Hi! I just wanted to inform you that it seems like someone made a c.ai bot by copying one of your Mydei fics called Missed Opportunity I believe? Unless this is your account or you gave them permission. It's by a user called @/Roxana_no_yes I would send the pictures but it seems that's not allowed on anon on your blog orz.
Hi! Thank you for letting me know about this. I’ve never granted anyone permission to use my fics for AI, and that account definitely doesn’t have my consent.
I’ve also received reports from readers that my fics are being uploaded on other sites without my authorization. Just to clarify, aside from Tumblr, I don’t post or update my fics anywhere else, so if you see them elsewhere, they’ve been taken without permission. I really appreciate you looking out!
Can you do a yandere Phainon with a reader who is a childhood friend and likes him a lot, but would rather read a "him x reader" fanfic?
Basically he has a lot of people who like him, so they wrote a lot of "him x reader" fanfics. And Reader really enjoys reading them more than interacting with him :D.
What’s Yours Is Mine
Yandere!Phainon x Reader
You were sewing back the button for Phainon. He’d been a bit too energetic lately, no surprise there. Despite being your childhood friend, his radiant energy always felt like it belonged in a different world from yours. After school, he’d usually hang out with his club. Sometimes, though, he’d walk you home.
Today was one of those days. He sat across from you now, shirt draped over your lap as your fingers worked the needle. He’d probably popped the button from running too much or throwing himself into some ridiculous game, typical Phainon. Still, you could feel his eyes lingering on you.
“There.” you said, snipping the thread and handing him his shirt.
“See you at school tomorrow.” he replied with a smile, before heading toward his house, just a few doors away.
That night, you had your own routine, browsing the school’s online forum, diving into the popular fanfiction section. Phainon was practically the king there. His name lit up the trending tags, with pages of Phainon x reader fics written by enthusiastic classmates.
Across the neighborhood, Phainon sat alone in his room. The button you’d sewn back wasn’t just a button to him. His thumb traced over the faint indentations your fingers had left in the fabric. He held it as though it might vanish if he let go, his gaze fixed on the neat stitching.
You were sitting at your desk during recess, earphones in, scrolling through a Prince Phainon fic. The author had just written a dramatic confession scene when a shadow fell over your screen.
You jumped, quickly locking your phone. “You scared me!”
Phainon only tilted his head, eyes flicking to the untouched bento in front of you. Without a word, he tore open a small rice cracker packet, pinched one between his fingers, and pushed it toward your mouth.
“Eat.”
You bit down out of reflex, the salty crunch filling your mouth. He watched until you swallowed, and there was something almost…satisfied in his expression.
After school, you ended up at the convenience store together. He grabbed an ice cream for himself, paid for yours, and handed it over. You finished your ice cream first and handed him the stick to throw away before hurrying toward your house.
Phainon stood there for a moment, watching you disappear around the corner. Then he glanced at the two sticks in his hand. He tossed his own into the trash without hesitation. Yours, however, he slipped into his pocket.
At home, his desk drawer opened with a quiet creak. Inside was a small, neat arrangement, items that would have looked meaningless to anyone else. A folded movie ticket stub. A scrap of ribbon. A worn eraser.
And now, your ice cream stick, laid carefully alongside the others.
After class, you slipped away from the usual chatter and laughter, weaving through the corridors until you found a quiet corner. Your phone was already in hand, screen lighting up with the next chapter of the fanfic you’d been following. It wasn’t that you disliked people, you just needed to recharge, away from the noise.
You’d barely gotten a few lines in when a familiar voice broke through.
“There you are.”
You looked up, and Phainon was already leaning against the wall beside you. Before you could greet him, he pressed a lollipop against your lips.
“What the-”
“Just try it.”
He’d already been eating it. The thought made you nearly drop your phone. You managed a short exchange with him, two, maybe three sentences, before excusing yourself.
Phainon didn’t follow. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the lollipop in his hand. The corner of his mouth curved, almost imperceptibly. Turning on his heel, he started toward his own house, already deciding he wouldn’t throw the lollipop stick away.
----
Phainon was all smiles that morning, greeting everyone he passed on his way to class. You, on the other hand, took a quieter route. It wasn’t that you disliked him, it's the total opposite, you just preferred the safety of a screen, the neat predictability of text over the unpredictable weight of a real conversation.
Evening came, and the class was busy with cleanup duty. You were laughing lightly with two friends as you headed down the hall to refill the mop bucket. Your phone stayed on your desk, still glowing faintly with notifications.
Phainon noticed.
He didn’t even think about it, just picked it up, the shape of your password moving through his fingers. The screen unlocked instantly, as if it belonged to him.
By the time you returned, he was leaning casually against your desk, holding your phone out.
“Careful,” he said, placing it into your hand. “Someone might steal it.”
The glow of the screen had gone dark.
----
Your parents had invited Phainon’s family over for dinner, a tradition from when you were kids. But as the years passed, his parents were often overseas, and those dinners happened less and less.
Tonight felt almost like old times. After the meal, you and Phainon slipped away to your room, a stack of manga between you like the old days.
You were midway through a volume when you called over your shoulder, “Phai, look! I can’t stop laughing.”
“Do you know,” he said, “that seeing you with others irritates me a lot?”
You froze, blinking up at him.
“Do you share your stuff with others this easily?” His eyes held yours, “Well, I don’t like it.”
The next thing you knew, you were on your back, the mattress soft beneath you, his hand pressing lightly into your shoulder. “I want you to be mine.”
Your heart stuttered, heat rushing to your face. “W-what-”
He smirked. “Saw it on the forum.”
“Y-yeah, I saw it too… Definitely not reading it, though.”
The page you’d asked for lay forgotten in his lap.
“Really?” he’d murmured, leaning in just enough that you could feel his breath. The space between you shrank, close enough for a kiss.
And then his parents called from the living room.
“Aw, what a shame. See ya later.”
He pulled back, and left.
The next day at school, you couldn’t focus. Every time you caught yourself thinking about it, it felt like you were hiding something criminal.
The guilt faded only when you saw a notification, another Phainon fic this time. Your pulse quickened for an entirely different reason.
Across the room, Phainon sat a few tables away. One glance at your eyes was all it took, he knew that look. His phone was out a second later, his thumb scrolling until he found the same update.
By the afternoon, he’d had enough.
As you stepped out into the hallway, he was steering you into a quiet corner, his gaze locking on yours.
“Well, well, well..”
Your breath caught as he stepped closer, until the wall met your back.
“I’ve been liking you for a long time,” he murmured. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”
He leaned in. Your instinct made you tilt your head back, avoiding the kiss.
So he brushed his lips across his own fingers instead, then pressed them against your mouth.
“Good enough.” he said with a faint smile.
Before you could react, his other hand was at your collar, plucking loose the top button of your shirt.
“Mine now.”
And just like that, he was gone, the small button vanishing into his pocket.
You had only been at NRC for a short time, but you’d already learned one thing: Savanaclaw students were trouble. So when a group of them cornered you after class, you knew it wouldn’t end well.
Before you could react, they’d clamped a collar around your neck and dragged you straight to their dorm leader.
Leona was lounging under a tree, half-asleep, when his underlings shoved you forward.
“Look what we got for ya!” one of them crowed. “Thought you might wanna keep ‘em.”
Leona’s ear twitched. His gaze locked onto the collar around your neck.
“Who,” he said, “told you to do this?”
The grins faltered.
You barely had time to blink before Leona’s hand shot out and the collar disintegrated into sand.
The Savanaclaw students paled.
“If I ever catch you pullin’ this stunt again,” he snarled, “I’ll bury you alive.”
And with that, he stalked off, leaving you sitting there, very confused, but weirdly touched.
Maybe Leona wasn’t so bad after all.
[1-0]
----
The Starsending had been magical.
As part of the chosen group, you’d moved under the shimmering lights, performing the special ceremonial dance. The crowd had cheered, tossing flowers at your feet.
Did they just… pick these from the botanical garden?
You winced. You took care of those flowers.
So after the performance, you sneaked back to check for damage.
The greenhouse was eerily quiet, bathed in silver moonlight. You tiptoed between the exotic plants, sighing in relief, no missing petals. Maybe the culprits had been careful.
“-HRRK!”
A pained yowl split the air as your foot landed on something furry.
Beneath you, a tail lashed violently.
“You’ve got three seconds to explain why I shouldn’t turn you into fertilizer.”
You scrambled back. “I-I was just checking the flowers! Someone stole some for the festival, and I...”
