrows knitted in confusion, lips parting to tell you that your little ‘joke’ only made him want take you home more, but then, as if something clicked into place, he froze.
Dragged into an alley?
You had seen him. Seen them. He was sure of it. A hand went to scratch the short crop of hair just above his neck, “Oh, you saw that, huh? Pips was drunk, probably mistook me for Zayne or something—”
Your hand lifted to stop him.
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Caleb.” His hand dropped to his side, smile wavering at the sharpness of your voice. “But I think it’s best we stop whatever this is while we’re ahead. Just so no one gets the wrong idea.”
Namely you.
You’d like to say a strange look passed in his peculiarly purple eyes, but that wasn’t the truth. They just sort of…went blank. Scarily so. As if you were looking at a walking corpse whose soul had just been scooped clean out their body. It unsettled you enough to make you walk away without waiting for his response. And he let you. Or at least you think he did.
If love were truly a choice, that would’ve been the end of it. Your eyes wouldn’t have looked for him in every room, heart nearly thumping out of your chest when you found him already watching you. And you wouldn’t have envisioned every partner you had thereafter as having those boundless indigo eyes everytime they looked at you.
For some reason, none of your relationships lasted. It was like a switch would flip, and they’d want to call it quits. And you, so worried that they had seen through you, seen that you were thinking about someone else every second you were with them, didn’t pay attention to the busted lips and black eyes most of them sported.
Moving away after graduation did you good. It gave you a fresh start with a man who didn’t randomly go hot and cold. Of course, until that fateful day, he did go cold. Dead cold.
You hated funerals.
Not that you thought anyone sane liked them, but there was something unnervingly wrong about being at your boyfriend's one.
During the service, the room was saturated in a dark, suffocating gloom. Everyone mechanically moved towards Aaron’s coffin and just placed their hands on it, as if they wished they could touch him one last time. Some people you had never seen before were sobbing harder than his family was, harder than you were and falling over themselves while their bodies jerked like they had been dipped in acid.
Aaron couldn’t have an open casket, and it was just as well because you don’t think you could see him that way again.
His voice rang so clearly in your ears that it was hard to believe he was gone. Just days ago, he had hulked into your shared apartment with his cap sitting low over his face, greeting you before saying his famous catchphrase.
“What’s for dinner, babe?”
“I thought we could order in tonight.” You told him without even looking up from your laptop, way too engrossed in finishing a presentation. Aaron closed the door behind him, footsteps loud with his heavy work boots and the sound he made had you bristling.
“You didn’t cook?” He asked with his voice gruff, and when you finally looked up at him with a raised brow, he offered you a pacifying smile. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Mhm.” He moved in on you, and you turned back to your work as a soft kiss was pressed to your cheek.
“It’s only because I love your cooking so much.” He said, gently petting the bear (you) so it wouldn’t bite his head off.
“Yeah, yeah go shower, you oaf.” You felt him smile against your skin before pulling away.
You watched Aaron’s back as he retreated into the bathroom, and a fond smile tugged at your lips. Your longest boyfriend was a man who was rough around the edges but became as soft as a ball of cotton candy where you were concerned. He loved you and somedays, especially ones a certain dark-haired colonel didn’t plague your thoughts, you felt your heart softening towards him too.
You loved him. And one day, college crush be damned, you knew you’d fall in love with him too.
Feeling the strong need to take a breather after being stuck behind the screen all day long, you slid on your shoes and knocked on the bathroom door to tell Aaron you'd be going straight to the restaurant instead of having the food delivered.
It took a few tries for you to remember everything he wanted as he called out his order over the light pitter-patter of the shower, but once you finally memorised it, you were off.
You had been gone for over an hour, so coming back to the apartment to hear the shower still running had you at a loss.
“Just how much work were you doing at the site to need an hour-long shower?” You got no response when you walked past the bathroom and went to put the paper bags on the counter.
You were curbing your rumbling belly with one fry at a time when you decided that you had waited long enough. Why he always insisted on eating together just for you to always beat him to the table, you’d never know.
“Aaron, come on.” Sliding out the chair and leaving your cheeseburger behind was no small feat, but you managed.
You leaned against the bathroom door, knocking a little too hard. You always got moody when you were hungry. “I’m eating without you if you don’t come out in the next two seconds!”
Silence.
“Baaabe.” You lamented over another hunger pang, but aside from that sound, you were met with silence again.
You wished you never pushed that door open because through the thick blanket of steam billowing around the room and the pour of water from the showerhead, you saw it.
The deathly still outline of a silhouette.
“Aaron…?”
You squinted your eyes as if that would force more light to pour into the space, and maybe it worked because you finally saw him slumped against the once pristine bathroom wall.
Because now it was anything but, as a large splatter of blood strained it, spoiled it, and formed a halo of crimson around his head. He looked like some kind of underworldly creature with his once tanned skin dimmed ashen white and his veins skirted under it in thick ropes. They were coloured a bright blue, like a bolt of lightning had shot through him.
Except it wasn’t lightning.
The unseeing curtain that fell over his eyes and refused to ever open told you that. And the gaping hole between his eyebrows told you more. At complete odds with the mess of blood and gnarled debris spurred over his ghostly face, the wound was a clean, professional shot that cut right through his skull and came out the back of his head matting his stringy hair dark red.
Your legs gave out, and you weren’t sure what sound wrenched itself from your throat, only that it was loud enough to make your own ears ring. Knees meeting the tiles in a hard blow, the jolt of pain surging through your bones was the last thing you remembered before your vision went dark.
A week had passed since then, yet the image still gave you sleepless nights. Your red rimmed eyes stung when you rubbed at them and when you heard your name being called, you almost thought you had finally drifted off to dreamland.
Everyone had left, but you were still at the cemetery, gaze sightlessly hollow as you stared at Aaron’s tombstone, but that voice…the familiarity of it, it had your head turning.
Then your eyes landed on him, and you decided that this was undoubtedly the worst week of your life.
First, a dead boyfriend and now Caleb.
Clad in a plain black suit, Caleb had a beautifully crafted wreath in his hand, and seeing you needed some time to gather yourself, he didn’t rush to greet you. He just walked to the tombstone, set the flowers down, then wordlessly stood at your side.
It was just your luck that, along with your mutual friends, the man was back like a bad rash to see you in your most vulnerable state.
Caleb stood in the back of the hall during the service, and your soft cries were heart-wrenching.
It was almost enough to make him feel bad for being the cause of your distress. But he didn’t have much of a choice.
He could blame his actions on the Toring chip, say that when it dampened his mood, it also clouded his judgment and made him act out of character, but that simply wouldn’t be true.
Because even before joining the Fleet and getting the implant, Caleb still had a short fuse.
When he heard that you liked him, his excitement nearly had him sprouting goddamned wings and taking flight. He had liked you for longer than he could remember, so the prospect that you felt even half of what he did made the nature of his crush a little obsessive.
It turned into a ghastly, twisted thing that had his feet following you around before he could even stop himself. But despite this, Caleb was smart enough to know that he couldn’t come on too strong and risk scaring you away.
He needed to be careful, and he needed to be patient.
It was hard enough when you cut him off after seeing that accidental alley kiss, a kiss he immediately broke away from, but apparently, you didn’t see that part.
It was even harder when you moved to the other side of town and shacked up that foreman of yours.
Caleb was always nearby, of course, whether that be digitally via the cameras he installed in your house or physically as a dark shadow in the deep corners of the rooms you walked into.
It was all going well until he broke his routine and decided to follow Aaron instead of you.
His heart painfully shuttered in his chest when he saw the man walk into a jewellery store. Caleb’s breath was heavy when he saw the man pick out a ring. One that you wouldn’t even like, but an engagement ring nonetheless.
No, that simply wouldn’t do. He thought.
Aaron wasn't like one of those spineless boys Caleb roughed up to make them stop seeing you. The man would sooner laugh in his face and rush to propose if Caleb even tried anything.
So, he knew he needed to take more extreme measures.
Caleb wanted to be quiet about it. He didn’t want to take care of Aaron in a way that would weigh on you too much. He wanted to make the man disappear quietly…but he had put up a fight.
Caleb reached for his gun before he could even stop himself, and even as he stared unblinkingly at the man shuddering as his last few breaths left him, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.
He really meant to clean up after the mess so you wouldn’t see the grotesque scene, but with a glance at his phone, the tracker he put in your car told him that he didn’t have enough time. As it were, leaving your apartment in that state made you the prime suspect of the murder, but the police’s power trip only lasted a couple hours before he swayed the Fleet’s influence over the department and told them, in no uncertain terms, to look elsewhere.
And a week later, in true unhinged fashion, he walked into the very funeral of the man he killed, more than ready to console his would-be fiancée.
“What are you doing here?” Your tone was odd. While clipped and sharp enough to cut through anything with unnerving ease, it had a wobbly lilt too, like it would topple over into a sob if you didn’t hold it together firmly enough.
“I wanted to offer my condolences.” His words only elicited a shaky breath from you, so he felt the need to continue. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Caleb turned to you a little, just enough to see your lower lip tremble.
“Thank you.”
Your voice came out a little too thin, and when the first tear fell, he fully turned to you, hand hovering above your shoulder but not quite touching you. A wracking sob shook them.
“Hey,” his voice was soft as he stepped closer to you, crowding in on you. And he was stunned when you threw yourself into his arms, small hands clutching at his blazer while you cried into his chest.
It seemed you had finally reached your limit. You had come fully apart, shattered like delicate glass into a million tiny shards and turning to whoever was closest so you could try to meld yourself back together with the comfort they offered.
As it turned out, Caleb was the closest person. And he had to catch himself when he felt the corners of his lips curling up.
You choose him. And he would be more than happy to oblige.
“I’m sorry.” You choked out, utterly apologetic as you wet his dress shirt.
“Shhh,” His hands wrapped around you, and he placed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “I’ve got you.”
A hand pats your back, then rubs soothingly.
“I’ll always be here for you.”
And you knew he meant it, because when you were still considered a suspect for Aaron’s murder, the police had searched your apartment and unearthed a couple dozen hidden cameras.
Belatedly, you realised their craftsmanship was unmistakably similar to the robotics project Caleb had all the professors swooning over back in college.
So, if love were truly a choice, you would have sought justice for Aaron and immediately reported Caleb to the police. You surely wouldn’t be clinging onto him as if he were your sole anchoring force. All while a dark, pleasurable hum buzzed along your skin. Low and hissy it told you that if you ever doubted his feelings, the macabre display of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you at his side should silence all uncertainty.
a/n: so yeah…that’s done…unfortunately this is the first and last request I’m taking. I don’t know how other writers do it but it was too difficult for me ahhh. but thank you for the ask anon it really stuck out to me 🤍
♡ TW: noncon, yandere, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P1: DUD
It's been a month since your wedding night.
You're still holding onto the hope that this is all just some fleeting interest of his—something he’ll grow bored of come time. By this, meaning your marriage.
You try to speed it along by making yourself seem as dull as possible, avoiding him to the best of your efforts and otherwise ignoring him if you fail to do the first—anything to make him lose interest.
Even so, you’d obviously still have to be his wife. Until death do you part is a binding vow unfortunately, and so, even if you could make him regret ever making it, you’d still have to be Mrs Gojo on paper, and be bound by the duties that come with that title, but outside of that, hopefully, you wouldn't have to see his face any more than what was absolutely necessary.
If you could get your relationship to where that was the standard, you’d find ways to make it work. You’d be the wife of a very rich man, after all, it would be a shame not to reap the benefits for all they’re worth.
Odd as it may sound, having a kid wouldn’t be so bad either. If you aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, having something to do would be nice.
But the problem of your faulty constitution still remains…
But maybe… you could hit two birds with one stone… and revert his attention away from you while simultaneously earning something to occupy your attention in return.
“There she is—my little wife,” he comes in cheering, full of lazy smiles and devious eyes as per usual.
You’d been hiding yourself away in the reading room—a place you doubt he’s ever visited—and still he found you, just like he always does. Suppose those six eyes are to blame.
Even if you never really understood what they do, you know it’s something bad, judging by the sight of him.
“Ew,” you cringe. “You’re covered in blood, go wash.”
It wasn’t an overstatement. He literally was. White hair and pale skin all filthy with red. He doesn’t seem to think much of it. On top of you despite your comment, with no regard to the book you were reading, with a chuckle against your neck, drawling, “Don't say that, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
You sigh, disgusted with him more than usual, deciding it was time to put your plan into effect, “How ‘bout you go fuck one of your whores instead and leave me alone.” Cringing under his touch, and how he reeks of rust and salt.
“Aw—you’ jealous?” he grins in your ear.
This time you scoff, teeth grit. “Not particularly. I just fail to see the point in having you keening in my ear when there’s nothing to be made from it.” And with another sigh, you mumble the suggestion, “At least a whore can get you an heir.”
He doesn’t seem to pique his interest. Only snorting at the prospect while he continues in his pursuit of touching you beneath your shirt, “Tch, trust me, the last thing I want is a stinky brat running around spoiling all my fun.”
With a grimace, you veer your head away from his onslaught, feeling his bloody hands grip your waist rough, molding your body against his, into that hard bump kept in his slacks.
You swear, trying to talk to him is like trying to talk to a dog with a bone.
“It’s not as though you’d be bothered,” you continue nonetheless, insistent. “Raising the thing would be my responsibility anyway.”
That actually gets his attention. Stopping, he lifts his head from sucking marks into your chest and looks down at you, now with a furrow between his brows.
“You’d really do that? Raise my bastards?” He questions.
To which you just shrug, saying, “Of course. Seeing as I'm stuck here, I might as well do what I’ve trained to do all my life. It’s my only purpose now, after all.”
His brow quirks, repeating your words as a question, “Your purpose?”
He laughs again then, this time more heartily, saying, “Silly wife… Your purpose is much simpler than that...”
Shaking his head at you before leaning back in, now with his lips just a breath away from yours. “Being mine.”
The proximity invites goosebumps, and so do his words. Feeling a deep shudder run through you. Nearly whining as he continues from where he left off, back with his hands around your waist, tugging your skirt up until there’s nothing separating his fingers from your skin, groping into the fat of your haunches with entitlement and want.
Voice getting gruffer as he gorges himself in your warmth like it’s his personal sanctuary, saying “I'm your first in everything. Your first kiss, your first fuck, your first time making a mess.”
“Don't be gross–” you cringe, but he pays it no mind.
Only continuing, “And I'll be your only one until you die—”
For the first time in a moment, you’re the one who laughs, “Tch—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tone mocking as you roll your eyes—he’s so full of himself it’s ridiculous.
His head lifts again, looking at you in dumb askance.
To which you just tilt your head slyly, talking to him like the great big man-child he is, “Oh, come on, Satoru. Are you forgetting what line of work you’re in? You could drop dead any day.” With a sneer, you cup his face in your hands in sardonic affection. “You really think I'll stick around to weep at your grave when you go?”
A groan rises from low in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, feeling victorious about having angered him. But then he all but moans, “It makes me so fucking horny when you speak like that.”
Kneading your hips, he rubs his clothed bulge against you, messaging you both with the friction between his pants and your panties. Too busy touching you to unbuckle his belt.
His rust is only a heated whisper, kissing your cheek with tongue and teeth as he keeps going, “Knock up a whore, get a brat? I don't think so.”
He pops his collar, and wrings his jacket off quickly. Tossing it aside before bearing back over you.
“Though, it’s funny you think you’d even have the time to spare when you already have your hands full with me.”
Looking down at you with those crazed blue orbs—you wish he’d just keep that infernal blindfold on, the way you feel them strip you bare even with your clothes still halfway on.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.”
Hands on his belt next, he makes quick work of it without taking his eyes off you and that annoyed little face of yours, thinking you’re stupid for ever believing he’d need, want or even be open to sharing it with anyone.
“Nah… it’ll just be you and me playing house all by ourselves. So you better get used to it.”
Hii can you do part 2 of "back off I have a girlfriend" pleasee🙏
Thank you beforehand <33
BACK OFF! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!
By an unfortunate twist of fate—and your boyfriend’s carelessness—he ended up mixing ingredients that definitely shouldn’t have been used together. The result? A slightly over-the-top explosion, a very angry Professor Crewel, and of course, your boyfriend affected by the smoke, which, to add to his suffering, left him unable to recognize you.
# A/N: Some people asked for more characters so here they are!! :) Sorry for taking so long, work is devouring me pls send help
RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS
Riddle’s eyes slowly opened, his vision still somewhat blurry. The colors were bright, but the faces were indistinct, and he could feel his head pounding.
He allowed himself to close his eyes again to rest for a little longer, but the moment he felt someone adjusting his blanket, he immediately sat upright.
“Riddle? Thank goodness you’re awake!” you exclaimed, smiling as you tilted your head to the side. “But don’t move so suddenly, you might get dizzy again—”
You thought the redness climbing from your boyfriend’s neck to his face was because he was embarrassed about being bedridden, or because he had messed up a relatively simple potion. Apparently not.
You lifted your hand to check his temperature, but in the blink of an eye, you had been shoved away from him—and a collar was now around your neck.
“Rule 807 of the Queen of Hearts states, in very clear terms, that physical contact this intimate is strictly prohibited with someone whom you do not share a mutual emotional bond with!”
The two of you stared at each other in silence for the longest sixty seconds of your life.
Trey knocked on the bedroom door before entering without waiting for permission, since he still expected his friend to be still in dreamland.
His eyes widened when his gaze landed on the collar adorning your neck. “What…?”
“Trey!” Riddle practically pleaded his name. “Remove this…this person from here! Immediately!” He yanked the blanket up, covering himself from head to toe.
The two of you could hear his muffled muttering and lamenting from beneath the covers. “How inappropriate, how inappropriate…! What will the prefect think of me!?”
FLOYD LEECH
Floyd’s expression was impossible to read, the corners of his lips curled downward as his eyes shifted between you and his brother.
“Jade.” Floyd stared at his face, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Yes?” he replied, not looking up from the alchemy coat he was currently trying to clean.
“Why is it touching me?”
Jade looked over at his brother, who was staring at his own girlfriend—who was trying to change his bandages—as though she were some kind of strange fish living in the depths of a swamp.
“It!?” you asked incredulously.
“How curious,” the twin blinked in genuine surprise. “Normally, you’re the one who enjoys physical affection—”
“With my shrimpy,” Floyd turned his face away so you wouldn’t touch his cheeks. “The human is courting me!”
You and Jade exchanged glances, both silently agreeing that the unlabeled sedative hidden in the infirmary cabinet could be very useful until the potion’s effects wore off.
“I’m gonna squeeze life out of it—“
“Please, don’t. You will cry later.”
JADE LEECH
You sighed, brushing the hair away from his face. “Jade, why did you add that mushroom when it wasn’t even in the recipe?”
To your surprise, he gently removed your hand from his face, his expression calm despite how firmly he was holding your wrist. “My, what bold behavior. Are you attempting to court me?”
You raised an eyebrow, thinking he had gotten offended by your scolding. “If you’d prefer, I can just leave Floyd to take care of you instead.”
He smiled politely. “That would be excellent.”
Your lips parted in surprise, unsure of what to say for a full minute, while your boyfriend’s twin let out a grunt.
“No,” Floyd muttered, resting his chin on his hand, still irritated from being forced by you to help carry his brother to the infirmary. “That’s your shrimpy’s job.”