Leona’s glare sharpened. “So you stomp on my tail instead?”
“I didn’t see you there!”
“Tch. Typical herbivore.” He sat up, rubbing his tail with a wince. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to curse you.”
“...Sorry.”
Leona studied you for a long moment before sighing. “Whatever.”
You hesitated, then settled beside him, carefully avoiding his tail this time.
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of crickets.
Then, unexpectedly, Leona smirked.
“You weren’t half bad tonight.”
“Huh?”
“The dance. You didn’t embarrass yourself.”
Was that… a compliment?
Before you could respond, he flicked your forehead, then nuzzled his head against you.
“Now scram. Next time watch where you step.”
The next day, something was off.
Hybrid students kept their distance, noses scrunched as they glanced at you. Even Grim, who usually clung to you wrinkled his muzzle and flicked his ears in irritation.
"Ugh, what’s that smell?"
You frowned, lifting your sleeve to sniff. You’d bathed just fine.
But then, a student from Savanaclaw stiffened as he caught your presence.
"Of course he would do that.."
Confused, you marched straight back to the botanical garden.
Sure enough, Leona was there, tail flicking as he watched you approach.
"Back so soon, herbivore?"
"What did you do to me?"
"Hm? Do I look like a babysitter? You’ll have to be more specific."
"Everyone’s acting weird around me! Grim says I smell, and the students won’t even come near me!"
"Oh? That." He stretched, rolling onto his side to face you fully. "Maybe they’ve got enough sense to recognize when something’s claimed."
Leona reached out, fingers brushing against the side of your neck, right where he’d nuzzled you the day before. "It’s a warning." His fingers grazed your skin. "Means back off."
You gaped at him. "You...you marked me? Without asking?!"
Leona shrugged, utterly unrepentant. "Consider it payback for stepping on my tail." His tail flicked against your leg, "Besides, you’re better off this way. Now every idiot knows you’re under my protection."
"That’s not- I didn’t ask for it!"
"Too late."
Leona just laughed, flopping back on the ground like a self-satisfied cat. "Relax, herbivore. You’ll live."
You demanded he undo it.
"Nah." His tail flicked lazily. "But I can make it worse."
Before you could react, he lunged.
"Ow- HEY!"
His teeth sank into the meat of your shoulder. You yelped, instinctively grabbing the nearest thing, his stupid, twitching ear and yanked.
Leona recoiled with a hiss. "Feisty today, aren’t you?"
You didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
[2-0]
---
By lunchtime, the whispers had already started.
"Did you hear? The prefect got marked by Leona."
"No way. Like, marked marked?"
"Dude, I saw the bite."
Grim, perched on your shoulder (after much grumbling about the 'weird lion stink'), squinted at you. "Ya really pissed off the wrong guy, huh?"
You groaned, tugging at the high-collared festival costume you’d dug out of your closet. The fabric was thick enough to hide the fresh bite mark.
"I didn’t do anything! He’s just-!"
"A jerk?" Ruggie’s voice cut in as he slid into the seat across from you, grinning.
"So you knew."
Ruggie held up his hands. "Hey, don’t blame me! He’s always been like this. If he decides something’s his, good luck changing his mind." He leaned in, "But hey, look on the bright side, now nobody’s dumb enough to mess with you."
You buried your face in your hands.
You found him back in the greenhouse, exactly where you’d left him.
Leona didn’t even open his eyes as you stormed up. "Back for round two?"
"Fix. This."
His ear twitched. "Can’t."
"You bit me!"
"And?" Finally, he cracked one eye open, "You’re the one who tugged my ear. We’re even."
You wanted to strangle him.
Leona sighed dramatically, sitting up. "Look, herbivore. The scent’ll fade. The bite’ll heal. But until then?" His smirk returned, "Might as well enjoy the perks. Free pass in Savanaclaw, no more idiots bothering you…"
You crossed your arms. "And what do you get out of it?"
His tail swished. "Entertainment."
By the next week, the rumors had spiraled into something wild.
"They say Leona challenged the prefect to a duel and lost."
"No way, I heard they’re dating."
"Dating?! But didn’t he bite them?!"
You wanted to scream.
Leona, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the chaos. Every time you passed him in the halls, his smirk grew wider.
[3-0]
---
“Ah, these got mixed up in the laundry. Since you know both of them, could you return them?”
You blinked. “Me? Why not just give them to their dorm members?”
“Well… no one from Savanaclaw is answering, and Diasomnia’s students are… hard to approach.”
You sighed.
Diasomnia was easy, sort of. You found Lilia and he cheerfully took Malleus’s uniform.
“Oh? How interesting that you were entrusted with this.”
You ignored the implication and moved on.
Savanaclaw, however, was a problem.
The moment you stepped into the dorm, the usual chatter died. Students who would’ve normally sneered or challenged you suddenly found the walls very interesting.
“Hey, can one of you take this to Leona?” you called out.
Silence.
Gritting your teeth, you muttered, “Fine. I’ll just leave it in his room.”
You knocked. No answer.
“HEY! I’m just dropping off your-”
You pushed the door open.
And froze.
Leona stood in the middle of the room, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping from his hair. His ears flicked at the intrusion, and his tail gave an irritated twitch.
“…Herbivore.”
Your brain short-circuited.
“I-uh-your uniform--” You thrust the folded fabric out like a shield.
Leona stared at you for a long, long second before his lips curled into that infuriating smirk.
“If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could’ve just asked.”
“I DIDN’T-!” You threw the uniform at his face.
He caught it effortlessly. “Relax. It’s not like you haven’t seen worse.”
“I haven’t!”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He tilted his head, water droplets sliding down his neck. “You’re still here.”
You were not staring. At all.
Before you could combust, Leona’s tail flicked toward the door. “Get out before I decide you owe me for the show.”
You fled.
The next day, Ruggie sidled up to you with a grin.
“So. Heard you got an exclusive view of him.”
You choked on your lunch.
You were never doing anyone a favor again.
[4-0]
---
You hated admitting it.
But when he was in the middle of a match with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face as he dominated the field.. yeah.
Leona was stupidly handsome.
Too bad he was also the most insufferable person you’d ever met.
You were still grumbling to yourself about stupid, arrogant, unfairly attractive upperclassmen when you passed by the stadium exit.
Wait.
“…Is that”
“He’s my nephew.”
“You’re… babysitting?”
“Just for an hour.”
Your brain short-circuited.
Since when was Leona good with kids?!
Leona turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“I..no, I just didn’t think you’d be the type to..”
“To what?” His smirk was back. “Handle something more fragile than your ego?”
You scowled. “Forget it.”
----
Azul had somehow convinced Crowley that the Octavinelle dorm needed "external oversight" for their latest merchandise launch, which really just meant free labor. And of course, you got volunteered.
"It's a truth-speaking ring" Azul explained, adjusting his glasses.
You eyed it suspiciously. "And it does… what, exactly?"
Jade smiled. "It compels the wearer to answer any direct question truthfully for a full day."
Floyd leaned in. "Unless ya got seeecrets~"
You should’ve said no.
You definitely should’ve said no.
But before you could, the ring was slipped onto your finger 'for testing purposes' and Azul cheerfully informed you "Oh dear, it’s already activated! Well, no matter. It’ll wear off by tomorrow!"
You were 100% certain he did that on purpose.
You were this close to making it back to Ramshackle when a shadow fell over you.
"Herbivore."
You froze.
Leona stood in your path.
"Why were you with Azul?"
Your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.
"Because Crowley made me babysit his stupid merch and now I’m stuck with this stupid truth ring and I hate it."
"Oh?"
You clapped a hand over your mouth. Oh no.
"What do you really think of me?"
You fought it. You tried. But the ring burned against your skin, forcing the words out like a dam breaking.
"You’re arrogant, lazy, and you never take anything seriously, but you’re also stupidly hot when you’re not being a jerk, and it’s really annoying!"
Leona’s ears shot straight up.
Then he laughed.
"Took you long enough to admit it."
You wanted to vanish.
"You’re enjoying this."
"Damn right I am." He flicked your forehead. "Why’d you run away that time you saw me shirtless?"
"BECAUSE I WAS EMBARRASSED AND YOU WERE SMIRKING LIKE AN IDIOT!"
You were going to murder Azul.
You turned to bolt, but Leona’s tail hooked around your waist, yanking you back.
"Nuh-uh. We’re not done." His breath tickled your ear. "One last question.…You wanna go get lunch?"
"…What?"
He rolled his eyes. "The ring only makes you answer truthfully, not loudly. So?"
…Well. At least he wasn’t asking anything else embarrassing.
"…Yes."
[LEONA WON]
----
Leona was too easy to mess with when he was asleep. Sprawled under his favorite tree, tail twitching occasionally, he looked peaceful.
And you?
You were bored.
So you did what any reasonable person would do, you poked his cheek. You flicked his ear.
Emboldened, you leaned in and whispered, "Your tail’s drooling."
His nose scrunched.
You grinned. "Also, Ruggie said you snore like an old hyena."
That did it.
"…Herbivore."
Oh no.
Leona moved faster than you could blink. One moment, you were crouched beside him, the next, you were flat on your back, grass tickling your neck as he loomed over you.
"Teasing a predator in his territory? Bold move."
"I-uh..meant to wake you up for class?"
"Liar." His thumb brushed over your shoulder, right where his bite mark had once been. "Huh. Healed already."
You shivered. "Yeah, so..no need to- ah!"
Then, to your shock, he pulled back… and kissed you.
When he finally broke away, you were breathless.
"There." His tail flicked against your leg. "That one’ll last longer."
"…What was that for?!"
Leona rolled his eyes. "Consider it a permanent mark."
Then he flopped back down onto the grass, dragging you with him, your back pressed against his chest.
"Now shut up. Naptime."
----
Leona was trying to watch TV in your dorm. You didn't know it can work that well. Maybe it was afraid of him.
Keyword: trying. Because you, being the absolute menace you were, had decided that his personal space no longer existed.
You were draped over him like a clingy blanket, arms wrapped around his waist, face nuzzled into his shoulder. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you kept nibbling his ears.
Every time his ears flicked at a sound on screen, you’d lean up and gently bite the tip, grinning when he growled under his breath.
"Herbivore," he warned, "I’m this close to tossing you off the couch."
You ignored him and did it again.
Then, you tugged his tail.
Just a playful little pull, like you were teasing a house cat.
Leona’s entire body stiffened, his grip on the couch armrest tightening to the point you heard the fabric creak.
"…Did you just"
You blinked up at him, all faux innocence. "Cute cat."
In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him.
"You’re real bold today." he murmured, leaning down until his lips hovered just above yours.
You held your breath, waiting for the kiss. But instead of your mouth, he felt you duck under his chin, pressing your face into the warm crook of his neck.
You took a deep, dramatic inhale… and went limp against him, fake-snoring.
Leona stared down at you.
"…Are you serious right now?"
You let out an exaggerated sleepy mumble, nuzzling deeper into his collarbone like you were out cold.
His tail whapped your leg in irritation.
"Tch. Fine."
Because Leona never let anyone win, he dug his fingers into your sides, tickling you mercilessly until you screamed and flailed, nearly rolling off the couch.
"OKAY OKAY I’M AWAKE!"
"That’s what I thought."
You pouted, rubbing your now-tender ribs. "You’re the worst."
"Yeah, yeah." He hauled you back up against him, this time trapping your legs under his tail so you couldn’t escape. "Now sit still, or I’ll bite your ears next."
(I hope the anon who requested this prompt gets to read it. Since replying directly might spoil the plot, I decided to make a separate post instead.)
The sun filtered through the thick canopy above. It was a peaceful afternoon, and Mydei, heir to the throne, had finally escaped the stifling stone corridors of the palace for a hard-earned moment of quiet.
The rhythmic clop of his hooves slowed as he approached a familiar clearing. He breathed in the earthy scent of lichen and wet stone.
A rustle. He turned his head just as something fell.
Without thinking, his arms moved, catching the figure mid-fall.
He had seen countless faces, noble and common alike. For the first time, he saw a human. Your cheeks were flushed, your breath uneven, leaves tangled in your hair.
His heartbeat stumbled.
Your body twisted like wind through reeds and before he could even call out, you were gone, weaving through the bramble with the light-footed speed of someone who had done this a hundred times.
And just like that, the clearing was empty again.
Mydei stood frozen, still feeling your weight in his arms.
“...A human?” he whispered to himself.
His heart thundered in his chest from awe, from wonder.
That night, nothing held his attention.
All he saw when he closed his eyes was you.
He had to find you again.
He returned to the same moss-covered clearing where you had fallen into his arms like a dream he didn’t know he was waiting for.
Mydei said nothing to his guards. He didn’t take his usual escort. He left his royal regalia behind, opting for a light mantle of leather and plain bronze armor. There was no road to where he was going.
He studied old maps by candlelight the night before.
Uninhabitable.
Too dense to ride through.
Abandoned by all signs of hybrid life.
That meant the rumors might be true. That humans, the long-lost people of the Old Era, really had carved out their secret corners of Amphoreus.
Humans were thought to be extinct by now. Yet here you were, in a world ruled by hybrids, a sight so rare it might happen once in a thousand years.
He visited the marked locations on map one by one. Days passed. Then weeks.
Each forest edge he found was thicker than the last. With his large frame, traversing it was… infuriating. Roots snagged his hooves. Thorny vines wrapped around his limbs. At times, he had to backtrack and find another way around entirely.
He brought offerings.
He remembered the scent of your hair, like wildberries and citrus leaves. He guessed, then, and packed with him crates of the rarest fruits from the high plateau.
On his seventh attempt, he stopped at a bend near a thicket that sloped downward, just before a stream.
He just placed the fruit. Arranged them in a small circle. Then backed away into the cover of low ferns, as quiet as his body would allow.
Time passed.
You crept from behind the low boulders, bare feet light against the soil. You moved on instinct, checking the surroundings. Your eyes darted to the fruit. You hesitated. Then crouched, gently lifting a starplum in your hand.
A quick shift from the brush, he surged forward, but not like a hunter.
You turned, startled, and ran.
But this time… He was faster. “Wait, please!”
A hand brushed your wrist, then caught it.
Your body twisted in the air, but he gently pulled you back into his arms.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
You thrashed in his hold, but his strength was unmatched, even as he knelt slightly to seem smaller.
“I swear it.” he said again, “I didn’t tell anyone about you.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“What are you called? Your name... please.”
You hesitated before telling him your name.
“Y/N.”
You had never heard anyone say your name like that.
And then, just as quickly, he let go.
He stepped back, first one hoof, then another, his large frame retreating like a tide drawing away from shore. His arms remained loose at his sides.
You waited. Ready to dart again.
But he didn’t chase. Just stood there, nodding once, as if promising he would not cross the invisible line you had drawn.
You grabbed the fruit pouch you’d stuffed and disappeared back into the trees.
He didn’t follow.
Not physically.
But Mydei had spent his entire life learning how to track, and wait, and play pretend.
So he did what he was best at.
Days later, he found the subtle marks of your new camp, half-washed footprints near a secluded creek, small cloths drying high above where most creatures wouldn’t look.
He made careful note of every detail.
He never approached.
But every movement, every pattern of yours was etched into his memory.
It started small.
He "stumbled" across your path again.
“…You again”
You stiffened behind the ferns, half-crouched like prey caught in a snare.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a round, glowing fruit. He gave it to you and chewed one to prove that it's edible.
The next time, he made idle remarks about the animals nearby. Mentioned how he often came here alone to rest, to be away from his people.
He never said the word “prince.”
Bit by bit, you began to linger longer when he showed up.
He began to craft conversations designed to seem coincidental. Comments about certain berries that grew near your side of the stream. Warnings about a predator pack moving westward.
“You’re quick. Do you climb the inner trees to cross the water?”
“Sometimes.”
“You made that pouch yourself, didn’t you?”
“... Yes.”
“Have you ever tried firefruit tea? I think you’d like it.”
You responded eventually. Short, clipped answers. But he could tell your guard was lowering.
Every word you gave was a treasure.
At his private chambers, by candlelight, Mydei stood alone in front of a forest map he had drawn by hand. Pins marked every place you had touched. Threads connected your trails like constellations.
He exhaled slowly, tapping a finger on a curved ridge near the west hill, you were shifting your shelter again. Probably testing if he could follow.
He could.
He wouldn’t tell you that, of course.
---
The clatter of a goblet echoed across the marble floor.
Krateros slammed his hands against the stone table.
“You’re past the coming-of-age cycle, Mydei. If you don’t choose a bride by year’s end, the elders will choose for you.”
Mydei said nothing at first.
His arms crossed calmly over his chest, but his thoughts were far from still. They drifted to you.
“I am looking,” he said. “I just haven’t found the right match.”
Krateros grunted, not believing a word of it.