“Precisely,” Jade said. “I do not feel comfortable being touched by a stranger while in such a vulnerable state as the one I currently find myself in… Where is my sweet beloved?”
Your eyes nearly rolled into your skull at his syrupy tone. “Right here, Jade.”
“Floyd,” your boyfriend called again, ignoring the way his brother slumped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh.
“What!?”
“This human believes we are in a relationship.”
“…Aren’t you?!”
“…No?” You placed a hand on your hip, but he didn’t seem to care about your irritation. “Please remove her from the room. My legs are numb, and I would hate for my beloved to see this human’s hands on me.”
MALLEUS DRACONIA
You never, ever imagined in all your time knowing Malleus that there would come a day when a small explosion involving a basic potion would actually knock him unconscious.
Your arms were tired after struggling so much to stop Grim from eating the ice cream you had bought to comfort your boyfriend. Though, as you passed through the gates of Diasomnia, you could hear Sebek crying—and not the actual victim of the accident.
Lilia smiled as he opened the door for you, stepping aside so you could enter. “He has already asked seven times if you were coming to visit him.”
“Silver, is she really coming? Why is she taking so long?”
“And that makes eight,” Lilia added with a laugh.
Malleus looked far more presentable than someone who had caused an explosion should. His hair was slightly messy, there was still a faint tiredness in his eyes, but he seemed fine enough.
And then he looked at you. The silence that fell over the room was strange. His green eyes slowly followed your every movement, almost cautiously, as you approached the bed.
“…Malleus?” you called carefully. “I brought ice cream.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze slowly lowered to the container in your hands.
For a moment, his tail shifted briefly beneath the blankets, and he swallowed hard. “…Ice cream?” Malleus repeated slowly, almost hypnotized.
“You brought food without a security inspection—”
Silver placed a hand over Sebek’s mouth to silence him.
“It’s vanilla,” you explained. “Trey said sugar might help with the dizziness.”
Malleus turned his face away, avoiding eye contact with the dessert. “Ahem! How disrespectful.”
Everyone in the room turned to look at him, confusion written all over their faces at the comment.
“It is kind of you to visit me in such a delicate condition,” in truth, he had already been feeling better five minutes after the incident, “however, I do not believe it proper to attempt courting someone who is already committed.”
“Committed?” You frowned. “You have someone else?” Your confusion was genuine.
“Quite the contrary. I have only one lover,” Malleus said seriously, clearly distressed. “My beloved would be devastated if she discovered that I allowed such intimacy.”
Lilia was the first to understand the misunderstanding, bursting into loud laughter even after receiving a mildly irritated look from Malleus.
You crossed your arms, staring at him.
“Sebek,” Malleus called, “remove this young lady from my room.”
Sebek was speechless for a moment, an expression of horror appearing on his face. “Wh—” He looked at you.
Honestly, he had waited months for the chance to finally make you behave around Malleus and keep your hands to yourself, but this was the first time his master had not only failed to scold him for complaining about you, but had directly asked him to remove you from the room!
In which photographer's focus shifts from wildlife to wild life!
LionHybrid!JingYuan x fem!reader
wordcount: ~8600
TWs: MNDI, implied stalking, abduction, predator/prey dynamics, claiming, forced bonding, power imbalance, size difference, manhandling, blood (from biting), and an itty-bitty plot twist (?) at the end.
NSFW: non-con to dub-con, spanking (x2 cause i'm freaky), fingering, squirting, oral (m receiving), face fucking, headlock, mating bite, creampie, breeding, cervix bullying, body betrayal (forced orgasm).
(If you find some more, please let me know.)
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
“Fuck… Just move to the left already...”
Your elbows were raw, ground into the cracked earth, and the viewfinder of your camera had dug a perfect crescent-shaped indent into your brow bone. You had been lying on your stomach for three hours. It was your fifth day in the reserve, and the initial awe of being here had settled into something that felt almost like belonging. You had passed ten medical examinations to get here. Ten. You had signed waivers in triplicate, sat through briefings about spitting cobras and tsetse flies, and memorized how to behave in the presence of rare species. All of that, just to lie in the dirt and wait.
You breathed through your mouth, slow and shallow, your finger hovering over the shutter release. In the lens of your camera, you saw a small group of gazelles at the waterhole. The light was perfect. The golden hour was bleeding into something richer, amber and ochre, the kind of light that made their fur look like it was burning. You were two shots away from completing your portfolio. Gazelles and the rare breed of white lion. That was it.
You lay there, tired and sweaty, waiting for a perfect moment, when something touched your ankle. It was light at first, only a whisper of pressure against the bare skin just above your hiking sock. You froze. Your entire body went rigid, muscles locked in that primal panic that overrides all rational thought.
Don't move. Don't fucking move. Don’t you dare…
The thing touched your calf, then your knee. It was warm and dry.
The camera grip became slick with your sweat.
It will go away. It will lose interest. It will–
It moved to your side.
From your peripheral vision, low to the ground, you saw it: a white tail. The tuft at the end was darker, almost black, and it swayed with the hypnotic rhythm of a pendulum.
Lion.
The word detonated in your skull. You were going to be eaten by a lion in the last hour of golden light, and they would find your camera memory card and put your photographs in a gallery and call it a fucking posthumous work.
The animal circled you. You could hear its breathing now, deep and even, completely unconcerned. You waited for teeth, for claws, for that first bright spike of pain that would signal the end.
Instead, it sat on you. The weight was immense. Dense muscle and heat settled across the backs of your thighs, pinning you to the earth like a butterfly under the glass. You made a sound – something small and strangled, pushed out of your chest by sheer pressure. And then you felt it.
Hands! Since when lions have fucking hands?
Fingers slid up your sides, crawling their way beneath the hem of your camouflage shirt. The touch was dry and warm, calloused, tracing the dip of your waist with an intimacy that made your stomach clench. You heard the rustle of fabric. The shift of a large body leaning forward.
Then, directly into your ear, a voice.
"May I ask how much longer you intend to pretend you haven't noticed me, sweetheart?"
The sound of it was devastating. Low, velvet-warm, each word shaped with the deliberate patience of a man who had never been interrupted in his life. It vibrated through your skull, down your spine, pooling somewhere low in your belly. Your mind was a static storm.
Lion. Tail. Hands. Voice. None of it fit together.
"Wh–" Your voice cracked. You swallowed and tried again. "What the fuck!?"
An exhale of amusement, rang warm against the shell of your ear. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just beneath your ribcage, stroking slow circles.
"I have been watching you," he said, as if this were a perfectly normal conversation to be having while sitting on a stranger in the middle of an African plain. "For two days. You are very dedicated. I find this… admirable."
"Y-You– You're–" You couldn't finish.
"Jing Yuan," he supplied. His fingers had found the waistband of your shorts. "And you must be my future mate?"
The absurdity of the statement hit you like a physical blow. You jerked beneath him, tried to scramble forward, but his weight was immovable. He didn't even brace himself, letting you struggle, patient as stone.
"Let me go!" Your voice came out higher than you intended. "I'm not– I don't even know what you are."
His thumb hooked beneath the waistband of your shorts. One sharp tug, and сool air hit the small of your back.
"I am the king of this place," he murmured. "And I am lonely."
Jing Yuan tugged again. Your shorts slid down your hips, bunching around your knees. The weight of him shifted, so his chest was against your back now, and you could feel it – bare skin, hot as the savanna floor. Something brushed your neck. His nose. His lips.
"I considered eating you," he said, "But then I smeeled you and," his lips brushed your temple, “now I want to just have you.”
A sound escaped you, half protest and half something else entirely. Your hands were fisted in the dry grass, white-knuckled, gripping for dear life, camera forgotten.
"You can't just–" you gasped. "I didn't agree to–"
"Agree?" He pulled back. His voice was mildly curious, genuinely perplexed, as if the concept had never occurred to him. "You are already mine. Agreement is a formality."
You opened your mouth to argue, but his hips rolled forward, and you felt him against you – the heavy length of him, trapped behind his own clothing, pressing into the cleft of your ass with a hunger that made your thighs tremble.
"I–" Your voice broke on a moan. "Wait!"
"What is the problem?" You couldn't see his face. But you could hear the smug smile in his voice. His body went still, though his weight remained. You could feel his patience like a physical thing, vast and inexhaustible.
"The problem is that you're uh,” you gulped, sweat glistening along your hairline “a lion!"
Silence. Then, unexpectedly, a warm laugh, as if you had said something genuinely delightful. You facepalmed mentally because what the fuck was this reason?
"Ah," he stopped your thoughts. "That."
One moment you were pinned beneath him, face-down in the grass, your shorts tangled around your knees. The next, you were on your back, the hot earth pressing against your spine, and he was above you. The sunset sky shone bright, turning his silhouette to gold, and you saw him for the first time.
He was a man, but not only a man.
His hair was white. Not the white of age, but the white of fresh snow, of lion's mane, thick and wild and falling past his shoulders in waves. From within that mane, two ears rose, furred and tufted, swiveling independently as he regarded you. His eyes were amber. Gold, shot through with veins of deeper brown, the pupils vertical and narrow, locked onto yours with predatory focus. Below his left eye, a single dark mole.
His face was beautiful in the way a storm front is beautiful. High cheekbones. A strong jaw. Lips that curved into a smile both gentle and utterly assured of its own authority.
Next thing that you’ve noticed is that his body was almost bare. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the sky. His arms, braced on either side of your head, were corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the skin, his hands large enough to span your entire ribcage. A necklace of bone and fang hung between the hard planes of his chest, which was dusted with fine white hair. The hard muscules of his abs glistened, and from his navel, the thick happy trail thickened as it travelled down his stomach, disappearing beneath the low-slung waistband of his red pants.
And the fabric of them was so strained that you could see the shape of his cock. The thick, curved length, the heavy weight of the balls beneath. His smile deepened as he watched you, eyes half-lidding with pleasure.
Your mouth went dry. It was quite obvious what this smoking hot Lion Man wanted from you.
"You see," he murmured. "I am not so different from you, honey. Not where it matters."
One of his hands left the ground beside your head. He brought it to your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek with impossible tenderness. The touch was a contradiction: the hand of a killer, gentle against your skin.
"You are so soft," he said. "Like a little mouse. I could close my fist and break every bone in your body. And yet you look at me like you want to bite me." His thumb traced your lower lip.
You did want to bite him. You wanted to bite him and run. You wanted– you didn't know what you wanted. Your body was a traitor, liquid heat pooling in your belly, your nipples tightening to aching points against the fabric of your bra.
"Jing Yuan," he said again, reminding you of his name. "Your future mate. Say it."
"No."
His eyebrow arched.
"No?"
"No." Your voice was steadier than you expected. "I didn't agree to this. I didn't– you can't just take someone–"
His head tilted, ears swiveling forward, and something shifted in his expression. Something close to curiosity, as if you had presented him with an interesting puzzle.
"But I am the king," he said. "I’m strong and thus, I can have what I want." The words hung in the air between you. His gaze sharpened, vertical pupils dilating slightly. For a long moment, he stared at you, and you felt the full weight of his attention.
"Interesting," he said, "You are afraid of me, but," he inhaled deeply and smiled, “judging by the smell coming from down there,” he murmured sultry, hand brushing your thigh, “not of what I want.”
You whimpered, and Jing Yuan lowered his head. His forehead pressed against yours, his mane falling around you like a curtain, shutting out the sun. His breath was warm against your lips.
"I will not hurt you," he said. "I will never hurt you. You are too precious. Too rare."
His nose brushed yours. His tail, heavy and warm, curled around your calf.
"But I will have you," he said. "Here, or in my den. That is not a question. That is simply… what will happen." He gripped your hip, his fingers denting the soft flesh, and pulled you against the rigid heat of him.
"You will fight," he murmured. "You will say no. You will scratch and bite and call me terrible names."
His hips rolled. Once. The thick length of him dragged against your center, separated by mere millimeters of fabric, and your core clenched in response.
"And then you will come for me," he said, "again and again, until i decide that im finished."
Your heart was a war drum. Your body, that traitor, was arching into his touch, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.
He sat back and the loss of his warmth was immediate, almost painful.
"The grass is too exposed," he said. "And the ground is hard. You deserve better than dirt."
Jing Yuan stood and before you could scramble away, before you could even fully process what was happening. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other behind your back. Then you were in the air, cradled against his chest.
"Put me down," you gasped. "Put me down right now!"
"Hmpf."
Jing Yuan shifted your weight. Suddenly you were upside down, draped over his left shoulder like a sack of grain, your head hanging down his back. His heavy hand settled over the bare curve of your ass.
"What the hell!? Let me go!"
"No."
His tail swished lazily behind him as he began to walk away from the spot, leaving your camera in the grass.
"I like you like this." His thumb traced the crease where your thigh met your ass. "Soft. Open. Ready."
"You are insane," you snarled. "You are a predator and I am a human being and you cannot just abduct me–"
"And yet, here I am. Abducting you."
His pace was unhurried. The grass whispered against his calves. In the distance, the gazelles had finally lifted their heads, watchful but not alarmed – they recognized him, you realized. They knew their king. There was noone here to help you, and you panicked, hands beating against his broad back, legs swinging in a desperate attempt to escape his grasp.
The Lion Man didn't even flinch and the only thing your shuffling did was send your shorts falling down into the dry grass.
"I will scream!" you said.
"You free to do so."
"I will– I will bite you!"
His tail curled around your anckle, the tuft brushing the sensitive skin.
"Oho~ I look forward to it."
“I will run!”
Jing Yuan stopped mid-stride, the savanna quiet except for the distant cry of a hornbill and the desperate sound of your breathing. His hand was still spread across your ass, fingers denting the flushed skin.
"Ah," he said, and you felt the word vibrate through his shoulder blade into your sternum. "Then I must make running… difficult~"
Before you could process the shift in his tone, his grip tightened. His left arm locked around your thighs like a vice, pinning you immobile against his body, and his right hand rose.
Slap!
The first hit cracked through the golden air like a rifle shot. Pain bloomed across your left ass cheek, sharp and immediate, radiating outward in waves of heat. You screamed, sound punched out of you by the force of the impact. Your body jerked against his shoulder, but he held you fast.
"Will you run?" His voice was conversational, almost pleasant.
"Yes!"
Slap!
The second hit landed on the same cheek, harder. Your vision whited at the edges. The sound was wetter now, skin meeting abused skin, and you could feel the imprint of his fingers burning across your flesh like a brand.
"Yes, you fucking–!"
Slap!
The third landed on the other cheek. Then the tender curve where your ass met your thigh. Then the backs of your thighs themselves, each blow measured, deliberate, the patience of a creature who had never once been rushed. His hand was so large that each slap covered half your ass at once. The heat was building, spreading, transforming into something that burned all the way down to your cunt.
"Will you run?"
"YES–" Your voice cracked on a sob. "YES, I'LL RUN, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, I'LL–"
Jing Yuan spanked you again, and this time his fingers dragged forward, slipping between your legs from behind, and the calloused pad of his middle finger dragged directly across your soaked pantines.
You both froze.
Your entire body locked up, muscles spasming, a sound escaping your throat that was equal parts humiliation and raw need. His finger was still pressed against you, not penetrating, just there, resting against the outline your swollen lips.
"Ah," he breathed. "You say you’ll run, but your body says something else entirely."
"Fuck you," you whispered. "Fuckyoufuckyoufuck–"
Slap!
"–FUCKING–"
Slap!
"–MONSTER–"
Slap!
"–LET ME–"
Slap!
"–GO–"
His hand stopped. For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the thundering of your heart. Then his thumb began to move, slow circles across your burning skin, tracing the outline of each handprint he'd left behind.
"Your ass is so red," he murmured. "Like the sky at sunset."
His finger slid lower. Found your entrance. Pressed.
"And your pussy," he continued, his voice dreamy, adoring, "is soaked. If you hate me so much, why does your body love me?"
You couldn't answer. Your throat was too tight, your face buried against the hot plane of his back, your fingers twisted in his mane. He was petting you now, soothing the burning flesh he'd abused, and the tenderness after the violence was somehow worse, somehow more devastating. You let out a pathetic sob that wrecked your whole body.
"Shh," he murmured. "There. There."
His fingers found the waistband of your underwear – that flimsy scrap of cotton, utterly inadequate protection against what was going to happen. He hooked his thumb beneath the elastic, unseathing the claw and pulled.
The fabric tore, the sound sharp and final, the elastic snapping, the cotton ripping. Jing Yuan tugged the ruined scrap free from between your legs – it dragged across your soaked cunt, collecting your slick, your arousal, the evidence of your body's betrayal – and then he held it before his eyes. His pupils dilate, his nostrils flare, his lips part around a sharp exhale.
"I’ll take these," he smirked and folded the scrap of fabric neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. “Will need that for the times when you're too sore…”
His fingers found you immediately after. Slipping through your slick folds, parting you, exposing you to the cooling evening air. Two fingers sweeped through your wetness, gathering your arousal on his skin, and then he brought his hand to his face. You listened carefully, paralyzed, as he slid his fingers into his mouth.
His eyes fluttered closed. His throat worked. His ears swiveled forward, catching every microscopic sound of your breathing, your heartbeat, the desperate sobs.
"Mmm," Jing Yuan hummed around his own fingers. "Delicious. You taste even better than you smell, love. And you smell incredible."
"Please," you whispered. You didn't know what you were begging for. "Please, I–"
"Please what?" His voice was soft, almost tender. "Please stop? Please continue? Please put you down? Please keep you?"
"I don't know," you whined, face red and wet with tears and snot. You were ashamed. Truly ashamed by the feeling in you belly, by how messed up your thoughts were, by how your poor hole clenched, spitting out more slick.
His hand slid between your legs again, and this time his fingers didn't tease. Two thick digits pushed into you without warning, without resistance, sliding home to the knuckles in one slick thrust.
Your vision went white.
The sound you made – you didn't recognize it. High and keening, desperate, your entire body convulsing around the sudden fullness, your toes curling from pleasure. His fingers were so much longer than yours, so much thicker, reaching places that you hadn't even known existed. Your cunt clenched around him instinctively, greedily, trying to pull him deeper.
"There," Yuan breathed. "There it is. Just let your man take care of you, yes? I'll prepare you well, sweet one. I'll make you ready for me."
He started moving with slow and deep thrusts, the ball of his palm pressing against your clit with every stroke, his fingers curling to find that sweet spot inside your tender cunny that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sound of it – wet and filthy, your body accepting him, welcoming him, gripping him – filled the quiet savanna air.
"You like this, dear?" he murmured, and when you whimpered, there was genuine surprise in his voice, genuine wonder. "Oh, you do… You like when someone takes care of you. You like when someone makes you feel good."
His fingers crooked sharply, pressing directly into that sweet spot, and you moaned, gripping his asscheeks for the dear life.
"Yes, like that." he breathed. "I promise I will always take care of you, honey. You will never be unsatisfied. You will never want for touch, for pleasure, for the feeling of being loved. I will give you everything your body craves, and I will give it until you beg me to stop, and then I will give you more."
His thumb found your clit. Circled it. Pressed.
Your fingers found his tail. Grabbed it. Pulled.
"Yes," he groaned, his composure cracking for the first time. "Yes, hold onto me. And if you need to bite, bite–" He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the meat of your thigh, not breaking skin but close, so close, the pressure of his fangs a brand. "–more marks are better. I want to wear you on my skin."
His fingers were pistoning into you now, relentless, each thrust aimed directly at that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your vision blur. His palm slapped against your clit with every stroke. His teeth released your thigh and he licked the indentation he'd left, soothing, worshipful.
"Come for me," he murmured against your skin. "Come on my fingers, sweet one. Let me taste you again."
Your orgasm hit you like a falling tree, like a wave, like the entire weight of the sky collapsing. Your body arched against his shoulder, your cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic waves, and you felt the gush of fluid soaking his hand, dripping down your thighs, splattering the dry earth beneath his feet.
Jing Yuan made a sound of pure satisfaction. His fingers slowed, gentled, coaxing you through the aftershocks, slipping out of your spasming pussy. He brought his wet hand to his mouth again and licked it clean, his pupils blown wide.
"Sweet," he said softly. "Has it been long since someone touched you? Human men must be blind." And he continued walking towards what looked like a cave, carved into the heart of a kopje, the entrance screened by flowering acacia and the trailing vines of wild jasmine. Inside, the walls rose smooth and curved, lit by clusters of phosphorescent fungi that cast everything in soft gold. The floor was layered thick with furs – zebra, impala, something large and spotted that you didn't manage to identify – and piled high with silk cushions in jewel tones. A low table held fruits and a clay jug. A brazier glowed in one corner.
"My home," Jing Yuan said. He was already climbing onto the furs with you still thrown over his shoulder, his weight depressing the soft pelts. "Do you like it?"
"You live in a cave…"
"I am a lion."
He was gently lowering you now, your back meeting the fur and your body sinking into the impossible softness beneath. "You have furniture. You have cushions. You have–"
Jing Yuan knelt over you. His thighs bracketed your hips. His hands found the hem of your ruined shirt and pulled, the fabric tearing like tissue, like paper, like it was nothing. Cool air hit your bare breasts. You were naked, your cunt still wet and dripping, your ass still burning red, your nipples tightening to sharp peaks in the dim light.
Jing Yuan bit his lip, golden eyes feasting on the sight of you. His gaze traveled down your body like a physical touch, slow and thorough, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your belly. His tail had gone rigid, the tuft twitching. His pupils had blown so wide that his amber irises were reduced to thin gold rings.
"Mmm," he hummed. "Pretty."
His hands began to move. Palms sliding up your shoulders, over the delicate architecture of your collarbones. Fingers tracing down your sternum, circling your areolas, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked harder and you gasped. Down, down, over the soft give of your belly, the jut of your hip bones, the trembling muscles of your thighs.
"Mhm," he hummed again, and the sound was deeper now, rougher, edged with hunger. "Perfect. Everywhere I touch is perfect."
His hands left your body. You felt the loss like a physical ache.
He reached for the fastenings of his trousers. The fabric fell away in an instant. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, curving up toward his stomach, and you forgot how to breathe.
The shaft was long, the head a flushed helmet that flared wider than the base, weeping a constant stream of translucent fluid. Below the head, circling the shaft, were ridges. Not sharp, not the barbs of a true lion, but pronounced, textured, designed to catch and hold and stimulate. The shaft itself was veined, thick cords of blue and purple visible beneath the taut skin, pulsing visibly with every beat of his heart. At the base, nestled in a nest of soft white curls, hung his balls – heavy, full, so swollen with need that they looked almost painful.
The entire organ twitched. Drooled. Yearned toward you like a living thing.
Jing Yuan watched you assessing him. His chest was heaving, his mane of hair disheveled, a flush spreading across his cheekbones and down his throat. His ears were flat against his skull. His tail lashed the furs behind him.
And then he dropped to all fours. The movement was fluid, animalistic, his broad shoulders rolling as he braced his weight on his palms, while crawling toward you. His cock swung beneath him, heavy and wet, leaving a trail of pre-come on the dark fur.
While you scrambled backward, his eyes never left yours. Your heels dug into the pelts. Your hands pushed uselessly at the furs behind you. Your back hit the cool stone of the cave wall.
“Wait, j-just give me a second!” you sobbed pathetically.
Jing Yuan kept coming. His face was level with yours now. His breath was hot and rapid, his lips parted, his fangs visible. His pupils were black, his iridium swallowed entirely by want. His tail whipped back and forth, back and forth, a metronome counting down to something.
"Nowhere to run," he breathed. "Nowhere to hide. You're on my territory, little mate. And I am very hungry."
His hands landed on your shoulders. His weight pressed forward until your back was plastered against the hard stone. And his mouth crashed into yours. His tongue was thick and heavy, muscled like the rest of him. He pushed past your lips, past your teeth, and kept going, delving deep into the wet heat of you, stroking along the inside of your cheeks, swallowing your sounds, your protests, your whimpers, and answering each one with a deeper thrust of that relentless tongue.
It was obscene, the way he ravaged your mouth, the wet sounds of his claiming filling the space between you, slick and rhythmic, thick tongue licking the insides of your mouth. His hand found your jaw and gripped, forcing your face up, forcing you to accept him. His thumb pressed into the soft hollow beneath your chin, tilting your head back against the stone. Your drool pooled at the corners of your lips, escaped down your chin, and Jing Yuan groaned into you, scraping your lip with his fangs, swallowing your helpless sounds as if they were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.
You should fight. You should bite. You should–
Your hands rose. Your fingers threaded into his mane, and your tongue, traitor that it was, began to move with his, meeting each thrust with a stroke of your own.
He felt it immediately. His entire body shuddered, a deep purr starting in his chest and vibrating through the kiss, and when you suckled gently at his tongue, he pulled back just far enough to look at your face. A string of saliva connected your lips to his, stretching, glistening, and he watched it break with hooded eyes. A single drop fell onto your breast.
"There you are," he said. His voice was wrecked, scraped raw. "Now be a good mate and tend to your male." He shifted his weight, rising, and his feet settled on either side of your thighs. His cock rose between you, the head level with your lips.
Your breath stopped.
It was so close. The weight of it, the heat, radiating against your face like a furnace. Pre-come beaded at the tip, gathered into a trembling droplet, and fell onto your lower lip.
Jing Yuan's hand found your hair. His fingers carded through it, adoring, gathering the strands and drawing them back from your face. He tucked a lock behind your ear.
"Open," he murmured, "for me."
Your mouth opened before your mind had processed the thoughts.
The tip passed your lips, and the world collapsed to just this: the taste of him, salt and musk and the flavor of wild places. His cock was a living thing against your tongue, pulsing with its own heartbeat, the broad flat of it heavy and insistent as it pressed past the threshold of your mouth. Your lips stretched around the sheer girth, and you heard him exhale above you.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, sweetheart..."
His hand cradled the back of your skull, fingers threading through your hair with deceptive gentleness. You could feel the claws there, retracted but present, blunt pressure points against your scalp. His thumb traced the hinge of your jaw, pressing slightly, and your mouth fell wider. He pushed deeper.
The head of his cock was broad and hot, shaped wrong and right all at once, the ridge beneath it catching on your lower lip as it slid inward. Those ridges. You felt them with the flat of your tongue. They pulsed against you, slick with the endless flood of pre-come that wept from his tip, and you tried to imagine what those ridges would feel like inside you. Your poor sopping cunt clenched on nothing at the thought.
Jing Yuan pushed deeper still. The tip met the back of your throat, teasing that soft wall of muscle, and he paused. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you hadn't noticed falling.
"Breathe through your nose, love. Relax this muscle here." He pressed gently at the hollow of your throat. "Let me in. I know you can."
Your throat spasmed, rebelled, and Jing Yuan waited, patient as stone, immovable as the savanna itself, his cock a hot brand against your tongue. And when the tight channel finally relaxed enough, his cock slid into your throat like it belonged there, like your body had been shaped specifically for this purpose.
The stretch was immense. You felt your throat bulge around his girth, felt the pulse of him against your esophagus, and more tears spilled hot down your cheeks. Saliva and pre-cum flooded your mouth, overflowed, dripped down your chin, and onto your breasts. You couldn’t speak. You couldn't swallow. You couldn't do anything but whine and gag and whimper around the pulsing fatness of him.
"Oh, love," Yuan’s voice was hushed. His other hand came up to brace against the wall, knuckles white with restraint, claws scraping against the stone. "Look at me, I beg…"
You looked up. The position was obscene – your face pressed into the white curls at the base of his cock, your nose buried in his pubic hair, his shaft disappearing past your stretched lips, buried to the root. Drool and pre-come painted your chin in strings of glossy fluid as you tried to breathe around him. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face a mess of tears, spit, and his slick.
His gaze traced every detail. The single mole beneath his eye seemed darker against the flush spreading across his cheekbones. His eyes were hooded sensually, pupils blown wide, black swallowing gold, and his lips parted on each shallow breath.
"Beautiful," he panted. "The most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
Jing Yuan pulled back. The slide was slow, his ridges dragging against your throat, tongue and the inside of your cheeks. The sensation was overwhelming – too much and not enough. You whimpered around him. His cock jumped against your palate.
"More?" His smile was soft, too patronising for your liking. Still, it sent the pulsing wave of heat from your core to your neglected cunny. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, feeling where his flesh stretched you wide. "You want more, sweetheart? You want to be good for me?"
You nodded as much as you could. Jing Yuan patted your hair and pulled back, leaving your poor mouth empty before feeding you with his cock again. He found his pace, slow at first, patient, letting you adjust to the rhythm of him – the thick push forward, the drag back, the way his ridges caught and pulled at your soft tissue.
Each thrust seated him deeper. Your throat opened and accepted his throbbing cock. Your hands had found his ass for support, fingers digging into the plump muscle, gripping his cheeks as he used your face. His skin was hot and damp beneath your palms, flexing with each controlled movement. With another lash, his tail wrapped around one of your hands.
"That's my good girl," he crooned. "Taking all of me. Such a tight little throat– ah! Made for me!"
His pace increased. The slap of his balls against your chin became rhythmic, each impact spreading his pre-come across your skin in glossy smears, thin strings connecting your chin to his balls every time he left your mouth. Your vision blurred with tears, and you could smell nothing but him. Arousal had already soaked your thighs, dripped down to wet the furs beneath you, and you knew he could smell that too. His nostrils flared with each breath. His pupils dilated further.
"You're dripping, love," he said, and his voice had roughened, lost its velvet polish. "Your pussy is weeping for me. Can you feel it? Every time I push into this sweet throat, your little hole clenches…"
His thrusts were deeper now, less controlled. His hips had developed an animal rhythm, and his chest was sheened with sweat that ran in rivulets down the hard planes of his stomach. The muscles there jumped and flexed with each movement. His mane had fallen around his face, white strands clinging to his damp temples. His ears were flattened back against his skull in feline concentration.
"Your mouth is so hot," he gasped. "So wet. Like your cunt, I know it is, I felt it, I need–"
His hands flew to your head, and he stopped. His cock was buried to the root in your throat, your nose crushed against his pelvis yet again. His entire body was trembling. His tail lashed around your arm, pulling you closer, and his claws extended, just slightly, pricking the delicate skin of your scalp.
"Look at me."
You forced your eyes up, trying to find his face through the veil of tears. His gaze was incandescent, burning, the look of a king who has found something worth worshipping.
"I’m going to come down your throat," he stated. "I’m going to fill you so full that you taste me for days. Every time you swallow, you will taste your man. Every time you breathe, you will smell me on you."
With that, Jing Yuan started moving again. His pace was brutal now, desperate, the controlled patience stripped away to reveal the hunger beneath. His cock pistoned into your throat, each thrust seating him deeper, his ridges catching and releasing with wet, obscene sounds. Saliva and pre-come had formed a frothy white ring around the base of his shaft, and your lips were swollen, bruised-looking, stretched beyond their limits. You gagged, and he moaned, the vibration of your throat around his cock clearly sending him higher. Your hands clawed at his ass, nails leaving red trails, and he growled deeply.
"Take it," he rasped. "Take all of it. Swallow for me, sweetheart, swallow around my cock–"
His hips slammed forward one final time, seating himself impossibly deep, and you felt it. The first pulse was a flood. Hot and thick, impossibly copious, his come filled your throat in a rush that had you choking instantly. But he held you there, his grip gentle but immovable, and you had no choice but to take it.
The second pulse. The third. Each wave was heavier than the last, his release seeming endless, and you felt it escape, come spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin to join the mess on your chest. It came from your nose, thin streams of white, and you coughed, gagged, your throat convulsing around his pulsing cock.
Jing Yuan watched you with his eyes half-closed, lips parted, his entire expression one of gentle adoration. His thumb traced your cheekbone, smearing come across your skin.
"I've waited for so long," he whispered. "I thought I would never– hell, sweetheart, you're still swallowing– find s-someone like you."
When he pulled back, it left you gasping and choking, a trail of saliva and pre-come stretching from your lips to his fat girth. You collapsed forward, your face pressing into his muscular thigh, your tears, snot, and cum smearing across his hot skin.
"Ah, darling," Jing Yuan murmured. His hand stroked your hair, your cheek, the curve of your shoulder. "You did so well. Took me so deep. But now," he kneeled, and his hand slid down your back, gripped your hip, yanked you close, and finally, rolled you onto your tummy, "now we must reproduce~"
His weight was a universe collapsing onto your spine, his chest a furnace against your shoulder blades, his mane spilling around your face in a curtain of white silk that smelled of sun-scorched grass and the deep musk of his skin.
You scrabbled at the furs beneath you, fingers clawing through the dense animal pelts, heels digging for purchase as his cock slid in the cleft of your ass, the thick weight of him dragging through the sodden mess of your folds. Your entire body seized.
"Still trying to run?" His voice was honey over gravel, amused and breathless, his hips continuing that torturous rock."Still think there's somewhere else you'd rather be than pinned beneath your mate?"
"P-please." Your voice was a ruin, scraped raw by his cock, by your moans. "You already– you already got what you wanted–"
"Oh, dear," Jing Yuan settled his weight more firmly onto your back, one massive palm planting between your shoulder blades and pressing you flat against the zebra pelt. The fur was coarse against your cheek, smelling of earth and him."I've barely started."
His free hand rose and fell.
The slap cracked through the cave like thunder, his palm connecting with the crest of your burning ass cheek, and the forgotten pain rose again, radiating outward in waves of heat that traveled straight to your clit. You screamed into the furs, your body arching involuntarily, but his hand on your spine held you immobile.
“No! Stop!” Your throat was raw, and some drool seepedinto the furs under your chin.
"I won’t stop. Not until you learn your rightful place, which," his fingers traced the blooming handprint, pressing into the heat of it, "Is under me, well fed and well bred."
His hand landed on your ass again. Each blow was measured with the patience of a creature who had all of eternity to reduce you to this – a sobbing, writhing thing beneath his palm, your ass a canvas of his ownership.
He spanked the tender curve where your ass met your thigh, and you howled. He spanked the backs of your thighs, and your cunt gushed slick onto the fur. He spanked the same cheek three times in succession, each impact landing on the same abused spot, and by the third you were babbling nonsense and his name and please, please, please.
"Please what?" His hand smoothed over the tortured flesh, soothing, almost tender. "Please stop? Please continue? You have to use your words, love. Your man can't read your mind."
Your answer was a wet sob into the fur and the small arch of your back that presented your neglected cunt to him.
"Ah, well." His hand squeezed your ass, kneading the welted flesh, his fingers digging deep into the burning heat. "I suppose your body knows better."
His words detonated in your chest. Jing Yuan felt your reaction – the sharp inhale, the way your cunt clenched miserably – and his chuckle was dark honey, pouring directly into your ear.
"There she is. There's my good girl. You just needed someone capable enough to handle you, didn't you, love? Someone who won't let you run from your own pleasure."
His cock found your entrance. Not pushing, just resting there, the weeping tip pressing against your dripping hole like a key testing a lock. You could feel every pulse against your most intimate flesh.
"No." You tried to scramble forward. His hand on your spine pinned you. "No, wait, please, I can't– you're–"
His mouth opened. His fangs, those lethal curves of ivory, settled against the junction of your nape, resting there, a promise of pain to come.
"I need you to be very still now, honey." His voice was barely a whisper, reverent and desperate. "Can you do that for your man? Can you be still and take what I give you?"
You couldn't speak. You nodded into the furs, tears streaming down your cheeks.
"Good girl. My perfect mate."
He pushed.
The head of his cock stretched you wide, wider than his fingers had, wider than anything had ever stretched you, and the sensation was beyond pain – it was invasion, his flesh forcing your flesh to accommodate, your poor hole fluttering and catching on each ridge as he seated himself inch by inch. You heard yourself make a sound, high and keening, an animal noise of submission and terror.
And then Jing Yuan bit down.
His fangs sank into the meat of your nape, not deep enough to seriously injure but deep enough to claim, and the spike of agony was the key that unlocked your body. Your cunt, which had been resisting his invasion, suddenly relaxed. Your inner muscles softened, surrendered, and he bottomed out in one deep thrust.
The sound Jing Yuan made was not human. It was something between roar and moan, muffled against your flesh, vibrating through your bones. His entire body shuddered against yours, his hips pressing flush to your burning ass, his balls heavy against your clit.
After a second that felt like infinity, his fangs retracted, and his tongue immediately began to soothe the wound, in loving strokes that made the pain transmute into something else entirely.
"Hell! You feel– you're so– ah~" He couldn't finish. His hips moved involuntarily, and you both gasped.
“H-heavens, dear, just let me hold you,” Jing Yuan breathed against your hair while his forearm slid across the front. Your spine arched back against his chest, when he trapped your neck and head between the massive curve of his forearm and the solid wall of his shoulder. The muscle there was obscene, corded and veined, flexing against your throat with every breath he took. You could feel the sheer strength of him, and the knowledge that he could crush your windpipe without any effort, made something unhinged and totally wrong flutter in your heart.
"Shh." His lips pressed against your temple, and you could hear the impossible strain in his voice. "I have you..."
It felt like he was everywhere. Inside you, above you, around you, his scent flooding your lungs, his weight pressing you into the pelts, his cock buried in your aching cunt. His arm kept your head tilted back against his shoulder, and the position meant you couldn't look away from the cave ceiling, couldn't hide from the overwhelming sensation of him. You could only lie there, impaled and filled, while he breathed hot against your cheek.
Your belly seemed to bulge slightly with his intrusion, and when his free hand slid down and under your body to press against the slight swell over your pelvis, he made a sound of pure worship.
"There," he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. "There it is. Feel that, love? Feel how deep I am?”
Jing Yuan withdrew slowly, his ridges dragging against your clutching walls in reverse, and the sensation was too much – the textured pull, the way your body tried to grip him and couldn't, the sucking sound of his cock leaving your greedy hole. His head reached your entrance, hovered there, and you whimpered at the loss.
He hummed at that and thrusted forward, making his balls slap against your abused clit. The sound of his pelvis meeting your ass was a wet crack that echoed off the cave walls. His hand slid from your belly to your mouth, two thick fingers pushing past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and you gagged around them, saliva flooding your chin.
"That's it." His voice was strained now, the polished veneer cracking to reveal the desperate animal beneath. "That's my good girl..."
His thrusts found a rhythm. Slow withdrawal, agonizing drag, then the brutal plap when he drilled into your poor cunny. Each impact drove his fingers deeper into your throat, his cock deeper into your cunt, his balls slapping wetly against your clit in a rhythm that made your toes curl. The sounds – the wet plap plap plap of your bodies meeting, your garbled moans around his fingers, his deepening growls – ricocheted off the stone walls, multiplied, became a symphony of your surrender.