----
You spotted him again. This time stuck between two thick trees, his large centaur frame wedged awkwardly as he grunted under his breath and tried not to curse. His saddle-pouch was caught on a branch.
You tilted your head from behind the thicket, amused.
“You should stop going this far in.”
Mydei looked up, ears flicking in surprise.
“I could say the same for you.”
You sighed and moved closer, just enough to grab the strap and lift it free, while keeping a branch’s length of distance. As you pulled the pouch free, your fingers grazed his flank, and he jolted slightly.
Days later, he went to find you again.
It was your first time holding a bow. A proper one.
You resisted at first, eyeing it, but curiosity got the better of you.
“Relax your shoulders.”
He reached out, gently guiding your elbow.
Your body tensed.
“Don’t worry,” he added, sensing it. “I’ll let go the moment you ask.”
You didn’t speak, but neither did you pull away.
A bird flickered above the canopy.
You released and the arrow spun wide into the brush.
“Damn it…” you muttered.
He chuckled. “We’ll try again.”
Each time, he corrected your form with hands that were always careful. Never lingering too long, but long enough for your breath to hitch and for you to step away after, pretending to adjust your grip or fetch another arrow.
He never mentioned it.
But he always smiled a little when you blushed.
On some nights, you'd sit across from each other near a small fire he built. You never let him get too close, but you no longer flinched when he arrived. He spoke of the stars, of old myths of hybrid ancestors, and slowly, you shared tales of your forest.
Sometimes, you'd catch him watching you when you weren’t looking.
----
“You’re distracted.” Krateros spat after sparring.
Mydei wiped sweat from his brow, his expression calm despite the bruises forming on his side.
“No. I’m focused.”
“Focused on what, boy? Some fantasy bride hiding behind trees? The elders will not accept a faceless myth.”
“They won’t have to. When she comes with me, it’ll be as my queen.”
Krateros paused. “You really believe she’ll leave that forest?”
Mydei turned to him, and for once, his mask cracked just enough to show the spark behind his calm.
“I believe she’s the only one worth convincing.”
Mydei's patience had frayed.
There were too many hands reaching for his arm. Too many eyes on his crown. And one particular hybrid mare had been far too persistent.
“You should marry for duty,” Krateros had warned. “You can keep your forest friend as a secret, but you need a queen.”
He ignored it. As he always did.
That night, he rode for the forest.
You were sitting where you always sat, legs crossed near the fire, poking at roasted root slices and dried berries. You offered him half.
That, to him, was progress.
He made you tea. You drank without question, murmuring about the strange birds you saw near the south path.
And your words began to slur.
Your last sight before slipping under was his face.
You woke with a jolt.
Your body was sprawled on velvet blankets. Light poured through tall carved windows.
You stumbled to your feet. You rushed to the window.
It was high.
You thrashed at the door, pounded the frame.
It opened.
Mydei stepped in.
“You’re awake…”
“You...”
“I didn’t want to frighten you.”
“I trusted you... And you took me from my home.”
“You would never have come on your own.” he said. “And they were going to choose someone else for me. Someone I could never love.”
Tears welling in your eyes, not just from betrayal, but from the confusion.
“So you took me?”
“Yes.” he admitted.
And then added, “Because I love you.”
You turned away and didn’t speak again.
He respected the distance, never forced himself on you. Still, there were servants, a few trusted ones who brought you food, water.
You overheard one servant whisper that they’d been told you were a forest spirit, a blessing his majesty was protecting.
He still visited. Every night, without fail.
He never demanded anything. Just sat across the room.
Once you caught him curled on the cold floor outside your door, asleep upright.
You stood at the door in silence.
Then sighed, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and opened it just wide enough to toss it over his sleeping frame.
The door shut again, quietly.
You no longer hated him.
The illusion of secrecy could only last so long.
It began with whispers among the nobility, rumors of a mysterious girl hidden in the east tower. Then it spiraled. Someone caught sight of you through the upper terrace.
The court was buzzing.
And the King and Queen demanded an audience.
You would both show yourselves, or face forced inquiry.
Mydei’s jaw had tensed as he received the decree.
“They won’t harm you,” he swore under his breath. “I’ll never let them.”
The servants, his trusted few, bathed you in lavender water and oils from the moonvine fields. Combed your hair with coral-toothed combs. And finally, they brought out the garments. A flowing chiton, embroidered at the hems with golden thread and several other jewellery.
When you looked into the mirror, you hardly recognized yourself.
Mydei entered beside you.
The royal hall was massive, atop it sat the king and queen.
Their eyes locked onto you the moment you entered.
You stiffened. Your steps faltered.
Mydei noticed instantly, and shifted his flank just slightly in front of you.
He bowed.
“I present to you,” he said clearly, “the one I choose.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Some hissed in disbelief.
“She is human?” the Queen finally asked, “We thought your kind extinct.”
You looked at her.
Then glanced at Mydei.
The King leaned forward, claws tapping against the carved lion-arm of his throne.
“Do you understand what it means to stand beside our heir, human?” he asked. “You are not just rare, you're valuable. For alliances. For everything you've been running from.”
“She will not be offered. She will be with me, or not at all.”
You turned to him slightly, surprised by the public defiance in his voice.
The Queen studied the both of you. Then finally waved her hand.
And with that, you were no longer a secret.
The royal hall blurred behind you.
You barely caught the murmurs, the stares, the click of claws against marble before Mydei swept you away, his hand gripping yours firmly as he led you outside.
He didn’t say a word until the door shut behind you.
It was the first time you had seen his room.
He turned to you then.
“You’ll stay here now”
“This is your room.”
“Exactly.”
“Then you stay. I’ll go back to the tower. Or the forest. I don’t belong here, Mydei.”
That was when his eyes darkened.
“You are not going back.”
Before you could step away, his arms pinned you firmly between him and the wall, one hand braced above your head, the other hovering just at your waist.
“I’ve been patient. I waited for you to trust me. But I won’t let you run anymore. You’ve already been seen. If you vanish, they’ll hunt you.”
You stared up at him, heart pounding, not just from fear. From the tension, the closeness, the way his voice trembled not with rage but with desperation.
“I brought you here to protect you. But if I’m being honest…”
He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, “…I don’t want to sleep another night without you near.”
The door creaked open.
Both of you turned.
A servant stood in the doorway, arms full with trays of food, and froze.
“…Ah, I see this is not… perhaps the best time.”
They slowly backed out, carefully setting the tray on a side table.
The door shut again.
Mydei stayed there, his body still caging you against the wall, his breath warm against your skin.
“You can sleep where you like,” he finally murmured, stepping back. “But don’t ask me to send you away.”
The bed was warm when you woke, but empty.
For the first time since you’d been brought here, the morning belonged to you.
No one ordered you to dress.
No one asked anything.
You could have left.
But you didn’t.
You bathed. Let the breeze dry your hair. Found a fresh robe draped over a chair. You wrapped it around yourself and wandered toward the garden balcony you had seen from the window.
Meanwhile, Mydei stood once more before the throne, his arms behind his back, gaze steady as he addressed the King and Queen.
“I came to say I intend to marry her.”
The Queen arched a brow, barely amused.
“You already swept her into the palace, paraded her in court, and disappeared before we could ask another question. What more is there to oppose?”
His father smirked faintly. “We know the look of a fool in love.”
“Is that permission?”
The Queen waved a lazy hand. “Go. Do what your heart insists on, since you never listen otherwise.”
The garden was quiet. You sat on a low swing strung between two stone archways. Bare feet brushing the grass. Head bowed as you carefully wove green stems and soft white blossoms into a grass crown in your lap.
You didn’t hear him at first.
But he paused at the edge of the garden path, just watching.
And gods, how he loved the thought of seeing you like this every day from now on.
He stepped forward.
Your eyes met.
No words passed between you.
But you stood. Crown still in hand, you walked past him without a sound, skirt brushing his leg as you returned to the chambers he once guarded like a secret.
His heart skipped a beat.
---
The bed was softer than moss. Warmer than the forest sun. You stirred slowly, eyes blinking open to a room still cloaked in gentle shadow.
A presence beside you.
Your breath caught as you turned.
Mydei, still fully dressed in his royal robes, his hair slightly undone from sleep.
He stirred as well, blinking once before giving a slow, low chuckle.
“You told me this was my room,” he murmured, “So… I returned. Just as you said.”
His golden eyes never left yours.
You opened your mouth, perhaps to protest or to sit up, but his hand gently yet firmly pressed you back against the silken pillows.
“If you don’t love me,” he whispered, “then I’ll make you. Eventually… you will.”