"Yes," Jing Yuan hissed. "This is how my queen should sound. Clenshing on my cock, choking on my fingers, crying because she feels too good. You were– ah, fuck– made for this, honey."
His angle shifted. His hips rolled differently, the head of his cock suddenly pressing against something new – a ring of inner muscle, tight and resistant, the final gate to your deepest self. You felt him find it because his entire body went rigid, and when Jing Yuan spoke again, his voice was raw with desperate need.
"Oh~ Oh, my love~” He grumbled, massaging your tongue with his fingers. “Pray tell, are you still a virgin here?"
You couldn't answer. His fingers were in your mouth, your throat in the crook of his arm, his cock pressing against that final barrier with a needy twitch. You shook your head weakly, tears flying, and his pleased groan vibrated through you.
"My perfect mate. Saving this for your king." His hips pressed forward, just slightly, testing, and the sensation was overwhelming – not pain, not pleasure, but something beyond both. His voice deepened to the obscene grumble, deep and sensual, when he resumed his pounding. "Don't worry, honey. I’ll make it feel so good~"
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The orgasm that crashed over you was immense, your cunt clenching around his pistoning cock in waves of desperate spasms. You screamed around his fingers, with your vision whiting out completely, your entire body convulsing beneath him.
And then you heard the roar.
His hips lost all rhythm, slamming into you with animal desperation, each thrust driving his tip against your womb with bruising force. His balls drew up tight against his body, and the sounds he made were no longer words – they were growls, snarls, the vocalizations of a creature who had forgotten his human shape.
"Take it," he snarled. "Take it, dear, take all of it, take– take–!"
His tip breached your cervix.
The pain was blinding, a spike of white-hot agony that immediately transmuted into the most exquisite pleasure you had ever experienced. Yuan was inside you, truly inside, his cock seated in the deepest chamber of your body, and you felt the first pulse of his release.
Hot. Copious. Endless.
His cum flooded your womb in creamy waves, each pulse of his cock milking more of his essence into your empty chamber. Warmth spread through the inside of your belly, making your abdomen swell as he filled you beyond capacity.
Yuan was still coming when his hips began to move again. Slow, shallow thrusts that kept his cock seated deep, his release spilling around his cock, dripping down his balls to pool on the furs beneath you. His arms relaxed, letting your head fall face-first into the furs. His mouth found your sweaty nape again, kissing, laving the mark he'd left with gentle sweeps of his tongue.
"There," he murmured. "There, sweetheart. All better. I got you."
When he finally pulled out and kneeled behind you, the sensation was almost worse than the penetration. His cock slid free of your clutching flesh, and immediately, his release gushed out of the gaping emptiness, dripping down your thighs in thick white rivulets. You felt too empty and obscenely open, your cunt unable to close around the absence of him, your inner lips swollen and parted, your hole a perfect circle that slowly began to contract back in shape.
Jing Yuan’s gaze dropped to the junction of your thighs, and his pupils blew wide at the sight.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, my love. Look at what I've done to you."
His fingers, gentle now, traceyour labia. His release continued to seep out, viscous and pearlescent, and he gathered it on his fingertips and pushed it back inside. You whimpered at the intrusion, pussy desperately clutching at his digits.
"Good girl," he whispered. "My perfect mate, so full of me."
Jing Yuan lowered himself onto his side, gathering you against his chest, pulling the furs up over your trembling body. His heartbeat was strong and steady against your back, slowly decelerating from its desperate race. His hand found your belly, splaying across the slight swell, and he held you there, warm and possessive.
"Sleep now, love." His lips pressed against your hair. "Your mate will watch over you. Always."
The purr began slowly, a deep vibration that started in his chest and traveled through his entire body, then yours, until you were both humming with the same frequency. His softening cock, gave weak pulses against your hip, releasing the last few drops of his seed onto your skin.
"Thank you for the gift," The Lion Man murmured. You weren't sure if he was speaking to you or to whatever gods had delivered you to his territory.
The golden light of the phosphorescent fungi seemed to dim, settling into something intimate. The furs beneath you absorbed the mess of your bodies.
And in the grasp of the obsessive Lion Man, you closed your tired eyes.
Night settled over the savanna like indigo silk. The waterhole reflected the first stars, and the gazelles had long since departed, leaving only the trampled grass and your abandoned camera as evidence of the afternoon's vigil.
Two figures stood at the edge of the clearing. The man was tall, blond, his long hair catching the dying light as he bent to retrieve the fallen equipment. His green eyes swept the viewfinder, the cracked lens, the deep impressions of a heavy body settling into the dust.
"Well." His voice was light and satisfied. "I told you it would work."
The woman beside him adjusted her black sunglasses, though the sun had fully set. Her baby blue hair stirred in the light breeze.
"He was obsessed with her from the very beginning." Her tone was assessing. "His scent markers are all over this area. We shouldn’t interfere, unless we want our heads bitten off."
"Exactly. Given that they have already begun mating, he will most likely not let us near her for the next week." The blond turned the camera over in his hands, examining the crack. "Though that's fine. The white lion hybrids have been struggling with genetic diversity for centuries. A human mate will introduce fresh variation."
"Assuming the pregnancy takes."
"It will." His smile was certain. "Jing Yuan is nothing if not thorough."
He tucked the camera into his jacket, and two figures turned, melting into the tall grass.
.
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Series Masterlist: Creatures Features
(if you want me to tag you, comment on the series masterlist please)
Prev. Part: Red Riding Hood & The Big Bad Pie (werewolf!Varka x reader)
Next part: My Kitchen, My Rules, Your Face (RaccoonHybrid!Caelus x reader)
Jing Yuan is unironically very hard to write. He is also one of my favourite characters, so yeah… 8000+ words c:
Also, a fun thing about writing smut and like sensual scenes in general. I noticed that it's kind of hard when you try to write a lot of action and poses because like... where the hell did I make him put his hand? Her hip or belly? How should I make him move it to her neck? Is that kind of move even possible?
Anyway, I hope you forgive me for the headlock scene. I just feel that it's written a bit awkwardly, but I don't have the mental capacity to rewrite it rn :c
Heeeyyyy i know asks are closed but please when they are open read this (cause i dont think i will remeber it later)
I got sad at the one where the Mc got engaged, so, i wanted to ask whenever you can make a scenario where the mc broke off the engagement and disappeared off map maybe working somewhere else but being colder (AND PLEAAAASE MAKE HER HELP CALEB BEFORE SHE DISSAPEARES 😭😭)
warnings: hurt + (some?) comfort, extremely funny I made mark the rebound and he coincidentally left nct so i have alot of material lmao, references to main story, near death experiences
synopsis ✿ you never think you will know anything outside of your small life in qingce village until a funeral consultant steps on your precious chili plants. somewhere, in between funerals and shared meals, you fall in love with the god of contracts, and he decides he would like to spend eternity keeping you company
✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; canon compliant ; strangers to lovers ; falling in love ; immortal x immortal - reader is half adepti so she has a long life span ; reader is abandoned by her parents as a child and is unofficially adopted by an npc in qingce village ; themes of grief and death (the npc dies) ; semi public sex - you do not get caught ; vaginal sex ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; fingering ; cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand jobs ; zhongli has two dicks ; zhongli carries reader ; reader is NOT traveler/lumine and is slightly jealous of her at one point ; references to chi of yore lore ; takes place during osial's attack on liyue ; confessions ; getting together ; NOT proof read and tbh there might be an inconsistency or two (pls lmk if there is)
꒰ word count ꒱ 20.2k words — PLEASE PLEASE GIVE IT A CHANCE IM BEGGING YOU ON MY HANDS & KNEES
꒰ commentary ꒱ replaying genshin impact on an alt and now i have the zhongli bug in the year 2026
Morax has walked many mountains in his lifetime.
He has shaped them, too—raised stone from the earth, carved cliffs from bedrock, and split the land itself in wars long since forgotten. He has walked along battlefields where gods fell and along cities that crumbled into dust beneath divine wrath. And yet, somehow, it is a small patch of farmland in Qingce Village that finally brings him trouble.
Specifically, a neat row of freshly sprouting jueyun chili plants.
He does not notice them at first. The path is narrow, the terraces crowded with green growth, and his attention is momentarily occupied with locating the correct house of the elderly widow he has come to visit on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He steps forward—there is a soft, devastating crunch beneath his shoe—and he stops. Slowly, he looks down. A small green sprout lies bent sideways in the dirt. He moves his foot, and there is another crushed stem.
He blinks once. Then twice. “…Oh dear.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
There is a voice that comes from behind him, and Morax turns. You stand just a few steps away, staring at him in horror as though you have just witnessed a murder in its cold-blooded glory. (Perhaps murder is not far from the truth, of course—the plants are surely dead now.)
Your gaze drops to the ground. Then back up to him. Then back to the ground again. “You stepped on my jueyun chilis,” you say flatly.
Morax follows your gaze again, taking in the small row of plants he has apparently trampled with great efficiency.
“Ah, yes,” he says after a moment, looking only slightly apologetic. “It would appear that I have—my apologies for my carelessness.”
“These were only just sprouting,” you cry, crouching down to inspect the damage. “Now I’ll have to restart these sprouts,” you look up at him, utterly unimpressed.
“My apologies,” Morax says sincerely. “That was not my intention.”
You stand, brushing dirt off your hands, and look him up and down. Morax watches your eyes as they assess him properly—he can practically see the way you pick apart his appearance right before his eyes as you make your deductions. (He is dressed far too nicely to be a farmer or a villager. Too clean. Too proper. He can see it written plainly all over your face that you have already figured he is from the more urban parts of Liyue.)
“You’re not from here,” you say. “Liyue Harbor?”
“That is correct.”
“I can tell.”
He inclines his head slightly. “I am here on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”
Your expression shifts immediately. “Oh.” The irritation does not disappear entirely, but it softens. Dare he say, your expression even saddens some. “You’re here for Madam Lu, then. For her late husband,” you say.
“Yes.”
“She’s been expecting someone.”
Morax nods as he explains, “I’ve come to discuss the funeral services she seeks. However,” he adds, glancing down at the damaged plants again, “I appear to have caused some trouble before arriving.”
You cross your arms at that. “Yes. You did.”
“I will compensate you for the loss,” Morax offers.
Your brows lift slightly, unimpressed—you are deeply, wholly, entirely unimpressed by him. It is a fascinating change of pace. Morax (or, perhaps sooner or later, he will have to grow more used to Zhongli) is not someone people look at so disdainfully. So dismissively. So irritably. The only individuals who have ever cast a look at him in such a manner are foes long fallen, long since taught the power of the Geo Archon and slain for daring to stand against him in battle.
“Do you think you can simply just pay for the damages you have caused to my agriculture?” you huff at him.
He hums, nodding as he says, “If that is what is required of me, I certainly can.”
You study him for a long moment, then snort softly. “You really are from the Harbor.”
“I take it that is obvious.”
“Painfully.” Then, you look down at the plants again and sigh. “Well, they’re not all dead,” you say. “You only destroyed…several. Not everything.”
“I am relieved to hear the damage is not total.”
You give him yet another look. “You’re very calm for someone who just committed agricultural sabotage to a small, humble villager’s plants.”
“I find panic rarely improves a situation,” he says honestly.
You stare at him for a second longer. Then, much to his surprise, you laugh. He blinks, slightly taken aback. (Where goes all your agitation from just a few moments prior, he wonders.)
“You’re rather strange,” you tell him.
“Am I?” he asks, slightly amused.
You crouch again and gently press some soil back around one of the bent sprouts, trying to prop them upright. “Yes—quite strange indeed. You said you’re from the funeral parlor?” you ask.
“Yes. I am here to help Madam Lu arrange her husband’s funeral.”
Your hands slow slightly at that. “Right,” you say quietly. That sad look is back on your expression. You must have known him, Morax surmises—though, of course, that would not be all too surprising. Qingce Village is a small place, after all. “Master Lu was a good man. He passed last week. His wife is not taking the news well.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Morax replies evenly. “That is why I have come in person. Aside from the fact that she is grieving, it would be difficult for her to travel to Liyue Harbor at such an old age.”
Your gaze softens at his words—something…rather grateful seems to replace the earlier traces of resentment as you look up at him. “That was kind of you.”
“It is only part of my duties at the parlor. Nothing worthy of praise.”
You stand again and wipe your hands on your skirt. For a moment, Morax locks his eyes with yours—they are rather easy to get lost in, he thinks to himself. Time is preserved so simply when he is looking into them, so effortlessly that he almost feels the eroded fragments of his soul settle down and rest. (This is all he has ever hoped to have for quite some time—just the chance to simply rest his old, eroding soul and enjoy something outside of the divine. How frightening that it is as simple as looking into the eyes of a village girl.)
“Well,” you say, gesturing up the path, “whether you can complete your duties to be worthy of praise or not, we will never know if you insist on going the wrong way, Mister…”
Morax, he itches to say. Instead, he smiles politely, says “Zhongli,” and introduces himself before continuing, “and I had suspected as much.”
You answer him by murmuring your name. It’s a beautiful name, he decides as he tests it on his tongue—as is everything else about you. Your smile, and the simple way you are dressed under the gold cast of light the sun coats you in, are easily the most breathtaking parts of Qingce village. Despite the lush patches of grass and the soft petals of glaze lilies in the distance, Morax finds he cares little for the sights of the village when you are in his line of vision.
“You’re heading toward the terraces,” you tell him. “Madam Lu’s house is in the other direction.”
“I see.”
You start walking off, and he stands there, partly stunned and partly not. Something about you makes it so that he is not entirely shocked by the abrupt way you saunter away, but he finds that being kept on his toes is not all that terrible. Especially not if he gets to watch you walk away, either—you are not a poor sight from behind, that is for certain. Then, just a moment later, you glance back at him.
“Come on, you fancy old harbor man. I’ll take you there before you destroy anything else.”
Morax huffs a small, amused laugh. Harbor man. When was the last time someone addressed him so casually? So carefree? His memory fades to long, distant times. Times he does not forget, of course, but times that are long enough into the past that he cannot help but lose his grasp on what it feels like to enjoy his days the way he once did.
“I appreciate your assistance.”
“You can repay me by not stepping on any more plants,” you wave a hand off dismissively.
“I will make every effort.”
He walks in silence alongside you for a few moments through the village. He eyes the terraces and takes in the breathtaking view of such simplistic beauty. The waters are clear, and the petals of the blooming flowers are wide as they face the sun like open arms. It has been a long time since Morax has come to this village—a long, long time, indeed. The last he remembers of this place is the great battle he’d fought before that wretched serpent god had fallen. They seem to be doing fine, he notes in satisfaction. Of course, that is not a surprise to him—he would surely hear about it, perhaps even make an appearance himself, had they not.
But the villagers of this small, peaceful patch of land are doing well. And Morax is faced with the haunting proof that he has done his duties once again. Quite exceptionally, too—exceptionally enough that he wonders if he truly has any duties left for much longer.
It’s not long before you glance sideways at him. “So…do you do this often?”
“Do what?” He hums.
“Travel all the way out here to help people arrange funerals,” you say as you lead him over a small, wooden bridge. He is mindful not to trample a stem of jueyun chilis that grow along a patch of grass on his way.
“Yes,” he nods, “if the director asks it of me, I tend to travel to clients.”
“That sounds…like a rather depressing job. It must suck the excitement out of the travels when you are working so closely with the dead.”
“On the contrary,” Morax says calmly, “I work with those still living. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.”
You glance at him with a slight scoff. “That is a very funeral-parlor thing to say.”
“I imagine it is,” he chuckles, “but it is true nonetheless.”
You walk a little farther before suddenly saying, “You know, you talk like an old man.”
Morax does not react immediately. He’s certainly heard that phrase before—how many times has he been called old? It’s…not exactly false, if he were to be technical about his age. “…Do I?” he asks.
“Yes,” you snort, eyeing him in amusement. “Very philosophical. You sound like you’ve been alive far longer than you look.”
“I assure you that is not the case,” is all he says. If only you knew.
“Mm,” you say skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”
He almost smiles.
Morax, as he follows you, reaches a small house near the edge of the village. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney, and the grass is perfectly trimmed with glaze lilies neatly sprouting along a line beneath the front window of the house. You eye them for a moment before sighing as you murmur, “The old woman hasn’t been watering them again—it can only be expected.”
Morax says nothing. He’s an observant person at his core—he has not reigned over Liyue for a short period of time, and that reign of power did not come to him overnight. Such is his nature as a god, as an adepti, as a warrior, to be observant. It’s easy to see that this old couple—this old widow, now—means something to you. That alone would not be a shock. Qingce village is a small place, and it would not be hard to piece together that a small village and its people are well-connected.
But the grief on your face, coupled still with that familiar, fond expression as you sigh over the neglected flowers, suggests that there is more to your relationship with Madam Lu (and by extension, her late husband) than the average villager. Morax almost wants to pry, but if there is anything that being a funeral parlor associate—and, of course, a god who has seen many battles—has taught him, it’s to never pry when the grieving grieve.
“That’s Madam Lu’s house,” you gesture at the door, “she’s home, so you should be able to take care of business rather swiftly.”
“Thank you,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And again, I apologize for your plants.”
You roll your eyes as you wave a hand dismissively. “You should be. But, I suppose they’ll survive. Well—probably.”
“I am most hopeful that they do,” he nods.
Morax watches as you start to turn away, walk to the flowers and inspect the slightly dry soil beneath them, and reach for the watering can abandoned at the side with a sigh.
“You know,” you say, glancing back at him, “you’re not what I expected for someone from a funeral parlor.”
“In what way?” he raises a brow.
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I thought you would be gloomy. Or cold. Maybe a little creepy.”
“I see,” he smiles in amusement, “I would hope I am none of those things, lest director Hu receives complaints.”
“Hurt no more of my chilis, and I will allow you to leave Qingce village with no complaints, harbor man.” You grab the watering can and start walking away towards a well in the distance. Then, you pause and call over your shoulder: “Do try not to get lost on your way out—I cannot escort you every time.”
“I will try my hardest,” Morax hums. He watches you go for a moment before turning toward the house.
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You end up seeing plenty of the harbor man for the next few weeks to come as you help plan Master Lu’s parting.
Master Lu was a well-respected man in the village, and his doting wife strives for nothing less than a proper tribute for his send-off. Qingce village is a simple place. The people here lead plain, straightforward lives—most are those who seek something quiet and easy after retiring. They are people who have aged and feel the tug and pops of their aching muscles and bones. They are people who know that life is something to cherish before it is easily taken from you, before you are ready.
As such, funerals are done properly. There are traditions to honor, respect to pay, and well wishes to part the dead with before they are off to the afterlife.
You don’t know what is waiting for you in the afterlife—nor do you even really know if you believe in one at all, but you do know you cherished Master Lu. He took you in, after all, when you were nothing but a young child—too much of a responsibility for your adepti father, who had enough as is to do, evidently. And too much of a burden for your mortal mother, who could not bear the so-called injustice of having a non-human lover and child.
So, following the abandonment of your parents—two different reasons for the same betrayal—you end up dumped in Qingce village because that is where it is safest to abandon young children, apparently. And that is where Master Lu, alongside many others in the village, finds you, at your tender age of ten, with your helpless, bitter distrust of adults around you. Slowly, but surely, he is but one of the many who rebuilds your image of the world you are surrounded by, much like he rebuilds practically anything with those adept, carpenter hands of his.