You weren’t sure if it was fear or something else that made your breath shallow.
He leaned in, kissed you deeply. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down the slope of your neck. A hand slid along your side, not rushed.
“You were always meant to be mine,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Amphoreus took too long to return you to me.”
Knock
“Your Highness,” came a voice from behind the door. “The emissaries from the Grove have arrived early. The king demands your presence.”
His jaw clenched.
His eyes closed for a moment, forehead resting against your shoulder as he let out a long, slow breath through his nose. His hand still cradled your side.
He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, then pulled away reluctantly.
“Rest.”
Despite what Mydei said, you didn’t stay in his room.
At first, you only wandered down the corridor. But soon enough, you found yourself carried by curiosity.
You didn’t know the name of this palace. You didn’t know the names of the people. Yet everywhere you passed, you felt eyes on you.
“That’s her…”
“The human girl.”
“His Highness found her in the wild, didn’t he?”
There were whispers, glances, and the unmistakable sound of hooves or paws echoing faintly behind archways.
A soft voice called to you from the herb gardens, “Miss, wait!”
You turned, surprised.
A young palace servant jogged up to you, her apron speckled with crushed leaves. She hesitated when she reached you, then bowed her head quickly.
“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to frighten. I… I just wanted to thank you.”
“Me?”
“My son,” she nodded. “You bandaged his knee earlier. He hasn’t stopped bragging about it.”
You gave her a smile, unsure of what to say. But the servant smiled back, genuinely. “You’re kind,” she said. “Not what the stories made us believe.” She hesitated. “I hope they let you stay.”
You returned from your bath, your hair slightly damp. The palace maidens had gifted you clean robes. A small, warm meal awaited on the table. Roasted root vegetables, honeyed flatbread, and a cup of something that smelled faintly floral.
You didn’t eat much.
You missed the sounds of wind rustling between forest branches.
You slipped under the thick blanket.
And then sleep pulled you gently under.
Late at night, the door opened with barely a sound.
Mydei stepped inside. His eyes immediately sought the bed.
There you were.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He didn’t want to wake you.
Instead, he crossed the room slowly, peeling off his mantle and boots. He paused at the side of the bed and just watched you.
Then, carefully, he lay down beside you, keeping a gap between your bodies, but close enough to feel your warmth.
----
You stirred under the soft sheets, blinking away the haze of sleep.
You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed, and padded quietly to the door.
You tried the handle.
It didn’t budge.
You frowned, gave it another turn, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Then panic set in.
You banged on the door with your fists. “Hello?” you called out. “Is someone out there?”
“Mydei!” you yelled louder, “Mydei!”
Then, at once, the door clicked.
You lost your balance and stumbled forward, but not to the ground, right into his arms.
“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re alright.”
“You locked me in?”
His ears twitched. “No, it was the guards.”
He stepped aside.
You followed his line of sight.
There were piles, mountains, of gifts outside your door.
Woven baskets overflowing with fruits, cloth, carved trinkets, perfumes, rare feathers, small vials of dyed sands, handwritten letters, some drawings, too. A few flower crowns lay gently atop the heap, clearly made by children. One little scroll had a message carefully written:
“For the Human Princess.”
You stared, stunned. Then you looked up at Mydei.
“Why?”
“They heard of you,” he said. “What you did. That you’re kind.”
You felt your eyes sting. You hadn’t expected this… warmth.
You turned back to Mydei.
“I still don’t know what you truly want,” you said, “You brought me here. You said you loved me. But I still need time to understand you. Marriage… marriage isn’t just duty. It’s not something I can do without love.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
“That's... the first time you talked that much.”
He paused a short while.
“Then take all the time you need.”
Maybe you’d stay a little longer.
---
Today, it was a tall, lion-bodied court tactician who approached first. He bowed low and offered you a stalk of moon-blush flower.
“A rare bloom,” he said gently. “Much like you.”
Before you could speak, a sharp snap tore through the air.
The stem of the flower, cleanly sliced, hit the ground between you.
You both turned.
Far off, on a terrace above, Mydei.
He didn’t even bother to come down.
The tactician cleared his throat, stepped back with a stiff nod, and left.
The clang of weapons filled the air.
Mydei stood center of the ring, bare-chested, skin glistening with sweat. He now sparred with a younger centaur guard.
“The prince is in rare form today.”
“It’s because someone mentioned her name again.”
The moment the word her floated in the air, Mydei's ears twitched.
Without warning, he slammed the younger guard into the ground with a vicious twist, sending a shockwave of silence through the arena.
“Again,” he ordered coldly. “You're too slow.”
The guard winced, barely able to rise.
“Is this how you plan to protect royalty?” Mydei snapped. “Then you deserve to be replaced.”
Nobody dared speak.
---
The palace glowed that night.
Nobles of all forms gathered for the diplomatic banquet of the season. You were seated near Mydei. You still weren’t used to this kind of grandeur.
Then came a noble named Theron, a hawk-hybrid. His feathers shimmered black-blue along his muscular lower half.
He was pouring you wine before you could decline.
“A symbol of our alliance. Surely you’ll try it… for diplomacy?”
You felt Mydei’s hand stiffen beside you, but you didn’t notice enough. You’d only sipped.
Then you sipped again.
And the world began to blur.
The room tilted, then faded completely.
You were being carried.
The room spun gently.
You lay atop Mydei’s massive bed, the silk brushing your skin as you rolled your head lazily to the side. Your vision cleared enough to see him again.
He stood by the window, shirtless, chest rising hard and fast from what could only be a fight. Blood smeared across his knuckles.
When he noticed that you were up, he approached and reached to adjust the blanket over you, but you suddenly grabbed his arm.
“You're strong.” you giggled, tracing your fingers across the marble-cut muscle of his forearm.
He froze.
“Are you.. drunk?”
Your hand wandered over his shoulder. His breath hitched.
“I bet all the girls dream about you.” you whispered. “Even your enemies probably..… want to touch…”
He leaned closer.
Then you leaned in and kissed him.
Your hands were in his hair now, pulling him down. Your giggles turned to whispers.
“You’re warm…”
He gripped your wrists gently, pulled away.
“You're not yourself.”
You blinked slowly, your arms falling away.
“But I do want you…”
“Then remember that in the morning.”
You kissed him.
He let out a low, barely audible breath. His hand came to the back of your head as if to stop you, but it hesitated.
Your lips trailed lower, kissing his neck then gently sucking on that same spot.
“You’ll leave a mark.” he said quietly.
His breath hitched when you kissed him again.
“If you keep doing that,” he said, “I won’t stop again.”
Knock. Knock.
“Your Highness, it’s urgent.”
You blinked slowly, dazed.
Another knock. Firmer.
His jaw clenched so hard you thought he might shatter.
With a long, deliberate exhale, he gently laid you back into the bed.
“Rest,” he whispered. “I’ll handle this quickly.”
“You’ll come back?” you asked, almost childlike in your dreamy haze.
“Always.”
As he left, you caught the faint red bruise forming on his neck.
You woke with a dull throb behind your eyes, the taste of wine still faint on your tongue. The warmth of the bed was gone. So was he.
Despite the ache, you found yourself preparing.
You lit the incense the older handmaiden said he favored. You asked the kitchen for something light but hearty. You tried cooking what little you'd picked up from observing the maids.
By the time he came in, your eyes lifted from the table. He looked like a shadow of himself, his usually radiant hair tangled from the wind. Still, the moment he saw you… the exhaustion broke a little.
He sat, and you offered him the food. Watched him eat in silence.
“Did you make this?”
You nodded. “I tried.”
“It’s better than anything I’ve had in weeks.”
The incense burned slower now. His eyes began to soften.
“What is this scent?”
“Lydia said you like it.”
Your eyes met. The realization hit.
“You..."
[This section contains explicit content from here onward]
He walked to the door and clicked the lock into place.
“I didn't mean to.”
He moved toward you.
Your back met the edge of the couch as he knelt before you, hands lifting the edge of your robe slightly, just enough to place the a kiss just above your knee.
“Wait-”
And then his lips touched your chest, just over your clothed bud.
You pulled his hair slightly. “Mydei-”
“Yes?” he asked, not looking up.
You covered your mouth, unsure whether to push him back or pull him closer.
So instead, you let him kiss you again.
Tonight, he would not cross the line.
When he kissed your thigh one last time, you felt your body twitch ever so slightly under the weight of want. But then he pulled back.
-----
You agreed to marry him.
The night you spent together what was Mydei expected most.