Your first bed, and the swingset in the grass that you played on, and that little bench where you’d sit and watch Madam Lu water her crops in the distance. He had built them all for you with his own callused hands, much like he’d built that easy trust that mended your wounded child-heart.
And now Master Lu is gone. But he has helped build you a stable enough, sturdy enough foundation that even without his cunning smile and his crinkled eyes, you trust the world around you despite it all. And you trust that funeral consultant, too—clumsy as he may be around your precious plants.
“Madam Lu tells me you have arranged for a florist to bring flowers from Liyue Harbor,” you hum, walking with him through the terraces.
He nods, inspecting a glaze lily. “Yes, but there will be glaze lilies supplied by the village itself—we do not often see glaze lilies bloom like this in Liyue Harbor. Not so naturally, that is. They are artificially sprouted by modifications, but they lack the same fragrance.”
“Qingce village didn’t always have glaze lilies as full as these,” you say proudly, “it was only after I came to the village that they grew so fresh and full—it brought Madam Lu lots of business, you know. No one seems to be able to tend to them the same way as I, no matter the effort.”
“I see,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. Almost like he sees through you.
You quickly change the subject—you wouldn’t want him to realize you aren’t human quite yet. (Not that it’s a dark secret that you keep, of course. But you find mortals tend to feel more at ease around you when they believe you, too, are yet another mortal.)
“Have you trampled any more chilis on your way here?” you huff, “don’t even consider lying because I will find out in due time. I will be deducting the damages from our final bill, you know.”
“I assure you all of your chilis are fine,” he chuckles, “and I have already informed director Hu of the discount you will be afforded for my mistake.”
“I hope your position is still intact,” you tease. “I’d hate for your livelihood to be at stake for such a simple mistake.”
“Well,” he smiles with what you can only describe as a bit of a devious grin, even despite how proper and polite he holds himself, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cost the funeral parlor a mora or two. Such is the risk of running a business—some losses are to be expected.”
At the start, Zhongli left immediately after his weekly visits with Madam Lu to plan the funeral services. Master Lu has already been buried, of course, but the funeral itself won’t be held until the following month to ensure that all the proper traditions are seen through. But, well…Madam Lu is a lonely woman, and Zhongli is good at conversing with the elderly. Almost too good. She has grown rather fond of his presence, and you think that Zhongli is equally as fond of her cooking as he is shirking off his duties for a bit, so he puts up little argument when she asks him to stay for lunch.
And that is how you end up entertaining him for the time it takes for her to cook her meals.
Couldn’t you cook your meals ahead of time, you’d asked the old, nagging woman, it’s not as though you don’t have the time to spare.
And how often do you see such a handsome, young face in this village, she’d tutted, giving you a disapproving look, I have to stall for time somehow, so you can charm him. He is a fine man, you stubborn child—make sure you waste no opportunities. I want grandchildren.
You’re already an old granny, you’d huffed, fighting back the flustered look that threatened to make itself apparent on your face.
That damned old lady and her damned need to meddle where she didn’t have any place meddling. But you suppose that is why you grew up the way you had—so loved and well looked after, despite being practically an orphan in function. And you suppose that Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not…the worst candidate for a man, should you choose to settle down.
Not that you would choose.
Your life span is too long for that of a mortal lover, and adepti are difficult enough to come by as it is. Never mind the fact that they are likely all too old to settle for someone like you—you are still a young lady in mortal years. Surely, if a strong, capable adepti man were looking to settle down, he would spare little time with someone like you who does nothing more than tend to crops with your days.
You have never dreamed of settling down and loving a man—not when mortals such as your mother can see the true curse that it is to fall in love with a long-lived being such as yourself. Mortal men, especially gentlemanly, smooth-talking, and granny-pleasing funeral consultant mortal men from Liyue Harbor of all places, would waste little time with you.
But you shake the thought off as you turn to look at the old lady’s house in the distance, and see her waving by her front door to indicate that lunch is ready. You nod before turning to Zhongli to bring him along with you—
—and the world is suddenly shifting. Why is it shifting? Why does it feel like gravity is no longer keeping you firmly cemented in an upright position on the ground, and why does it feel like air is rushing past you all too fast? Surely…surely you couldn’t be falling?
Except you are. If your poor luck as a half-mortal, half-immortal being wasn’t enough to deter you from charming a man, your clumsiness sure is. And you had the gall to call him clumsy, you think. Not…not that you care to charm him of all people anyway because…well, because why would you? You do not.
But if you were to care, well then. This would be your sign to swiftly put those dreams behind you. It’s a good thing you never cared for such silly fantasies anyway.
But, just as quickly as you are falling over the edge of a terrace and onto the ground a hefty distance away, the earth beneath you is shifting. It shakes and rumbles, and then it lifts so that soft soil reaches your back faster than heavy impact can. It isn't long before you are carefully raised to the terrace once more, where Zhongli is waiting for you with a polite, respectful hand outstretched just close enough that you don’t have to stretch to reach it, but just far enough that it doesn’t impose on your personal space, giving you the option to decline it.
You take it. Because you are shaken, and not because you would like to hold his hand, of course. And he gently pulls you, where he steadies you easily as you shake on your wobbly legs when they take your weight.
“What…” You furrow your brows, confused. Dazed. Still a little shaken.
“You slipped on some of the wet soil,” he says calmly, “and lost your balance over the edge. I caught you using Geo.”
“Geo?” You furrow your brows deeper.
“My vision,” he explains simply, “I made a construct to catch you.”
“Well, thank you,” you nod slowly.
Geo…you think to yourself. Undoubtedly, his power certainly was Geo. But…but you have felt the sensation of Geo around you before from a vision wielder, and…this power is different. More powerful? No—more concentrated. Like it is the source of Geo itself. Like it is where it all stems from, with how fierce and deep the energy runs through it. You know little of your lineage or of how the elements work, but you know that for a vision wielder, he seems abnormally strong. Almost…almost like his power is not that of a vision at all. Almost like he is the power—he and he alone.
And then you blink, eyeing him suspiciously.
“When did you get your vision?” you ask, hoping to sound casual.
He hums, looking at you. And there it is again—that look. Like he sees right through you. “Perhaps I will tell you in due time,” he chuckles, still holding your hand as he pulls you alongside his steps forward. “Come, Madam Lu is waiting.”
He is not human, you think—no, you know. And for a short, brittle, fleeting moment, you dare to hope that perhaps Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not a mortal, and that he might have enough time to spare in this life to waste it with you.
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Morax values those who follow traditions closely. It is sacred and ancient, the culture of Liyue. And Liyue is a richly cultured nation, indeed. Qingce Village, he is pleasantly surprised to find, pays its respect to the dead properly and does the culture of this nation justice.
You are standing in front of Master Lu’s grave, holding your offering with trembling fingers as he watches in the distance.
“You don’t have to worry about the old lady,” you mumble, voice oddly shaky. Morax never hears your voice shake—you are always so sure of yourself and what you say, so at peace with your existence and the way that your life is. But you are so different now, faced with grief.
For a while, you almost didn’t seem to be grieving at all. You spoke so easily to him—so casual and at times, playful with banter. All that really hinted that this passing was a tragedy to you was just a small, sad smile when you’d think about or mention the late Master Lu and his lonely, widowed wife. Just a tiny, long look like you’d been parted from an old friend rather than lost a dear loved one.
Morax has seen loss and the many different shades it comes in. It’s a devastating color—it washes out all of the other colors that paint life. But you seemed almost like this passing was just any other passing in the everyday world. Just a natural occurrence that you couldn’t help. You’d been strong when Madam Lu couldn’t—spoke with a strong, steady voice as you continued the discussion on the services when the poor old lady broke down in sobs or simply couldn’t bring herself to speak at all.
For a while, Morax almost wondered if you were grieving at all. If you were simply at peace with an inevitable goodbye.
But he sees your grief now—here, as you are kneeling on soft yet cold soil, clinging to your offering like it’s the last piece of Master Lu you will ever have.
“I’ll watch over her. Her and those flowers she doesn’t water anymore—that old granny. Always insisting she isn’t aging,” you scoff—fond, exasperated, sad. “It’s like she doesn’t look in a mirror at all. Doesn’t see the way her skin is sagging more and more. It's like she thinks she’s immortal or something—can you believe it? You’d think losing her… her husband would make her take a look at herself for a second and worry about her own health, but she’s still… still that same old meddling old woman. But I’m going to… t-to take care of her—the stubborn old thing. Don’t you worry.”
Your voice breaks off into a quiet sob as you press a small wooden box into the soil before covering it carefully with dirt to keep it buried in place. It’s worn—Morax had only gotten a small glimpse of it as he’d walked with you to the grave. As the overseer of this funeral, it’s his duty to make sure the offerings made to the deceased are appropriate and respectful, to keep the dignity of those who have passed on intact.
He hadn’t asked you what the box meant to you, nor what was in it, but the way you clutched onto it so tightly, so desperately, could only mean that it was important.
“That old lady keeps talking about joining you soon,” you sniffle, rubbing your chin free of the tears that have collected there. “Says you’ll get lonely over there, dead all by yourself. She’s not alone, even if you’re not here—she has me. And Madam Yundan. And Master Hanfeng is still eyeing her, too—too bad you’ve gone ahead and died and can’t keep an eye out for his advances anymore, you fool. He’d still try to match me with that son of his at Liyue Harbor if he could, I bet. But the old lady needs me here, yeah? So I have to stay. And I need her, so you’ll just have to wait over there for a while before anyone joins you. You…you’re the one who left after all, so that’s on you. You old man.”
You sniff again, quieter this time, and brush some loose dirt from the top of the grave, patting it flat with absent care, like you’re smoothing down a blanket.
“Don’t go wandering off too far, alright?” you mutter. “If there’s an afterlife, you'd better stay where she can find you when she gets there. Don’t go gambling, or go drinking, and don’t go getting into trouble like you always did. You always did say she kept you in line, so you’d better behave until she gets there to do it properly again.”
You let out a small, shaky laugh that turns into something breathier, something that almost sounds like another sob before you swallow it down.
“She keeps pretending she’s not lonely,” you continue quietly. “Says the house is only quieter now, that’s all, without all your hammering and sawing and nonsense. Says she sleeps better without you snoring. But she sits by your chair, you know. Still sets out two cups when she makes tea sometimes. Then she gets mad at herself and puts one back.” You wipe roughly at your eyes, like you’re frustrated with the tears that won’t stop. “So you’d better be waiting for her. I doubt it’ll be too long before…before she comes and finds you. Maybe a few years. Maybe a decade, if she’s stubborn. She always is, so who’d be surprised? I’ll probably take some more time,” you say—it almost sounds bitter. Resigned in a way Morax almost…almost understands. You’ll probably take plenty more time.
“I only have the people of this village, you know,” you say after a long silence. “So that old lady is stuck with me. And I’m stuck with her. So you don’t have to worry about her being alone. I won’t let her be. I’ll fix the roof before the rainy season, as you showed me. I’ll carry the buckets of water so she doesn’t try to do it herself and hurt her back again. I’ll make sure she actually waters those flowers she keeps talking to like they’re people. I’ll listen to her complain about the heat every morning like she always does. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything here. So just…rest, alright? You worked enough already—worked until the day you died, you stubborn old man. What’s all that you said about retiring? And to think, you live where people come just to retire, you old fool. But anyway…don’t rush her to come find you. Let her stay here a while longer.”
Your hand lingers on the soil for a moment longer before you finally pull it away.
“…Goodbye, Master Lu,” you murmur, all too quietly. “Don’t be lonely over there. We’ll come visit you—I know you love to hear that old woman babble, anyway.”
You stand slowly after that, brushing the dirt from your hands, but you don’t leave right away. You stay there for just a little longer, staring at the grave like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re trying to make sure he knows you really did come.
“You must see this plenty,” you mumble finally, looking over your shoulder to Morax. He stays silent, so you continue. “Still, sorry you had to see such a sorry display.”
Morax does not answer immediately. He stands with his hands folded behind his back, gaze resting not on you, but on the grave, the disturbed soil where you’d buried your offering. Only after a long moment does he speak.
“There is nothing sorry about grief,” he says at last, “a funeral is not a display of composure. It is a contract between the living and the dead.” You blink at him, a little confused and a little exhausted, too. “The living bring offerings, words, remembrance. The dead leave behind their names, their stories, perhaps a legacy, even. Both sides fulfill their duty. That is what gives a life a fair and just ending. Grief is proof that the departed were loved. Tears are an offering no less valuable than incense or mora. There is no shame in them.”
You let out a small breath through your nose, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You really do talk like a funeral consultant.”
He inclines his head slightly, smiling just a little. “It is my profession, after all.”
“Do you ever hear people say the wrong things?” you murmur. “At funerals.”
“All the time,” Morax replies without hesitation. “Well, I suppose wrong and right are subjective—but there is always a time and place, most would agree. But thankfully, the dead never show they are offended.”
That pulls a small, real laugh out of you, quiet and brief as it is.
“That’s good, at least,” you murmur. “I called him an old fool at least three times.”
Morax looks at the grave, then back at you. “Then I am certain he departed this world feeling accurately remembered.” You snort softly at that, wiping under your eye again. After a moment, Morax speaks once more, voice softer now, less like a consultant and more like the old man that he is (not that you would know, of course). “It is the belief of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and many, I’m sure, that farewells do not end at the funeral. The living always continue to speak to and of the dead. In this way, the dead are not yet forgotten, nor are they truly gone—they are simply living somewhere else, where we cannot yet follow.”
You stare at the grave for a long moment after that. And he wonders if you perhaps do know that he isn’t the young mortal that he appears, as you say, “You sound especially like an old man now…but I’ll come visit and complain to him a lot,” you huff. “He always liked to gossip.”
“A good plan,” Morax agrees.
You nod once, satisfied with that answer, then brush the last of the dirt from your palms.
“Alright,” you mutter. “Let’s go, harbor man. The old lady will knock me with a watering can if I’m late for dinner.”
Morax turns to walk with you, but before you leave, you glance back at the grave one last time. As if to make sure the old man knows you really did come.
-- — --
Dinner with you and Madam Lu is as pleasant as it is heavy. Both of your eyes are red and slightly swollen from the crying that comes with a funeral service (as to be expected), but there is also the silent, but oh so obvious reality that this is Morax’s last meal with you and the elderly woman.
He will have no reason to return to Qingce village again after this, and as a result, this is the final time he will eat (such lovely) cooking by Madam Lu and converse with you over his food.
He takes his time eating.
The goodbye comes all too quickly, and your face is mortified as Madam Lu brings Zhongli down to her height by his cheeks as she says, “Young man, do come and visit! Such a handsome face like yours is rarely a sight we get, you know! You’d keep my stubborn child good company. Think about it, alright?”
“M-madam Lu!” you hiss, quickly intervening as you pry her hands off of him and give her a withering look. “Mister Zhongli is here for business—you mustn’t make him uncomfortable!”
“I assure you,” he grins, just a little too amused, he’s sure, for your comfort, “it is quite all right. I’m flattered you think so highly of my presence, miss.”
Your glare extends to him, then, too.
And then you are both leaving the old lady’s residence, you on your way to your own home, and he on his way to leave the village and return to the harbor as always after a hearty meal from the woman.
It just so happens to be the same direction, so you both walk together.
“You could always stay the night, you know,” you murmur.
“Is this your way of offering your residence?” he raises a brow.
You sputter, giving him another heated look before you hiss, “No, you sneaky little schemer! I meant there are inns for passing travelers in this village, and the journey to the harbor is surely more risky at night as opposed to during the day. That’s all.”
He chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, but I assure you, this isn’t my first time making a journey at this time of day.”
“Yes, well, it only felt right to offer, that’s all,” you shrug petulantly, still flustered by his earlier comment.
Morax keeps his chuckle at bay for your sake, but you seem to know he is holding back a laugh anyway, so you send him a sulky-looking warning glance before continuing to look ahead as you walk to your home.
You reach it in no time. And now…now Morax must say goodbye to you properly. For the last time, likely. Unless there is yet another death in Qingce village that requires his travels, but he doesn’t think that is an appropriate circumstance to hope for in order to be in your presence some more.
Your presence—what a fascinating reality it is, now, that he wishes for it more and more. He has taken to thinking of you when he is back at the parlor, and he often finds he leaves earlier than necessary when it is finally time to come make his journey to the village. Almost as often as he pushes back his time to leave.
Morax turns to you as you stand by your door, unwilling to look into his eyes.
“Well,” you mumble, “I suppose this is the last time you will have to come to his boring old village, isn’t it, harbor man?”
“Yes, for now,” he nods, “but boring is perhaps not the word I would use for this village.”
“Is that so?” You finally look up, raising a brow as you afford him a smile, “Do tell, what is so interesting about a small farmland?”
“For starters, those who tend to the crops are exceptionally skilled at creating difficult walking paths,” he murmurs, “therefore, I must always be alert when wandering this village. It’s as though they are trying to make it difficult—perhaps for a discount or two from wandering businessmen.”
You laugh, bright and free, and back to that steady version of yourself he is so used to. The grief is gone, even if only for a moment. That is how grief works, he supposes—it comes and goes as it pleases. Chokes and releases when it is feeling particularly punishing or merciful, depending on its mood. But grief is not all bad, he has learned. Both from experience as a warrior and a funeral consultant.
It is grief that tethers people to the memories of loved ones. Grief that makes it so that life is not just a constant forward-moving force. There are still old, stubborn rocks that stay still, refusing to rush along with the current. That isn’t so bad—sure, the pain is there, but so is the preciousness of old memories. Memories that have no business being forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Memories that make it so that a life is not merely just a life, and an existence is not merely just an existence.
He wonders then, if he died, how long his memory will go on. How long he will be grieved for, and how long the grieving will keep his memory sitting stubbornly in that stream that pushes forward, so willing to move on with or without him.
You look at Morax with a soft, delicate look. You are fond of him; he is not a fool. He has lived thousands of years, and he has learned what a look of fondness looks like, even if he has never quite understood what it feels like to be so fond of someone, or to be the object of it himself.
But you look at him like that, and he finds he enjoys the simplicity that comes with the way life is when you live like a mortal. When you live like you do not have enough time to leisurely be in the same place for hundreds of thousands of years. When you live as if you may pass on to the next life, and must move on from one thing to another, so that you may experience enough.
Morax has been alive for so, so long. And yet, he wonders if the mortals have lived more than he has.
So, when you fiddle with your fingers as you murmur, “Perhaps I made it difficult to walk along this village so it would take wandering businessmen longer to leave. It’s not often that they make their company known in a place like this,” he steps closer.
“Is that so?” Morax asks.
You don’t meet his eyes as you nod. You’re a funny being, he thinks—so sure of your existence, yet so unwilling to step beyond what you have deemed yourself worthy of. You are confident with your life. Happy with your place and sure that you belong where you are. So certain that you are deserving of what you have and what has been given to you, but you never dare ask for more or take beyond the scope of what you allow yourself.
Even if you want it.
But perhaps you are starting to change, he thinks. Because you step closer as you nod, looking at him as you say, “I have never wished for a businessman to stay until now. But there is always a first time for everything.”
He laughs. Low and amused as he says, “I have never felt compelled to stay the night anywhere on my journeys—but there is indeed a first time for everything, you are correct.”
And that is how Morax is kissing you.