The grand doors of the chamber clicked shut behind you. His hands were already on you before you could even turn around, his lips crashing against yours. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tangling in the strands of his hair as he crowded you against the door.
His hands roamed your body with urgency, as if he couldn’t bear another second without touching you.
“M-Mydei-” you managed between kisses, but he only growled in response, nipping at your lower lip before pulling away just enough to meet your gaze.
“No one,” he murmured, “will disturb us tonight.”
Before you could reply, his hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you to the wide oak table in the center of the room. The cool surface pressed against your back as he set you down, his touch already working to ease the tension from your body.
His fingers traced along your skin, his lips following in their wake, along your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. You arched into his touch, breath hitching as his hands slid higher.
“Relax, my queen,” he murmured against your skin, “Tonight is ours… and I intend to savor every moment.”
Mydei’s lips trailed lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin of your inner thighs. You gasped when his fingers teased higher, a single digit slipping inside, curling just so, drawing a whimper from your lips.
Your fingers clutching at the edge of the table as pleasure crested over you. He watched before gathering you into his arms and carrying you to the bed.
You settled onto the sheets, your back pressed against his broad chest, his warmth enveloping you. One of his hands slid around your waist, palm flattening against your stomach in a slow glide, as if he were measuring you, memorizing the curve of your body like a tailor assessing fine silk.
You melted into him, letting the tension bleed from your limbs as his other hand traced idle patterns along your hip.
The moment he sheathed himself inside you, a gasp tore from your lips as you braced against the bed. Mydei’s hands steadied you, his grip firm but tender as he began with slow, deliberate thrusts, allowing your body to adjust to the stretch of him. His breath was hot against your shoulder.
"Ah..So good.." he praised, his hips rolling against yours with aching precision.
Once your moans grew steadier, your body pliant beneath his, he increased his pace, just enough to make your back arch, to have you crying out his name. His own restraint was fraying, you could feel it in the way his muscles trembled.
"I can’t wait," he growled, lips brushing the nape of your neck, "to see you swell with our child."
The words sent a thrill through you, but before you could respond, he was moving again, his thrusts deeper, harder, as if he could carve his devotion straight into your bones.
Hours blurred together, his hands on you, his mouth on you, his body claiming you in every way. Exhaustion crept in like a tide, your limbs growing heavy even as pleasure still coiled tight in your core.
The last thing you remembered was the heat of his chest against your back, his low groan as he spilled inside you once more.
When you awoke hours later, the first light of dawn painted the room in gold. A blanket was tucked carefully around you, and Mydei’s arm was draped protectively over your waist.
You stirred awake with a soft groan, every muscle in your body humming with a delicious, lingering soreness, proof of the night before.
Before you could even sit up, his deep voice rumbled against your ear, "Stay."
With a snap of his fingers, servants slipped in silently, bearing trays of fresh fruit, warm bread, honeyed milk, and spiced meats. The scent alone made your stomach tighten with hunger, but Mydei had no intention of letting you lift a finger.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand plucking a ripe strawberry from the platter. His golden eyes never left yours as he brought it to your lips.
He fed you.
But the moment the last morsel was gone, his fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of your shift, palms skimming over the soft curves of your bare chest. You gasped as his thumbs circled your peaks, teasing them into stiff peaks beneath the cloth.
"I was just making sure," he purred, leaning in until his lips brushed yours, "that you’ll take my child well."
And then he kissed you again, his hands still working you beneath the fabric.
The morning after a wedding was just as important as the night, after all.
The servants had long since learned not to disturb their prince, especially not when the heavy silence of his chambers was broken only by your breathless pleas and the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips.
"Mydei...please.." Your voice was a shattered whisper, fingers clutching at the sheets as he moved inside you.
His golden eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, the way your body trembled beneath him. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he finally relented, his hand tangling in your hair as he brought his lips to your ear.
"Just making sure you could take every inch of me… every drop."
The bed rocked beneath his power, his pace turning relentless as he chased his own release, determined to brand himself into your very soul. At last, you collapsed against him.
Weeks later, the royal physician stared in stunned silence at the diagnosis before bowing deeply.
"Her Majesty is with child."
Mydei’s eyes burned with triumph as he pulled you close.
"Let it be known," his voice boomed, rich with pride, "that my queen carries the future of this kingdom. And we shall celebrate."
His hand slid to your waist, fingers splayed over the still-flat plane of your stomach in a gesture both tender and claiming. The hall erupted in cheers. But Mydei’s attention never wavered from you.
One-shot with fem reader as his lover who have weak body, then easy to be sick so that's why he locked her in his house because he scared that something worse will happen to her if he let her be free .
As Long As You Stay
Yandere!Flins x F!Reader
You hummed a gentle tune as the rhythmic click-clack of your knitting needles mingled with the soft ticking of the ornate wall clock. A ball of deep navy yarn rolled lazily by your feet, and the gloves sat warm in your lap. One finger left to stitch.
The front door clicked. You perked up instantly. The yarn slipped from your lap as you stood and rushed to the door.
Before your hand even reached the knob, the door creaked open, and he was already there.
“Flins!”
The cold air from outside brushed against your skin. Reflexively, you tilted your head, trying to peer past his shoulder for just a glimpse - the mist, the people you could never see. But in one smooth movement, Flins stepped forward and gently placed his hand over your eyes.
“Not today” he murmured, “The wind is harsh. You’ll catch a cold.”
You felt the warm pressure of his palm against your face. He guided you back inside.
“How was work today?”
Flins brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “As usual. Nothing worth troubling you with.”
You took his hand and led him to the table.
“I made your favorite.”
Flins sat, and you took your place across from him.
You were already halfway through your first bite when it happened.
cough, cough
Your chest jerked forward as the air caught in your throat.
Flins was beside you in an instant. His hand patted your back in steady rhythm, while the other held out a glass of water. “Slow down.”
You took the glass, coughing still, and finally managed a gulp. The cool water burned a little on the way down.
“I got excited.”
He didn’t smile back. His eyes lingered on your face, finally, he reached out to brush your hair from your forehead.
“I’ll clean up.” he said, already gathering your plate before you could object.
Later, he took your hand again and led you to your room.
“You shouldn’t push yourself.” he murmured as he opened the bedroom door.
The bed was already made.
You slid under the covers with a soft sigh, feeling his hand smooth over your shoulder as he tucked you in.
“Did you see anyone interesting today?”
“A few men” he replied softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “But none worth remembering.”
At some point in the dark, you stirred, barely conscious, but aware of the cool touch of fingers brushing your forehead. A hand lingered there. Then it withdrew. The mattress shifted, and Flins joined you, his presence pressing gentle and solid into your back.
By morning, he was gone.
You blinked awake to pale light filtering through the curtains, your fingertips curling around the still-warm bedsheet where he had lain. The house was silent again.
You sat up slowly, letting the cool air meet your skin. You felt fine.
Some mornings your breath would hitch just from climbing the stairs. Some days your limbs ached like they carried invisible weights. But you had good days too, and this felt like one.
So you made the bed. You dusted the bookshelves, rearranged the yarn basket, and even swept the floor, one small section at a time. It was all you could do to keep the day moving.
You shrieked, stumbling back as a thing darted across the corner of your vision. A mouse. It disappeared behind the leg of a cabinet before you could catch your breath.
Your heart thundered wildly. Panicked, you dropped the broom and scrambled for the door. You fumbled the latch open, wide enough to create a breeze, and tried to wave the little intruder out. “G-Go on, out! Out!”
But the moment the outside air hit your face, your chest tightened.
Your breathing quickened, and the edges of your vision shimmered. The world beyond the doorway threatened to swallow you whole.
You staggered back.
And just then, the door clicked shut behind you.
“Breathe”
You turned to see Flins with a small paper bag in one hand. The coat over his shoulders was dusted faintly with rain. His expression didn’t falter even once as he crossed to you.
He set the medicine bag aside and pulled you into his arms. His hand rested between your shoulder blades as he lowered you carefully onto the sofa.
“You were supposed to be resting.”
“I-I saw a mouse” you murmured into his chest.
He silenced you with a light touch, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “You’re okay now.”
From the paper bag, he pulled out a small vial. The medicine shimmered with that pale teal glow, bittersweet liquid that always left your tongue numb.
You drank it from his hand. And all the while, his arm remained around you, firm and steady.
You just lay there, in his arms, listening to the muffled beat of his heart beneath his shirt, and the gentle click as the front door locked itself again.
----
Even as the warmth of the medicine settled into your limbs, something inside you remained restless.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly. You sat curled on the armchair beneath a thick knit shawl, legs tucked close to your chest.
Flins sat nearby, quiet as always, reading. At least, that’s what it looked like. But you could feel his gaze flick toward you every few pages.
You tried not to notice. And yet, your eyes betrayed you. They kept drifting toward the window.
The glass shimmered with a thin sheen of condensation. Outside, the world melted into a hazy winter gloom, all of it just beyond your reach, everything you weren’t allowed to touch.
You thought of the mouse. Of the stone street you glimpsed when the door cracked open. What had changed? Did the trees look different now?
Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
And before you could look again, Flins had moved.
He was suddenly before you, kneeling, his hands gently covering your eyes.
“You’ll make yourself sick again.”
“I wasn’t-” You stopped. You had been looking.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
Then his hands slid away, and he rose to tend the fireplace.
“I’ll add more wood.” he said calmly. “You said you were cold, didn’t you?”
You nodded softly, letting your gaze drop to the flames instead. The fire popped, licking the logs as Flins stirred it.
Still, your thoughts curled like smoke, drifting upward, beyond the chimney, beyond the roof, into the sky you couldn’t see.
When he returned, he sat beside you and took your hand again.
“Rest now.”
You didn’t argue.
But deep down, a little part of you still pressed gently against the glass.
---
The house was quiet.
Flins had fallen asleep in the armchair across the room, the book still balanced in his lap. You watched him for a moment.
Then your gaze drifted.
The curtains rustled faintly near the window. Just a glance, you told yourself.
You rose on your feet, your shawl wrapped loosely around your shoulders. The fireplace had dimmed to glowing embers, casting the room in a wash of amber and shadow. You tiptoed toward the window.
Your hand trembled slightly as it reached for the lock.
The door creaked open.
A rush of cold air swept. It kissed your cheeks, snuck beneath your sleeves, prickled your skin. You stepped out, bare feet touching the icy stone of the front step.
The mist drifted low, silver under starlight. The sky above was vast, ink-black and scattered with stars, so different from what you remembered.
“Don’t move.”
The voice was hushed but insistent, trembling under the weight of fear and something deeper, something like heartbreak tearing at the edges.
You turned slowly.
Flins stood at the threshold, the rest of the house behind him cloaked in darkness. He held a small lantern. But the moment he saw you standing outside, his fingers slipped. The lantern dropped.
In an instant, his arms wrapped tightly around you, lifting you back over the threshold like a dream being pulled into waking.
“You’ll get sick,” he whispered. “You can’t...not again.”
“I just wanted to see…”
“You don’t need to,” he replied. “You have everything you need here.”
Then he shut the door.
The warmth of the house wrapped around you again, but now it felt heavier. The stars were gone. Only the broken lantern remained.
---
You sneezed once, then again. Flins blinked out of his daze and moved swiftly. He fetched a blanket, wrapping it around your shoulders as he ushered you toward the sofa.
“I’m sorry.” you whispered hoarsely.
He didn’t answer. He only pressed another blanket around you, tighter this time. You could barely move beneath it. Like the warmth was meant to hold you in place.
And then he sat beside you again.
He wouldn’t sleep tonight.
The next morning, Flins left like he always did.
He kissed your forehead. Told you to rest. Told you not to open the door for anyone.
“Even if they say my name,” he warned.
“Don’t answer.” You said at the same time with him.
He lingered just a second longer than usual, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand, then slipped out.
The house returned to its stillness.
You stayed beneath your blanket at first, curled on the sofa, the memory of starlight still haunting the back of your thoughts. The day passed in that slow, syrupy rhythm.
Knock.
Your eyes flew open.
You sat up slowly.
Knock knock knock.
You remembered his warning.
You backed away from the door.
Then the knock turned to pounding.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Panic unfurled like a cold flower in your chest. The door handle rattled, someone was trying to open it.
You bolted from the room, did what instinct begged of you: hide.
The closet barely fit your frame, but you crouched inside, the coats brushing your cheeks, your hands clutched to your chest, your breath strangled in your throat.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Eventually, the sound stopped.
When Flins returned that night, he found you still wrapped in your blanket, curled tightly in the corner of the sofa, pale and shaking.
“I told you not to open it.” he murmured, kneeling beside you.
“I didn’t.” You clutched his sleeve. “I hid… just like you told me. I swear.”
He gritted his teeth, glare fixed on the door. Then, slowly, he turned to you again. The anger drained, leaving his face .
His palm pressed to your forehead.
“Your fever’s worse.”
He warmed the food you hadn’t touched all day. Sat beside you as you ate. Then came the familiar medicine.
He took your empty dish away, then returned, sitting beside you again. The firelight danced across his face. He looked tired. He always did, lately.
“…Do you ever think of me as a burden?”
His gaze snapped to yours.
“No,” he said, “Never.”
Maybe it was the fever, or the comfort of his presence, but you leaned forward.
He caught you gently.
His kiss came like spring rain after drought, each careful press of his lips a benediction against your burning skin. You could feel him holding back, treating you like something precious even as you arched toward him with desperate need.
When your feverish grip pulled him closer, he finally deepened the kiss with aching tenderness, his cool hands framing your face like you were the only solid thing in his world.
He followed your pace, always letting you decide.
And when you pulled away, his lips hovered just a moment longer before retreating.
----
The next day passed in a haze of waiting.
You sat in the living room, the fire at your side burning low. You kept glancing at the clock. Watching the minute hand drag across the hours.
He was late.
He’d never been this late.
Every creak of the house made your breath hitch. Every gust of wind outside scraped against your nerves. The memory of yesterday’s knock echoed like a ghost through the walls.
But eventually, you heard the front door unlock.
He stepped inside, his coat damp with night mist, a tiredness etched into the corner of his eyes. He didn’t speak right away. He simply gave you a look, one that said don’t worry, and nodded toward the bathroom.
“I’ll take a bath,” he said. “You can eat first. I’ll join you soon.”
It wasn’t until he returned and sat across from you, steam still rising faintly from his collar, that you saw it.
A thin, clean cut across his cheekbone.
You stood before your chair even scraped the floor.
He blinked as you disappeared, then returned with the first aid kit. You simply soaked the cotton, dabbed the blood gently.
“There was… an intruder.” he said at last.
You stopped, looking up at him.
“But it’s fine now. He won’t come back. You’re safe again.”
Your fingers trembled slightly, but you continued tending the wound.
Later that night, the moon was high when you woke.
Your throat was dry, so you slipped out from beneath the covers. The house, as always, was dim, Flins preferred it that way at night.
You padded softly down the hallway, careful not to make a sound.
But when you passed the stairwell, you stopped.
The door was cracked open. Not wide, but enough for the mist to slip through.
And Flins was standing there.
His silhouette was long and dark, backlit by the eerie glow of the moon.
Quietly, you took a step closer. But the wood beneath your foot creaked.
You froze, ducking low behind the banister column, holding your breath. Your pulse thundered in your ears. A gust of cold air swept through the open door, brushing your skin.
Slowly, he reached forward and shut the door.
You heard the lock slide in.
He stood there for a moment longer. Then turned and walked away.
You didn’t move for what felt like minutes. Only when the last shadow disappeared did you quietly sneak back to your room.
You slipped under the blanket, cold all over, and closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep when you heard the soft creak of the bedroom door reopening a while later.
---
Morning light filtered through the curtains. You wrapped the shawl around your shoulders and stepped quietly out of the bedroom. Your fever had finally begun to ease. You made your way toward the living room, the familiar rhythm of your steps echoing softly across the wooden floor.
Knock.
You froze.
Another one.
But Flins was home this time.
He was already by the door before you could call out, his back to you, one hand resting on the lock. You took a step closer.
But Flins turned slightly, eyes cutting back toward you with a calm, unreadable expression. He lifted his hand, the smallest of gestures, telling you to stay still.
You stopped where you were.
Your fingers curled against the edge of the hallway wall, your heart ticking faster. You couldn’t see the visitor, but you could hear him.
“Sorry to bother you.. uh.. I think I got turned around somewhere.”
“You’re a long way off. Go left at the tree with the carved crest. You’ll hear water when you’re close.”
The man muttered his thanks. His footsteps receded.
The door closed with a click.
But Flins didn’t come straight to you. Not right away. You heard him moving from room to room instead, checking windows, adjusting locks, pulling curtains tighter.
Then the rhythmic swish of the broom.
He was cleaning.
You slowly stepped into the living room. He glanced your way, nodded once.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
You did as you were told, curling into the familiar corner of the couch where the fire warmed your knees.