He has yearned for it for some time, he thinks. He has yearned for you for some time, and there is no point in denying it. You and your chilis and your flowers and your simple ways of life. You and your soft smile to the villagers and the gentle way you play with the few children that reside here in this far, distant, yet peaceful land that he saved so long ago. He is glad he saved it—of course, he would never regret this deed, whether or not you existed here. But he is especially glad for it now.
He has done his duty—hasn’t he? Then isn’t it only fair that he rewards himself with the luxury of enjoying his accomplishments?
Morax is kissing you, and you are kissing him back, and he thinks you have wanted this for just as long. Your lips are soft, and the lip balm you use is sweet and sticky against his own mouth. He swallows down the taste with a low hum, fingers grasping at your hips as yours latch onto his coat. You are so small against him—he towers over you even in his human form, and you have to crane your neck up just as much as he needs to bend his down to end the gap between you for your lips to touch.
Your breath is hot against his as you exchange it between every kiss, and he tastes you on his tongue with every time they swipe against each other. He has never felt desire like this—never felt his cock twitch like this between his legs or press so tightly against his pants. (Oh, how he aches, he thinks, to take you in his proper form, and satisfy…both of his endowments. But for now, he must settle for this much, in this form, and that is if you even allow him to take it that far. He is not a scoundrel, after all.)
He is grateful that the front of your home is angled so that there are no nearby houses to see you both this way. The path that people walk along faces the back of your home, and that gives him all the encouragement he needs to shamelessly press you against your own door and kiss along your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin and sucking as you let out a soft cry.
The sound shoots straight to his growing member—and he is reminded just how lonely he is from these duties as a god. Just how lonely it is at the top.
He is hard between his legs, and you are aware of it, too, because you boldly move your thigh to slot between his. The first brush of you against his clothed cock, and he lets out a low, satisfied groan that makes you shiver. You are encouraged, it seems, by the sound to keep going, rubbing against his bulge and creating that sweet drag from the friction.
It’s so good, he thinks deliriously—so, so good. He feels the way blood rushes to his cock, the way it makes him ache with how he swells, and then there is a jolt of something so pleasant and mind-numbing when there is pressure against his girth.
Morax has been alive a long, long time. Longer than some of the mountains and trees shape Liyue, and longer than some of the villages that make up the nation for what it is. He is no stranger to pleasure, and he is no stranger to what it feels like to grind against something when he is fully hard and aroused.
But he is a stranger to carrying affection for the person responsible—at least, affection of this kind. So he groans, loud and uncaring in a way only someone inexperienced might, and you seem to find pleasure in that with the way you smile against his lips as you tilt his jaw and bring him back to your mouth and away from your neck.
“My, my, harbor man,” you tease, “it’s as though you wish for the old lady to hear us from here. Are you trying to get her attention or mine?”
“A fine one, you are to talk,” he bites at your bottom lip, smiling smugly when you whimper, “you are touching me so freely out here in the open, where anyone may wander by and hear closely. Tell me, do you wish that they do? Perhaps you are even, dare I say, excited by the prospect.”
You stiffen under his arms before you give him a (weak) glare as you huff. “Alright then, you loathsome man,” you say indigantly, reaching behind you to open your door as you fiddle with the lock, “if you insist on doing this properly, then so be it.”
Morax pushes you into your home as soon as that door opens. It shuts behind him, and he pushes you and pushes you and pushes you—keeps on going until there is a hard wall behind you, and something to keep you in place as he quickly closes the gap and kisses you again.
You’re not mortal—he has known that as soon as he met you. How could he be considered the prime of adepti if he did not recognize his own kind? But here, under him, pinned and dripping and so pliant for him, he can smell it. The sweet, lingering scent of adeptal blood in your veins and the way it radiates off of you between your thighs.
(How kind the greater divine has been to him, if they are in charge of destiny, to grant him the luxury of developing these affections for a non-mortal. For someone who will not die in what is considered a small fraction of his time. He will have proper time with you—to explore you and this world that he will now live in as his new self if he allows it to be. And oh, how he wants it to be.)
“You smell sweet,” he grunts, “so ridiculously sweet, I wonder how I’ve held myself back all this time.”
“So you’ve been lusting for me for some time now, is that it?” you hum, and edge of cockiness to your voice. He smiles despite himself, exasperated. “What a shallow businessman you are, indeed. What, the meals didn’t satisfy your fill?”
“Is it so wrong to hope for seconds?” he chuckles.
Then he is crouching down, and your eyes widen as you register the loss of him against your upper half, pressing his heat against you. When you blink, looking down, he is already hooking a leg over his shoulder as he kneels between your legs, lifting your skirt and pulling your panties aside.
Wet—you are, for lack of better words, fucking dripping down your thighs, and Morax is having simply a ball. He grins, trailing his nose along the wet trail along your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of you before pressing his tongue to get a taste of your essence. You let out a mortified, choked sound, squirming, and he tightens his grip along the plush of your leg.
“Don’t move too much,” he says lowly, “that is the agreement we are to have, if you want this.”
Evidently, you do want this—and badly, with the way you still immediately. He chuckles before pressing his lips to your clit, kissing it sweetly once, twice, a third time just to tease and swipe his tongue against the sensitive nub while you whimper. Your walls clench around nothing, and he hums in amusement at the sight.
“You are a foul businessman,” you huff, “loathsome. You ought to hold your end of the deal, seeing as I am.”
“My apologies,” he grins wickedly.
And then Morax latches onto you, hungry and thirsty and unwilling to be satisfied until he’s turned an inch into a mile, a drop into a stream. He sinks his tongue into you, tasting your sweetness and exploring between your folds. You whine, throwing your head back against the wall, gripping onto his shoulder tightly as your one knee, not thrown over his shoulder, buckles from weakness.
He hums, pausing only for a moment as he says, “Put your full weight against me. I can take it.”
“But—” you try to protest, but he cuts you off.
“I said,” he all but growls, “put your full weight against me. I can take it.”
Morax—Rex Lapis—the warrior, the god, who shaped mountains and slayed more gods than you could ever imagine existed. The strong, fierce divine being who could not be crushed by even the largest of boulders, and you are worried by the weight of your body. How laughable—how ridiculous. You hesitantly lean some of yourself on him, and he grips your thigh, digging his fingers into the meat of it as he pulls the rest of you in.
You squeal—it cuts off into a high-pitched moan when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking while he rolls it back and forth along the swollen bundle of nerves. It’s a nice sound—the way you wail. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful. He almost wonders if there is more power now, when you are crying for the mercy of his tongue, than there is when opponents are crying for the mercy of his stone spears.
His fingers sink into your cunt, feeling your walls close around his digits as he stretches you open—you are so tight. So impossibly tight, he feels his cock twitch between his thighs at the thought alone of sinking past them. He thinks for a moment about how warm it would be when you clench around his fucking aching cock instead of his fingers, and then he is groaning against your heat as he feels a wave of desire burn at the pit of his stomach.
You seem to like that—you shiver at the vibrations he makes against you from the sound, and he hums in appreciation at that. His fingers sink deeper into you, pressing against the back of your walls until he feels you tense before humping into his hand and letting out a desperate cry when he hits a particular spot.
So you like him there, he thinks. He can certainly do that. After all, a skilled fighter such as Morax is adept at pinpointing exactly where his blows will land. Striking his fingers is infinitely easier than striking large spears of stone or giant boulders, so his fingertips bully mercilessly into that sensitive spot over and over again as his tongue flicks back and forth along your swollen clit.
Once, twice—and then you are rolling your hips into his face, completely abandoning your worries about him holding your weight (which he is taking exceedingly easily, thank you very much) while you come undone on his tongue, on his fingers, on his face.
There is the wet essence of you smeared around his lips, partially on his cheek and his chin, sweet and sticky and delicious. Like a sweet sunsettia that he has devoured without care for having an ounce of shame. There is no shame in tasting you, he would argue—only a fool would savor his taste of this nectar instead of devouring it.
He works you through the entirety of your orgasm, until you are quivering from the aftershocks and whimpering, squeezing your legs to get away from his hungry lips that stay latched to your cunt.
“S’too much,” you whine, “s-stop.”
(It’s a cute plea. He’ll entertain it for now.)
Morax is fucking throbbing between his legs. His cock is hard enough that he knows there is a wet patch on his pants against his crotch—he can feel the dribble of precum even before he has freed himself from the confines of the tight fabric. When he stands, keeping your steady with an arm around your waist, he is burying his face into your neck as he groans deliriously into your neck.
“I have little patience, if not, little sanity left,” he says, voice gruff and low. “Tell me now if this is what you want because it won’t be long before I will be in no position to stop what you are starting.”
“You are starting this,” you have the gall to argue, even after he has fucked you so thoroughly with his fingers alone, “and I will finish it, so don’t even consider the idea of stopping—not unless you intend to be a coward.”
A coward. Oh? What a fierce, stupid little thing you are. He wonders if allowing yourself to have what you have always denied yourself the possibility of has made you bolder than ever. Maybe now, you consider the possibility that you may take as you please if what you wish for is right there in your reach.
Morax, the god of Geo, has never been known for being a coward, and he will not start today. So he grabs you easily, bringing your legs to wrap around his waist as his hands dig into the plush roundness of your ass.
“Which way to your bedroom, then?”
“Down the hall, first door to the left,” is all you can say before his lips are immediately on yours. That lip balm you use—the taste of it will drive him to madness. You will drive him to madness.
When you are tossed onto your mattress, there is only a second’s interval he bothers to allow you to catch your breath before Morax is impatiently hovering over you. He is raking his eyes over your form hungrily. You, and that skin that he has committed to memory under the sun, and those delicate fingers that tend to plants and pull weeds that are now fisting the sheets. He is going to take you, sink into you inch by inch, and mold you onto his cock, and you are going to look beautiful as he does it.
And when he is done, he will ask you if there is anyone else better suited to fuck you like that. (The answer, he is confident, will be no. No one could hope to fit you better than Morax himself—and you are only seeing one of his cocks tonight.)
Stripping you fully is easy enough—you are eager, very eager to shed your clothes, and even more eager to pull his own off of him. You marvel at the size of him—first his torso and the sheer broadness of him and his muscled physique, and then his cock and the thickness of him at full mast. His hands toy with your breasts, squeezing and groping as his thumbs roll over your nipples, and you impatiently gasp while trying to roll your hips lower to rub against his hard cock.
You succeed for a short second—and that short second is enough to make him pause as the wet friction brushes against him. He shivers, lets out a low groan—and then whatever patience he had left snaps.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says bluntly, “and you are going to take me fully. Here.”
His finger draws a line against your belly where his cock lies flat against you, long and thick and fucking swollen with desire. Your breath hitches as his fingertip trails over his tip, right along your skin, and then you whimper as you breathe, “P-please.”
“Say it again,” he grunts. “Say please—I want to hear you want me.”
“Please, Zhongli,” you sob.
Morax, he wants to correct—for a tense, fleeting second, he almost does. He debates it, decides against it, and grits his jaw in frustration. Frustration that he can only be rid of if he sinks into those tight walls of yours, he’s sure.
So he does.
He grips your jaw, pulls you into a hot, searing kiss, and presses his tip to your entrance, rubbing along your folds, coating you in his precum while coating himself in your own arousal, and when—and only when—you are sobbing out an incoherent plea of how badly you need him, how hard you want him to fuck you, how deep you need him to be, does he sink into you.
Because Morax is still Morax. And a god is still a god. He is to be worshipped before he will answer.
“Zh-zhong—li,” you whine the latter syllable of his name when he sinks fully into you, fully bottomed-out and pressed into your wet, hot folds. You take him well, he thinks—so good and pliant and obediently accommodating for the less than humble size of him.
(He did take his time preparing you, of course, but he isn’t one to skip out on giving credit where credit is due. You are good—so good. Good to him and good for him. He will reward you accordingly for it.)
“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, “worry not, I will answer your little prayers.”
“You loathesome, arrogant man,” you hiss, still filled to the brim with him. And yet, that does not stop you from speaking so freely. He’s amused, really.
“You certainly are not one to sweet-talk those whom you bed,” he notes.
“And you’re not one to be humble with those whom you bed,” you argue back.
“No, I suppose not,” he laughs.
And he will prove it to you, he is certain, that he deserves to be at least a little arrogant when he starts to fuck you. His hips pull back, almost fully slipping out of you, before he snaps them forward and buries himself all the way again, rolling and thrusting with a steady rhythm that angles the blunt head of his cock exactly against that same spot he found earlier. The stretch this time, of course, hits harder, hits spots his fingers couldn’t reach, drags along areas that he didn’t press into then. But he does so now, and you clench around him in response, welcoming him in, gripping him hard and tight and so fucking hot, his mind blanks for a second.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck you’re tight.”
“Yeah, and full, too,” you whisper into his ear as his face buries into your neck, “feel that? I’m full of you—all of you.”
Oh. He’ll get you for that. Get you for the way you make him moan so shamelessly at your words, for the way he loses his rhythm a little and fucks into you a little more desperately, for the way you giggle as he twitches inside of you.
He’ll get you, so he brings his lips lower, to your breast, and latches onto a nipple, rolling his tongue over it and sucking harshly so that your back arches into his touch when you feel it.
“Indeed, I do feel it,” he murmurs, switching over to the other breast, not leaving one nipple neglected in favor of the other, “I feel how needy you are around me, squeezing. I can hardly move, you know—are you really that desperate to be fucked?”
“B-be quiet, you awful thing,” you hiss.
He laughs. Chuckles as he finally lets go of your breast with a pop, before his lips are on yours. Kissing you, he finds, is the only thing that makes it even a little bit possible to lose consciousness of that tight, pleasant sensation of you around him. Kissing you is the only thing that could hope to distract his mind a little bit from you. Kissing you is the only thing that could be more important than this—than you, taking him, fitting him, and making yourself his just as much as he is yours right now.
He snaps his hips faster, and you drink in the low groans he lets out just as much as he drinks in the high mewls you feed him.
And when you cum again, erratically clenching around him as your walls spasm with the force of your second orgasm, he can hardly breathe as he feels his own high approaching. He tries—Morax tries, to his credit, to pull away and spill elsewhere, but you insist as your legs wrap tightly around his hips and pull him in closer, deeper.
“Inside,” you babble, “p-please inside!”
“Are you…” He pants, head spinning and vision blurring as you squeeze around him yet again. He’s so close—and it aches so good. “Are you sure?’
“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry, still babbling away as you ride out the final waves of your pleasure.
You finish, and Morax starts—the end of your orgasm triggers the beginning of his, like the ebb and flow of the tide, one wave retreating only for another to roll in and take its place.
Hot, thick ropes of his seed spill into you, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him, hard and brutal and dragging him into the depths of some hazy, incoherent place in his mind where he can hardly breathe. Your hands are on him—distantly, he’s aware of that. One is in his hair, and the other is shakily gliding over his back, like you’re trying to soothe him while he’s gone—so far gone into the throes of pleasure.
“Fuck,” he barely registers his own voice, “fuck—th-that’s…good.”
When he’s done—when his hips are finally finished rolling and give you a break from the extra stimulation, he collapses beside your body, and you instantly shuffle closer to cling to him, resting against his chest.
He lets you—happily, he lets you. His arms are tight and wrapped around your body, and you are so close that he can feel your erratic heart right against his.
“I don’t think this is what the old lady meant,” you mumble into his chest as you curl into his side, “when she said to keep me company.”
“I don’t believe she specified that this was what she didn’t mean,” he grins tiredly, and oh, you are so beautiful. So breathtaking when you are so small and vulnerable against him, and only him. “So we have not breached any agreements.”
“You are a bothersome businessman,” you yawn.
He chuckles, and then you sleep.
────────────────────────
When dawn comes, he awakens you with a kiss to your temple, and a soft promise of, “I will return when time allows it of me, this I promise if you will be waiting.”
“I’ll be waiting, harbor man,” you mumble sleepily.
He hums, presses yet another kiss to your temple, before he says, “Then we have an agreement.”
He is gone by the time you are properly awake, his clothes gone, and his scent lingering. The only proof that he truly was there, and that your mind is not playing tricks on you, is the simple qingxin he leaves on your bedside table and a note that reads, a flower that is not from your own fields, from a wandering businessman who hopes to evade incurring any further losses.
Perhaps time is not wasted, you think with a smile, if time is well spent. And perhaps Zhongli would not mind spending some of his abundant time with you.
-- — --
Zhongli keeps his word and returns not long after that.
And then he leaves, and then he comes back again. It goes on like that for some time. He never stays for long, but he comes and goes at least once or twice a month. For now, that is enough—you have a long life ahead of you, after all. What’s a few weeks to you? You can wait.
The more he visits, the more thrilled Madam Lu gets, much to your dismay—and worse, the more he visits, the more attached the two seem to be with each other. You cannot spare yourself from her horrifyingly embarrassing words now and then, nor can you save yourself from his thoroughly amused looks as she says them.
Zhongli, you think, could cut your long life span into a quarter of what it is at this rate. He starts every trip he makes, first, with a visit to Madam Lu—who, without fail, insists he stay for breakfast every time (and, of course, she does not have to insist for long because he agrees to her meals so easily), before sending you both off afterwards. Not without giving you a pleased, knowing smile as you leave, of course.
You shoot her a glare before tugging Zhongli along by the wrist, hissing something like, come—before that old lady says any nonsense that will fry your brain. He chuckles every time, eyeing you with mirth, before following you without much argument.
In the time that you wait for his next return, there is news that the god of Geo has fallen. Rex Lapis is dead, they say.
You are shocked to hear it—you are part adepti, after all. The Geo Archon is of your kind, and though you were never a devout worshipper, you have heard of the deeds he has done for your village, your people. You glance at Madam Lu as she sighs heavily, shaky and bony fingers watering her plants.
You grab the watering can from her hand, and she lets you.
“So much loss as of late,” she murmurs sadly, “how will people deal with so much grief, I wonder. At the very least, I hope they honor the lord well with a proper funeral.”
“I’m sure they will,” you hum, “after all, a funeral is for the living, not the dead—and the living cherish the Geo archon well, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’ve spent an awful long time with that funeral consultant,” she grins, eyes gleaming with excitement—with a certain glint that tells you she knows more than you’d like. “When is he next returning, then?”
“I’ve not a clue,” you huff, “he’s a busy man. He’s no reason to come spend all his free time here.”
You walk off, swiftly crossing over to another side of her garden to water flowers a distance away, but Madam Lu already has heard what she wants to—what she needs to.
“Not a clue, hm? So you do expect him?”
“Leave me alone, you nagging old lady!” you hiss over your shoulder. She only laughs, and even if it’s at your own expense, you are glad to finally hear the sound from her.
-- — --
There is much to catch up on with Zhongli the next time he comes—the most current update of the Geo Archon’s passing at the harbor, the investigation and the controversy surrounding it, the rite of parting he is handling on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor with the aid of some wandering traveler passing by and her odd, floating companion.
You listen closely, feeling an unfamiliar, unsettling weight on your chest as he tells you about all the progress she has helped him make with the many, many ceremonies. And by contrast, there is little to tell him—nothing more than the idle gossip the older women conjure up in all their free time in the village, or the disagreements there have happening between merchants who purchase and transport the crops you grow and sell here.
He tells you of all the knowledge he has on Liyue and its history, on its late Archon, on all of the duties he is so graciously carrying out, and you listen with interest—you do. But there is still an acrid taste lingering on your tongue as you swallow down his stories.
“This traveler friend of yours,” you mutter, “she seems very capable—what a stroke of luck it is that she’s helping you.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily. You are self-aware enough to know that there is a pout on your face—you cannot help it. And he chuckles as soon as it curls onto your lips. “Why the long face?”
“I’ve no long face, you bothersome man,” you huff, “this is my everyday face. You don’t like it?”
“I like your face enough to tell it apart from your everyday one and your sulky one,” he teases with an amused smirk.
He enjoys this, you realize—enjoys the way you are…well, what are you, exactly? Jealous? Insecure? Bitter? Or simply scared? Or are you everything all at once? You don’t know.
When the shift occurs on your face, the one where you are deep in thought, he gently pulls you by the hand and laces his fingers with yours as he walks up to your home. You are pressed against the door—and suddenly, you are getting deja vu from very different yet similar times where you were pressed against this very door by this very body.
“There is no need to sulk,” he murmurs.
“I am not sulking,” you huff.
“Well, in that case, if you were,” he laughs, “then there would be no reason to. I’ve come to keep you company—it was an agreement I made, after all. I am a businessman of my word, you see.”
Your chest is lighter as you look up at him with a small grin, and when he kisses you, you let him back in past your doors again, and into your bed. And you afford him some of your abundant time, just as he affords you some of his.
You’ll tell him, you think to yourself as you free his cock from his underwear—he groans when your hand wraps around him, and you watch the way his lips tug between his teeth as you stroke him slowly. You’ll tell him that you’re not just a mortal, just like he isn’t either, and that you have plenty of time to spend with him if he’ll spend it with you, too. Time that won’t be a waste.
“You can go faster, you know,” he says tensely, chest falling and rising rapidly as he tries to keep his breathing steady.
You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you shift on his lap, looking down at the way his girth makes your hand look so small. You marvel at the weight of him in your hold, giving him a small squeeze, teasing your thumb along his slit as he leaks pre cum, and he throws his head back with a choked gasp.
“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, “then this will all be over before we’ve begun. Surely, you have better patience than that.”
“I don’t see you enough to have much patience,” Zhongli says flatly, unimpressed by your teasing. Still, he lets you have your fun, as much as it seems to pain him, sitting patiently under you while he waits for you to get him off.
You kiss his jaw, his chin, his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, before finally moving your hand again, gently squeezing around the tip with every upward tick of your hand. Zhongli likes it that way—you’ve learned that when you touch him with the intention of making him cum, he likes it when you squeeze at the tip and when you slow down when he’s close and drag it out a bit longer, even if he might complain. He likes showing off his stamina—for such a polite and polished man, he can be a bit of a show off when he wants to be.
You watch as his face slackens, as it morphs beautifully into that look of raw and pure pleasure. You admire the way he bites his lip and parts his mouth and says your name when he feels particularly good. You admire the way he looks when his abs clench, his hips buck, and his brows crease when he’s getting close.
“You came to spend time with me,” you murmur against his cheek as you nuzzle your nose into it, kissing it softly. “Right?”
“Yes,” he pants, giving you a flat look even despite the way he is teetering so close to the edge, so worked up. “Of course I did, or do you think I let just anyone touch me so freely?”
“Just making sure,” you giggle. “Businessmen are known for being greedy.”
“I think the real greedy one is you,” he breathes.
You kiss him softly, quickening the pace of your hand, and with a twitch of his cock, he spills into it. You drink in the low moans and gasps he lets out as he cums, smiling when he croaks your name in between ragged breaths. It tastes so lovely when you drink in the sound of your name from his tongue. So sweet and decadent and rich.
“I’m the only one who waits so patiently for you, you know,” you peck his lips as he catches his breath when he’s finished coating your hand with his seed, “so you should only keep me company.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is that the new term of our agreement?”
“Yes,” you huff.
“Well, as I said, I am a businessman of my word.”
“Good.”
You’ll tell him, you think resolutely. Soon, you’ll tell him the truth of who, of what, you are, and perhaps he will tell you the truth of his in return. And you can continue to spend more time in abundance together, you can finally stop wasting your days and simply passing them by—they’ll have meaning soon.
────────────────────────
“Qingce village was ruled by a terrible god once,” you murmur to him one day, “or so the legends say.”
Morax feels your fingers trace aimlessly along his bare chest. He breathes steadily under your wandering little digits. For a moment, he tries to decipher what pattern it is you are tracing into his skin. He comes up with nothing. Another intricate design on the cloth that is mortality, he thinks—such seemingly frivolous acts of touch. Shapes drawn without thought, wandering lines with no meaning in mind, and yet they are not meaningless at all. There is something tender in it, regardless. Affectionate, perhaps, and expressed by the small comfort of touch alone.
He wonders if such things will become natural to him if he tries his hand at this life for long enough. They are natural to you—and you are far from mortal. He knows you are, even if you don’t tell him. Surely, if it were possible to become natural for you, then there is no such thing as impossibility for him.
“Ah, so you are familiar with the legend of Chi,” he murmurs, “though I suppose it’s to be expected of someone who was raised in this village.”
You pout, gaping at him in shock. He smiles at the sight. “Is there anything of Liyue’s history you don’t know?” you huff. “Just when I think I can teach you something.”
He chuckles at that—you feel it rumble under your cheek against his chest where you lie. The deep, fond sound alone washes away any lingering trace of irritation you had just a moment prior. “Very well,” he hums. “Teach me.”
“You already know the legend,” you point out flatly.
“Teach me anyway,” he insists. “Hearing the same story told by numerous people is advantageous still. One comes across many different viewpoints, you see.”
“You still talk like an old man, huh?” You snort. “Imparting life lessons one after the other—I suppose working at a funeral home and seeing so many losses has all but turned you into one.”
“A terrible fate,” he says mildly.
You huff again, though there is little heat left in it. Your fingers continue their idle wandering over the warm expanse of his chest as you begin.
“Well,” you say, “the people of Qingce say there was once a great demon called Chi. Some sort of dragon-like creature that forcefully took over this place. They say he was powerful enough to challenge the gods themselves.”
Morax listens silently beneath you.
“But he was defeated,” you continue. “Slain by the Geo Archon long ago. Afterward, his body was broken apart so he could never rise again. Each of the parts was sealed away in different places—hidden in the mountains and fields around Qingce so that none might gather them. Rex Lapis even taught the people of Qingce Village to make Geo statues to crush the Chi’s remaining power.”
Your fingertip traces a slow circle over his sternum as you think.
“Oh—and the villagers say those ruins scattered around Wuwang Hill? Those are the seals. Old mechanisms the Archon left behind to keep Chi’s remains locked away. If they were ever undone…” You pause, wrinkling your nose faintly. “Well. I imagine that would be rather bad.”
“That would be a reasonable conclusion,” he murmurs.
“And the old stories say the people of Qingce protected those seals for generations,” you go on. You tilt your head, glancing up at him. “That’s why the village values its stories so much. They’re not just stories. They’re warnings told through traditions, you could say.”
His gaze lowers to you.
“An admirable tradition,” he says quietly. “I did not realize the people of this village looked at it that way.”
Your finger pauses against his chest as you beam. “Ah, so I did teach you something.”
He smiles faintly—fondly. Yet there is something hollow in his eyes as he says, “Yes. You did. You’ve taught me quite a lot more than you realize, you know.”
“How so?” You raise a brow, reaching over to poke the tip of his nose. “I taught you the joys of bedding an easy woman, is that it?”
He laughs at that, bright and warm as his arms tighten around you. There is something akin to affectionate exasperation in his expression as he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.
Your breath hitches at that. He notices it so easily. Morax notices so much about you. He cannot afford to give you such physical affection as often as he’d like, given how little you see of him. He holds these small, fractional moments close to his heart the same way you do, as well, whenever they come—they are few and far between, after all.
“You have taught me the joys of sharing a bed,” he agrees, pinching your hip teasingly (and he makes sure that he is rather careful to remain gentle, too), “the joy extends elsewhere, too, however. Not just the bed.”
“Mister Zhongli,” you gasp, “dare I say a businessman such as yourself has turned sentimental on me?”
“Ah, yes. A most strange development indeed,” he plays along, shaking his head in amusement.
────────────────────────
When you awaken in the morning, your bed is empty. Zhongli has already made his departure for Liyue Harbor. Before disappointment can claw its way to your chest and make you bleed, however, you pause as you sit up and look to your bedside table.
A single qingxin is laid carefully there, waiting for you, along with a single coin of mora.
You smile to yourself—time is not wasted. Zhongli will afford you more time.
-- — --
The next time you are visited by Zhongli—or rather, this time you suppose it would be more accurate to say he hunts you down—he is desperate to touch you. You have never seen him this way.
You are tending to the crops when you notice him striding toward you across the fields, his pace unusually hurried. You straighten, brushing dirt from your hands as a smile pulls at your lips.
“Back so soon?” you call lightly. “Don’t tell me your bed was so lonely you had to come all this way just to see—oh!”
He catches your wrist before you can finish, his grip firm but not painful, and immediately begins pulling you along behind him.
“Zhongli—?” you protest, stumbling once before matching his pace. “Where are we—?”
He does not answer. Instead, he guides you away from the fields, away from the paths the villagers usually take, toward the rocky edges of the mountains that loom behind Qingce village. The ground grows uneven beneath your feet, tall grass giving way to weathered stone and uneven ground. There is a small opening for what seems to be a cave of sorts at the base of the mountains, and he leads you inside.
You recognize the place soon enough. And then your eyes widen.
“Zhongli,” you hiss, tugging slightly at his hand as he finally stops inside the cave. Moss-covered stone walls and old mechanisms greet you, and you shiver just from looking at them.
The ruins. The seals. This is one of the places, you are certain—one of the places where, according to the stories, remnants of Chi still lie, dormant and fragile.
“What are you doing?” you whisper sharply. “We cannot—” Your protest cuts off when he pulls you close. The movement is sudden enough to steal the breath from your lungs as his hand finds your waist, and his other settles against the back of your neck. “Zhongli—!”
Your words dissolve the moment his mouth finds yours. It is not the slow, measured affection he usually affords you. This kiss is urgent—desperate, almost. He pulls you flush against him like he fears you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.
For a moment, you are too startled to respond. Then you melt and kiss him back. Then, when your senses return, your hands brace instinctively against his chest as you pull back just enough to stare at him.
“Have you lost your mind?” you whisper, scandalized. “We cannot do such…such indecent things here!” You gesture vaguely toward the ruins around you. Of all places. “Do you not see all this around us? This has to be where the seals are, Zhongli!”
He does not release you. If anything, his hold tightens slightly, amber eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your irritation falter.
“I am aware,” he says quietly.
You sputter at how calm he seems to be. “That does not make it better!”
But he is already kissing you again, slower this time, though no less needy. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist as if grounding himself. The mountains around Qingce stand silent, but it feels strangely like the ancient stone is watching over the two of you.
You are weak to Zhongli, however. Not even ancient deities and the thought of awakening them to wreak havoc on your home is enough to change that. He presses you against the hard wall of stone, and you let him, angling your head so he can kiss your neck.
He hums in appreciation. “Allow me to make it better then,” he tells you. And your resolve crumbles instantly.
────────────────────────
Morax knows exactly what sleeps beneath this place. After all, he is the one who sealed the parts of Chi away all those years ago. And his memory is exceedingly good—he does not forget such things so easily. In fact, he does not forget them at all.
He also knows what is coming to Liyue.
Soon, the sea will rise, and soon, an old god will stir. Morax knows what such god lies beneath the seas, pinned by his own stone spears. Osial has never been anything short of a tyrant—he remembers those days well. How tall and unforgiving the tsunamis were, and how easily Osial tormented the mortals of this land with such harsh waves, all for the sake of his own gain. The people of Liyue will not suffer at the hands of such shameful deities. Whether it is because they have fended off this threat alone or because of Morax himself, he will have to see soon enough.
But oh, how Morax longs for the day that he will step away from this role he has carried for millennia. How he longs for a time when he is nothing more than a wandering man in the streets, living peacefully among his people in bliss. And how he longs for the simplistic joys indulged in by the lifestyle of mortals—of affection and delicate touches and fond smiles.
So he kisses you again—because in this moment, with your hands fisted in his coat and your breath catching against his lips, he needs to know that choosing this life will be enough. That stepping away from being a deity, should his people succeed, is a proper choice and not a foolish mistake. Morax is not known for being a fool. He is a wise god and a capable fighter. He has led his people to prosperity, and in return, he is worshipped sacredly by the people of Liyue.
Morax does not make mistakes. Not when his decisions involve Liyue.
But then he wonders—what god leaves his people to fend for themselves during an oncoming disaster? A disaster that they are unaware of is on the horizon, no less. What god would step in only when his people are at the brink of defeat, and not simply from the beginning to ensure they are always guarded? That is his role, is it not? And such roles surely do not expire, do they?
But erosion has chipped away at his heart of hard stone—until the unyielding bedrock of it has worn thin, leaving something far more fragile beneath.
Morax, after so, so long, yearns for a life outside of what he has always known. What he has fought and slain countless divine beings for. What he has always thought to be his fate forever.
You break his kiss once more, breathless. And he, when you gently cup his cheeks with those tender hands, feels weak to his knees in a way he has never felt. The Geo Archon called Morax has never felt weak. (What a laughable choice in word, in fact. And yet…that is the unbearable truth. You have weakened Morax—far more than any erosion is capable of doing.)
“I still think this is a terrible place to do this,” you mutter weakly.
His quiet laugh brushes your lips. “Noted.”
And yet he does not move away. If anything, he makes sure to settle his hands more firmly at your waist, drawing you closer until there is scarcely a breath of space between you.
“You are impossible,” you murmur, though, he notes, your protest lacks conviction now. Your fingers remain curled loosely in the front of his coat, as though you have forgotten to let go.
“Am I?” he hums.
You open your mouth to retort, but the words falter when he leans in again—not quite kissing you this time, but close enough that your breath mingles with his. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, searching your expression with intensity. He finds exactly what he is looking for—want, need, desire. Love, dare he say.
Do you love him? Morax knows he has grown to love you. You have taught him what it means to be human, after all—or at least live like one, and he has never wanted to live like a human more than he does now in all of his long, endless life.
“I know you are aware how dangerous this place is,” you scold him softly.
“Mm.”
“That should concern you.”
“Perhaps.”
You huff faintly, glaring. “You are not taking this very seriously.”
Something warm flickers in his eyes at that—at the way you so easily make his heart squeeze with something as simple as an expression on your face. Everything he has sought you out for has fallen into place. You are the clarity he has searched for. His people will prosper, he thinks—a new age of Liyue has grown for years now. The age of the mortals. No longer do they need him to guide their way of life, and perhaps…perhaps Morax can take his place alongside them. As an equal and not a deity.
And perhaps he can take his place alongside you, as well.
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you a fraction closer, until your body presses fully against his. Your breath catches.
“Zhongli—”
Your warning dissolves when his lips find the curve of your jaw instead, slower now, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The sensation steals the rest of your protest before it can form.
“You said this was a dangerous place,” he murmurs softly against your skin.
“Yes,” you manage.
“And yet you have not left.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in his coat. Your heart pounds traitorously in your chest.
“Well,” you say, attempting dignity and failing somewhat, “that is because you have not given me the opportunity to.”
A quiet chuckle rumbles against your throat.
“Ah,” Morax says gently. Then his hand slides higher along your back, and the rest of your protest fades into another kiss. “Alright then.”
He steps away. Your fingers tighten their clutch along his coat for a moment before letting go, and you stare at him incredulously. Like you cannot fathom that he has pulled away.
“What—”
“Go on then,” he challenges. Rather smugly, too—Morax is a god, sure, but he is not without his own flaws. He remembers his less-than-humble days during the era when he was a much younger deity. “You may leave if you so desire. I won’t stop you.”
“You are a loathesome man, you know,” you grumble. And then you pull him back in, and he hums in satisfaction against your mouth. You kiss him—just as desperately as he does, and this is how Morax knows that his place has changed.
His place is no longer on the throne of the divine, watching and guiding a nation that has evolved to survive without him. No, his place is here. With you. Where you will make his old, aging heart feel young and new again, learning and experiencing the joys of a life he has never thought possible for himself.
“So you’ve said,” he murmurs in between kisses.
His hands work at the bottom of your skirt, gently lifting it to trail his fingers at the thin hem of your panties. He slowly pulls them down along your thighs, just midway, and enough to expose your heat to allow his fingers to sink in. And sink in they do, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around his digits.
That familiar scent of yours invades his nostrils—that scent that he finds he can no longer ignore.
“...You are not human,” he says thoughtfully.
You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him, utterly incredulous, breath still uneven and labored from his fingers working your folds apart, pressing into your deepest, most sensitive parts.
“Y-you…you cannot possibly be bringing that up right now.”
Morax’s expression remains maddeningly calm. “I felt it best to confirm.”
“Confirm?” you repeat, aghast. “You choose now to confirm?”
You gesture vaguely between the two of you, clearly referencing the rather compromising position he has put you in. His thumb brushes idly along your hip as though he does not find the timing nearly as outrageous as you do. You glare at him for that, and Morax is all too pleased by your expression.
He only smiles in amusement.
“I have known since the beginning,” he says.
Your eyes narrow. “…You have?”
“Yes.”
“And you are only saying something now?”
“It seemed the appropriate moment.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “This is the least appropriate moment imaginable!”
You are just adorable, he thinks as a chuckle escapes him. “I happen to disagree.”
And then, because Morax cannot help himself, and because he has decided that leaving his divine duties behind means that he can allow himself a moment or two to be utterly distasteful, he thrusts his fingers into you faster, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles. He watches as your mouth falls open, a soft, ragged moan tearing from your lips as you breathe his name.
“U-unbelievable,” you stutter, “have—oh, fuck—have you no sense of shame?”
“You are half adepti,” he continues calmly, with his fingers still inside of you. “It is not difficult for one such as myself to recognize.”
“Oh, is it not?” You glare at him between your panting.
“No.”
You squint up at him. His fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot in the back of your walls, and your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long, wanton moan. Then, slowly, your eyes blink open. A faint, unimpressed smile curls at the corner of your mouth.
“Well,” you say breathlessly, “that makes two of us.” His brow lifts a fraction. “You think I h-haven't figured it out by now? You—ngh—are n-not…human either, Zhongli.”
For the first time since this conversation began, he actually pauses. The pace of his fingers in your cunt does too, and for that, you give him a hard glare as you whine in protest. But he cannot bring himself to care.
“…Oh?”
You snort softly. “Please. Your eyes glow when you use elemental energy. Humans do not do that—I had my suspicions you were also some sort of adepti.”
A quiet laugh escapes him then—low, warm, and thoroughly entertained. “How perceptive,” he murmurs, “I did not realize you noticed me so closely.”
You huff, flustered. “And for the record,” you add dryly, “most people would have this conversation before putting their hands where yours currently are.”
Morax hums thoughtfully at that, resuming his earlier movements along your folds. “…Duly noted.”
You cum on his fingers not long after, and once you have just barely caught your breath, he pulls you into a deep kiss.
Morax, despite all the growth and wisdom he has accumulated in his…well, thousands of years' worth of growth and wisdom to accumulate, still has his moments where he is nothing but an arrogant, cocky bastard.
And that is exactly why he is going to fuck you here, in these ruins, where there is a god laid to rest. A god that could easily awaken if these ruins were to be tampered with too carelessly. He needs to see it for himself—as fucking pompous as it is—that he has done an undeniably good job at his duties. That he can disrespect a god by fucking the woman of his affections in their ruins, and still risk nothing. Still worry not one bit about the safety of his people. Still exist and live his life exactly as he wants it now—with you and only you, and not deal with the headache of a threat.
“You always take me rather well,” he murmurs, groaning as he pulls his fingers from your cunt, as your pussy flutters around the digits while he unburies them from your heat.
He means it when he says that—you always do. You take him in so easily, so effortlessly, so readily. Of course, he’d like it if he could take you properly here—and if he could have it his way, he’d strip you completely, pin you against this wall, fuck you from behind as he glares smugly right at the vault that holds Chi’s spirit, and make you cum before he fills you to the brim with his seed so you can walk out of here with the evidence of his accomplishments.
But he doesn’t have that time nor patience, and something tells him that being that zealous would perhaps break you from your own need-filled trance and force you to draw the line.
He doesn’t want that.
He wants to feel you—he wants to watch you fall apart on his cock, feel himself fall apart as he kisses you senseless, and then leave knowing that he’s making the right decision for the right reasons.
You are his reason. And you could never be a mistake.
And now, with the fact that neither of you is a mortal acknowledged and out of the way, he can fuck you how he really wants—with both of his cocks. He pulls his own slacks down just enough to free two hard, aching cocks, giving one of them a few slow strokes and gritting his jaw as his breath grows labored, before staring down between you both as he brings the tip to your entrance. He watches as his tip sinks into you, disappearing with the slow press of his hips forward. This much, you’re familiar with, of course.
What you’re not familiar with is the second hard, curved length that mirrors the one buried inside of you. Your eyes widen, and you stare at it in awe—maybe, dare he even say, a little bit of fear that shoots right to his crotch and makes his second length twitch.
“Two…?” You breathe out, “what—”
“Surely this much is not hard to believe if you know I am not a mortal,” he chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you quiver beneath him, itching for him to move already as he stays perfectly still while buried to the hilt inside of you.
“But…th-they won’t…they can’t both fit,” you breathe out in alarm.
Morax laughs—low and smug and amused enough that you fix him with a sharp glare as you flush under his slightly egotistical gaze.
“Maybe not today,” he agrees, “but I know you’re good—good for me, good at taking me. With a little patience, I think you’ll handle them just fine, don’t you think?”
You shiver, swallowing thickly as you stare at his second, well-endowed arousal before slowly nodding in a trance. Morax grins—because of course, of course, you would be so perfect for him. So pliant and easy to agree to his whims and requests, with how plainly good you are to him. And he is, as he always has been, a generous, giving deity, so he will reward you well for it, as he always does.
For now, though, he focuses on gently grabbing your hand, bringing it to the cock that isn’t pressed deep into your dripping cunt, and watches as you instantly, obediently make a fist and wrap your hand around him, slowly stroking just the way you know he likes. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but he never gets used to how well you know him—how easy it is for you to do all the right things and touch all the right places in all of the right ways and make him feel so fucking good.
“Fuck,” he curses, “you have always known too easily how to drive me mad, you twisted woman.”
You huff, using your free hand to tug him close by his jacket, pressing his forehead to yours, “And you have always known too easily how to do the same, you loathesome man.”
That’s all it takes for him to decide that he wants you now. Needs to feel you good and proper. Needs to watch you as he sinks in and out of you, and watch as you struggle to concentrate as you pump the cock in your hand while the one in your cunt drags along your sensitive folds and presses deep into all the right places.
The first roll of his hips, you hiss. The second, your jaw slackens, and you whimper his name. The third, you squeeze your fist around him without realizing it, and he feels his mind fucking blank for a moment as he feels the tightness of you around him—whether that’s your hand or your cunt—not once, but twice.
Morax groans, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he snaps his hips and fucks you, and you mewl when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles mercilessly against the delicate, swollen bundle of nerves.
“You—your company was a dangerous agreement to make,” he breathes against your shoulder, “do you realize that? How easily you have taken over my head. Every thought I have, every agreement I make, every contract I sign—it all reminds me of you. You, your smile, your annoying chilis, your stubborn words.”
“I’m not stubborn,” you argue.
He chuckles, disbelieving and out of breath. You drag your hand up along his cock, squeezing around the tip before quickly dragging it down and twisting at the base—he moans. Loud and uncaring, giving that damn vault (the one with Chi’s defeated spirit, he likes to haughtily remind himself) a smug look because, well fuck—he can simply just do that if he pleases. And he does. And he will continue to.
“No,” he hums—it comes out more like a low rasp. “No, I suppose not. I suppose I only think you are stubborn because you will not leave my thoughts, and perhaps that blame is on me to bear, not you.”
He snaps his hips once, twice, a third time—by the fourth, you’re already clenching around him as you come undone, letting out a soft cry of, Zhong…li!, while he chokes on the feeling of you squeezing so tight and so fast around him like that.
Morax wants this life. You. The easy, simple knowledge that he can step down, spend his days freely with you, beside you, (and yes, perhaps in you, too), all without breaching the contract he has with his nation, with his people. He wants to tiptoe around your chilis, and leave qingxins on your nightstand, and tell you stories of Liyue’s history, and laugh when you are flustered by that old woman whom you love so much.
He wants this easy, simple, mortal existence after so long. The one where affection and endearment are so simply woven into his being, where power is not the reason he is here, where wisdom is not the burden he must bear. He wants you and the life you make him fantasize about. And he wants it badly.
As badly as he wants to cum and fill you up right now—and one final thrust of his hips, sloppier in pace now that he’s so close, and he spills into you. You pull him into a kiss, and he thinks about what it would be like to kiss you like this every day, and he feels himself spill onto your hand at the thought as you continue to pump him through his high.
“You—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a low, needy moan, “you are the one I want to keep me c-company. Always.”
You smile against his jaw at that, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he finishes riding out the last few waves of his orgasm before murmuring into his skin, “I’ll keep you company if you keep me company, too. Deal?”
“Deal,” he breathes, cradling your cheeks like you are gold as he brings your lips to his.
And Morax, if his people pass this final test, he decides, will have his answer for good this time.
-- — --
The crisis of Osial’s summoning ends not with the drowning of Liyue, but with its salvation.
The sea recedes. The waves calm. And the people—his people—stand victorious. From afar, Morax watches the harbor where mortals and Adepti come to a truce. He watches proudly. Watches in relief. Watches with a quiet ache, despite it all, as the end of his era as the Geo Archon is finally, after so long, solidified.
And almost immediately after he takes care of the loose ends, he leads his feet away from the harbor and up the narrow paths toward Qingce village.
Toward you.
────────────────────────
You find him near the edge of the fields just as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky burns amber, turning the terraces gold. Zhongli stands where the path curves, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for some time.
You slow down when you see him.
“…You’re okay,” you say gently.
Zhongli tilts his head faintly. “I was not aware my well-being had been in question.”
You cross your arms. “Oh, forgive me for worrying,” you mutter. “There was only a sea god trying to drown the entire harbor.”
At the mention of the event, his gaze shifts briefly toward the distant horizon.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “So there was.”
You study him for a moment. Something is…different. Not in his appearance. Zhongli still stands as composed and elegant as ever—still in such fine silk, even with little mora to his name. (How he has such poor finances, you will never understand.) But there is a strange ease to him tonight, as though some invisible weight has finally been set down from his chest.
“You didn’t come all this way just to stare at the sunset,” you say eventually.
“No.”
“Then?”
He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that you begin to wonder if he may not answer at all.
Then he says, “There is something I have not told you.”
You snort at that. “Well, that’s not unusual,” you reply flatly. “You are a very secretive man.”
“This matter,” he says carefully, “is somewhat…larger than most. And not one I could evade in good conscience if…I would continue to pursue you in this way.”
That gets your attention.
Pursue you.
You have not discussed the details of this…arrangement between you and Zhongli. Not outside of when you might next see him, or if either of you will be particularly busy in the coming weeks to meet at all. Hearing him say so candidly that he considers himself to be in pursuit of you brings a delicate ache to your heart—an ache of longing.
You want him. All of him. And you have avoided asking him all this time if that might be a possibility for fear of losing him altogether—but he has handed you your desires so easily with one sentence—confirmed he wants it just the same as you do, even. That he has been seeking you out all this time and not just the familiar convenience of your body.
You smile at the idea and look at him with bright eyes.
“Alright. Pursue me properly then, Mister Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” He winces at that title a little. Your brows furrow.
“You are aware,” Zhongli begins slowly, “that I am not human.”
You blink at him like he has grown two heads. “…Yes. We have established that, or did you forget? And neither am I, so there is no need to be concerned that I would worry over something as meaningless as that.”
“That is not the issue,” he sighs.
“…Okay,” you say slowly, a bit more cautiously now. “Then what exactly are we talking about here?”
Zhongli exhales slowly. “I…am Rex Lapis,” he says bluntly.
You stare at him. Blink once. Then twice. And then you break out into a fit of giggles as you look at him incredulously.
“No, you are not. What a silly thing to say—now tell me really what this is all about.”
“I am,” he insists, almost mildly offended.
“You absolutely are not.”
“I assure you—”
“Rex Lapis is the Geo Archon,” you interrupt, pointing vaguely toward the harbor far in the distance. “The god of Liyue. The one who—”
Your voice falters as you take a look at his face.
You know that face. You have studied it over the course of weeks. How it looks when it is sleeping and peaceful, how it looks when it is tired and glum, how it looks when it is bright and joyed, how it looks when it is lax with pleasure and need, and how it looks when it is painfully serious and honest.
You know him. You know how to read him inside and out. How to tell when he is telling the truth or evading it altogether. You know him because he is yours—he has been for quite a while. And you know that he is being truthful.
Your stomach drops.
“…Oh. I see. You are not lying, then,” is all you say.
Zhongli inclines his head slightly. “No, I am not.”
“Fascinating.” You nod slowly.
“You are taking this rather well.”
“Let’s not be so hasty to assume—I am still deciding if I should throw something at you.”
“That would be understandable.”
You run a hand over your face. “Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You are telling me that the man I have been—” you pause and clear your throat, “—um…spending time with is actually the god of Liyue?”
“Yes,” he says easily. His eyes flash with a momentary fit of amusement.
“Well, disregarding the matter of why the Geo Archon would be parading around as a representative of a funeral parlor—you thought it would be appropriate to mention this only now?”
“There were…complications.”
You stare at him. “Complications,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
You let out a long breath. Then you gesture vaguely at him.
“Well, go on then, Your Divinity. Explain.”
Zhongli does not react to the sarcasm. Instead, he looks out toward the distance. “For thousands of years,” he says quietly, “I have ruled Liyue as its Archon.”
You huff, “Yes, I am aware of the history.”
“But Liyue is no longer the nation it once was. Mortals have grown. They have built their own institutions, their own systems of governance. Trade flourishes without divine intervention. Contracts are honored by people who no longer require a god to enforce them.”
Your expression softens slightly. “Your people still have reason to need you,” you say, stepping closer, “there is no need to doubt your purpose as their god—”
“It is not about what they need,” he shakes his head, staring down at the grass as he sighs. “It’s about what…what I need. What I want. I have longed for ages now to know that I have done my duty. And perhaps rest this old, eroding soul of mine. Osial’s defeat has given me the reassurance that I may step down without worry.”
“So the sea god…”
“Was a test.”
You stare at him again. “…You let a sea god attack Liyue as a test?”
“Well, I was not the one to summon it,” he defends, smiling faintly with mirth at your bewildered look, “I was simply aware it would happen. But I was prepared to intervene if necessary.”
“Well, did you intervene?” You ask.
“No. I was pleasantly impressed to see the Qixing and the adepti handled it swiftly.”
Silence settles between you again. Then you let out a soft, delicate sigh. “Well,” you mutter, “that explains things, I suppose.”
“Does it?”
“Only a little.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Erosion is not the only reason,” Zhongli says quietly.
You look back at him. “Oh?”
His gaze returns to you. “I have carried the role of Archon for millennia,” he says. “Longer than most living beings can even comprehend. And yet, in recent years, I have begun to wonder whether there is more out there to experience than simply being a powerful deity.”
“Being a powerful deity is no simple matter,” you scoff in disbelief.
“No, it isn’t, I suppose,” he chuckles. “But, still, there are more things to experience in life—I learned that when I met you.”
You blink. Your chest tightens slightly. “Meeting me hardly seems that relevant.”
“But it is. You…” he says quietly, “your chilis and your flowers. Your laughter. Your skin under the sun. Your voice. Your stubbornness. You have altered my perception of what it means to be alive as opposed to simply be living. Even your scolding,” he hums with a pointed look, and an endeared smile.
You pause as it sinks in properly who he really is, and how you’ve been engaging with him—and then, your breath hitches before you gasp in horror. “Oh—I insulted the Geo Archon.”
“Yes, it would appear you have. Repeatedly.” He gives you a slightly cheeky look as he says, “Some would consider that an unforgivable sin, you know.”
You cover your face. “I am never showing my face around you again.”
“That would be unfortunate.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “…Why?”
“Because I would miss you.”
The words are spoken so simply that it takes you a moment to process them. Your hands slowly lower. “What do you wish to gain from such easy flattery?”
Zhongli—or perhaps Morax, you should call him, maybe even Rex Lapis—meets your gaze, laughing softly. “I stepped down because Liyue no longer needs its Archon,” he says. Then, more softly: “And because I wish to live as a normal man. To walk among the people I once ruled. To learn their customs not as a distant observer, but as one of them.” His voice grows quieter. “To experience the small joys of mortal life.”
“You will not be mortal,” you scoff, “even if you step down.”
“But I can live like one,” he says easily. “There are many joys to the mortal way of life.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that so?”
“Yes. And I find,” he says gently, “that many of those joys seem to involve you.”
You stare at him. “Me?”
“Yes.”
You look at him a little longer—cautious, careful. You think back on all the little moments that led you here—that first damn day he came to your quiet, small village, stepping on your sprouting chili plants as he walked confidently in the complete opposite direction of where he needed to be. That easy, effortless way he’d helped your grieving heart fill the empty place left behind by Master Lu’s passing before you’d even realized something was missing at all. The kind, thoughtful way he spoke to Madam Lu and ate her cooking, talking with her like an old friend, like someone who understood her loneliness without her ever having to say it aloud. And that soft, delicate way he slowly made you realize that your existence, outside of this small, gentle village, could belong beside other people. That you, with your half-adeptal blood and that quiet, lingering sense of abandonment you had buried down all those years ago, could still be worth something to someone beyond the only place you had ever believed you were allowed to belong.
You love him—oh, you think, how you love him so easily and desperately and hard and deep and fierce. You love him with that mixed blood in your veins and that broken part of you that has always wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, if you truly, really belonged anywhere at all. You love him because he keeps you company, and you love him because keeping him company is the easiest thing you have ever known how to do.
You want to keep loving him. When years and years and more years pass—ten, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred—you want to love him still. And you want him to love you, too. You want to spend your long, endless days with him and watch time pass slowly and steadily at your side. He has so much of it to spare, and so do you, and you want to spend that time believing that not one day is a waste if you spend it together.
You love him, and you want to dare to believe that he could, after all this time, grow to love you the same way.
“This sounds like a confession,” you whisper.
He looks at you with a small glint in his eyes. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”
“You are the former god of Liyue.”
“Yes.”
“And you are confessing to me.”
“Yes.”
You let out a long breath. It’s relieved. It’s joyed. It’s fucking exasperated and annoyed. “Well,” you mutter, “be that as it may, you have deceived me, deity or not. And any man who deceives a lady must make up for such egregious wrongdoings.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “Then I will do that. I hope it will be satisfactory. Do offer me some leniency, if you will—I have only been living as a mortal for so long.”
You study him for a long moment. Then you sigh, stepping closer. “…You are still a loathsome man.”
“I have been told.”
“But,” you add reluctantly, stepping closer, “you are the loathsome man I have grown fond of, nonetheless.”
He steps closer, too, invading your space so freely and easily, as if he exists simply to do that. Like it is his right to do so, no questions asked. He grabs you by your wrists, pulling closer and flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours as he studies your eyes. You love him, you think, oh, you love him so much, it could kill you—it could rob you of all the endless time that you have.
And if he knows that, then he decides to spare your poor heart and your poor life span, too, as he murmurs, “I have fallen in love with you. Won’t you let this old, eroding man settle down in your company and pass his days in peace?”
You laugh (and it’s a watery little thing) as you shake your head in disbelief. “Say that again—and then I will believe you.”
“I love you,” he chuckles, raising a brow, “must I write it in a contract before you believe me?”
“I love you too, you loathesome, bothersome man,” you sob, “I’ll keep you company too if you stop deceiving me like the shady, untrustworthy businessman you are.”
He brings you into a deep, desperate kiss, cradling your face like it is the precious remainder of his long, endless lifespan pressed into his palms. You kiss back. It’s familiar. It’s new. It’s weird and odd and frightening, all at once—and yet, somehow, it is the most effortless, and correct thing that you do.
“It’s a deal,” he murmurs, “yes?”
“Yes.”
-- — --
“Does that traveler girl know that you are Morax?” you ask against his bare chest, tracing your fingers along his skin. He is still catching his breath as he pulls your naked body against his, sighing as he gives you a look. Like he already knows where this is going.
“Yes,” he says, warily.
“So she knew before me, then,” you narrow your eyes.
“Technically, that is the case, yes. But that is only because—”
“Perhaps you should seek her company, then,” you say petulantly, huffing as you dramatically roll away from him.
Zhongli—after much questioning from you over whether he should be Morax now, or perhaps Rex Lapis, he has firmly insisted that this is the name you are to call him by—sighs as he takes your wrist and tugs you back against him. He gives you an exasperated look (and yet, despite it all, there is unmistakable fondness beneath it) before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Do not sulk.”
“I am not sulking.”
“And don’t be so stubborn all the time.”
“I’m not stubborn,” you say defiantly.
He gives you a flat look. “Seeking out your company is not for the weak, is it?”
You give him a smug, bright grin at that—and you almost think you watch him fall in love with you all over again. “Get used to it, then, old man—you have a long, long time of my company ahead. And it certainly is not for the weak, you’re right.”
He laughs—low and warm and quietly endeared, but above all, certain. “Good,” he hums. “That is fine by me. I have always been known to be rather strong, you see.”
You curl into his chest, and he holds you close, and you and Zhongli have all the time in the world.
(And no—none of it is a waste.)
shoutout to my family sized doritos pack that kept me company as i wrote the last 14k words of this fic in one setting (my eyes and wrists are dead)
summary: in which the lads guys break no contact (& want you back)
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, & caleb
notes: kinda angsty (?) a little toxic (?) maybe (?) ...i purposefully left all of them ambiguous so you can interpret whatever However you want (i lowkey refused to explicitly state what was done wrong though bc i just do not have it in me to allow a man to get away with anything ever so!). all of them were made in mind with happy endings so implied hurt/comfort but if you truly want to you can create your own LOL. allusions to stalking/cyberstalking (mildly), reader can come across a littleeee bit mean but that's kinda fun so...that's it (i think)
p.s. i must create another that is so stupid and nsfw to counteract this i cannot WAIT !!! YAY !!!
a/n: this is lowkey not my best but i fear i enjoyed putting them in Situations so i should maybe unpack that soon...ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
gummygunk
stormborns
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germansingergirl