While he swept and straightened and made sure everything was in its place, you reached into the small basket by your side.
You had finished the gloves.
Midnight blue, just like the last pair.
When Flins finally finished, you rose from your seat and walked over, holding out your small gift like an offering.
“Here, try them.”
The fingers stretched a little.
“…A bit tighter than before” he murmured, flexing his hands.
You frowned, taking his wrist gently. “Did your hands… get bigger?”
“No.” A faint smile tugged at his lips.
You looked up at him, but his hand was already lifting to rest gently on your head.
“You’ve done enough,” he said. “You don’t need to fix everything.”
Night fell quickly here.
You sipped your medicine in silence, the familiar taste clinging to your tongue.
Flins helped you to bed like always.
He adjusted the pillows behind you, pulled the blanket up over your chest, and smoothed it. You watched him with sleepy eyes, the haze of the medicine already beginning to pull you under.
“Goodnight”
He kissed your forehead gently. “Sleep well.”
The door clicked shut.
But just before the dream claimed you, something stirred.
The door creaked open quietly.
You couldn’t open your eyes, but in your dreaming haze, you saw him.
He leaned over the bed, eyes scanning your face. Then he pressed the back of his hand to your cheek, checking your temperature again.
Still warm.
He sat on the edge of the bed and gently took your hand in his. His lips brushed your knuckles.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, “No matter what happens.”
His other hand reached for yours and laced their fingers together, locking them tightly. “As long as you keep staying with me like this…”
He smiled faintly.
“See? A perfect fit. Doesn’t this match beautifully?”
Knock.
He stilled.
The sound echoed faintly through the quiet house.
Another knock.
But he didn’t release your hand right away. He stayed there, brushing his thumb along your skin in a slow rhythm. His eyes never left your face, even as the knock came again.
And then, he leaned in, whispering near your temple.
“I’ll be right back.”
Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
Then he stood. But before leaving the room, he paused at the doorframe.
Just to make sure.
His gaze lingered. Watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the blankets.
No sign you were awake.
You had fooled him once, after all.
When he was satisfied, the door clicked shut.
And his footsteps faded into the darkness, toward the knock that waited for him outside.
(Yeah this is inspired by one of the anon's rq so...)
You sit there on the cushion, the fabric pools around your bare feet. You watch the door while your owner tries to keep the curious people outside. You’re not just a dromas anymore. You understand enough to know what comes next if you stay.
Curiosity can cut deeper than any blade. Eventually, the news reached the Grove.
The system flickers behind your eyes.
[OPTION: SPEAK → RISK: HIGH]
[OPTION: HIDE → RISK: LOW]
[OPTION: RUN → ?]
There's a system for this? Wait... Why am I in the game now? I just installed it. Is this some kind of VR tech?
You can recall the memories of this body. But to change from a dromas to a human? This must be a joke.
BANG
The door was kicked open. Anaxa squeezes past your owner, half-apologetic, half-thrilled.
"There you are.." he breathes.
He crouches closer, hands hovering in the air like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t yet. "Incredible. Do you understand me? Can you still-"
You let your head ducking low like you’re trying to fold back into the giant shape you used to have. You keep your mouth shut. If you don’t talk, maybe he’ll believe you’re dull.
Unfortunately, Anaxa found everything you do fascinating. Behind him, your owner tries to calm him down, maybe send him away, but Anaxa doesn’t hear a word.
"The way you hold your arms... " He’s scribbling notes on a tiny tablet, muttering to himself.
The back way, you stare at it like the only escape.
Anaxa inches closer. "Can you look at me? Just lift your head-"
You lift it, but only enough to see his eye. Then you flinch again, like the movement scares you. He scribbles faster. He thinks you’re harmless.
You shift your feet under the robe. When he leans in to press your owner for more questions, you slide one knee back, testing the weight.
[PATH: OPEN → 8 meters → No guard]
The next time he looks down at his notes, you push up from the mat, and slip past the water jars. The stone is warm under your feet.
Behind you, your owner calls your name.
----
You came back because you thought it was safe. The sun was down, and mostly because you were hungry.
But Anaxa hadn’t given up. Of course he hadn’t. He made a trade with your owner. He promised a better life for you.
Here you are, on a cart, the city shrinking behind you.
The Grove of Epiphany at last. Anaxa’s home is full of paper, jars, scrolls stacked so high you can feel the dust in your lungs when you breathe.
He gives you water first. Then food including soft bread, a few olives, a boiled egg cut neatly on a plate. He sits across from you.
You chew slowly, noted. You don’t drop food on the floor, noted.
Sometimes you look up. Anaxa smiles when you do.
"You swallow normally. You’re adapting so quickly."
You don’t say I know how to drink water, idiot. You don’t say anything at all. The words itch on your tongue but you keep them behind your teeth.
Home. The memory flickers. You wonder if your phone is still there. If someone found you slumped over your desk. If you’ll ever see your screen light up again.
You lift your cup again. Anaxa notes it down. The candle on the table burns lower. If this world has a door home, you’ll find it.
Later, he tries to joke with you.
"Do you still eat Redsoil Feed?" he asks, "I have some left, you know. Just in case you… miss it."
You shake your head.
"No? So your tastes have changed too. Remarkable."
You don’t answer. You don’t plan to.
Your eyes darted to the shelf when he stood to reach for a book high up. The shelf wobbles, slow at first, then it tilted entirely.
You immediately step under the shelf and catch the worst of the fall with your shoulder. The shelf clatters sideways. You are strong, like super strong. But this human body of yours definitely doesn't feel so good.
"ARE YOU HURT?!"
You hiss through your teeth and shove the broken planks away.
[WARNING: HOST BODY - FRACTURE RISK ↑]
"Now you tell me" you mutter under your breath.
Anaxa doesn’t hear that. He’s already at your side, brushing broken wood off your arm, fussing over the bruise blooming dark on your shoulder.
"You shouldn’t push yourself like that."
You try to shrug him off but your shoulder screams back at you. He clicks his tongue.
When he returns with bandages, you sit still while he winds the clean cloth around your arm.
"Does that feel better?"
You try to lift your hand.
"I’ll feed you then. Just until you’re strong enough to manage on your own."
You glare at him, but it bounces right off. He dips bread into warm broth and lifts it to your lips. You open your mouth because you have no choice.
"See? You trust me, don’t you?"
[ALERT: BOND FORMING → CAUTION ADVISED]
[OBJECTIVE: ESCAPE / OBSERVE]
The Grove of Epiphany settles into its nighttime. Anaxa doesn’t sleep. He never does when he’s got a question to chase. You feel him scratching at the page from where you lie curled up on the floor mat.
You drift out of half-sleep, pulled by the scratch-scratch and the faint smell of oil. You sit up, testing your shoulder, it doesn’t hurt anymore.
Woah, super dromas healing power?
The robe slips down your arm, the fresh skin smooth where the bruise should be.
Nice, I won't need him to feed me anymore.
Quiet as you can, you pad across the floor. You stand behind him, close enough to see the lines of his notes: little diagrams of bones and muscle, strange sentences about memory retention and post-animal cognition.
He doesn’t feel you yet. You lean closer, shadow slipping over his shoulder.
The second your shadow hits the page, he stiffens. The hand holding the pen freezes. His other hand moves to grab a gun dragged from under a pile of books, pointed right at your chest.
For a breath, he doesn’t see you. He only sees a shape in the dark. His eyes go sharp, not soft like when he feeds you warm broth.
"It's you.." he said, "You should be resting."
You reach out, catching the edge of his sleeve. "Is it about dromas?"
The light in his eyes isn’t just bright, it’s devouring. You almost flinch from the intensity of it, that voracious, glittering focus. The gun clatters onto the desk, as his hand claws for the pen.
"Yes. It’s about you. About what you were, what you are now. Are you interested?"
You nod once, tug his sleeve again like a question mark. He gestures at the seat beside him. He talks. Gods, does he talk.
He tells you about everything he knew of your kind. You sit there, hands folded in your lap. You listen because maybe somewhere in his ramble is a piece of the puzzle the system won’t hand you. Maybe this is how you find the thread back home.
His words melt against your skin. Your head finds the bend of his elbow like it was always meant to rest there. By the time your lashes flutter shut, you’ve already forgotten how to stay awake.
When you wake, the candle’s long gone cold. Your cheek is pressed to his sleeve. He’s asleep too, head tipped back against the wall, quill still in his fingers.
Anaxa stirs when you stand.
"You’re a miracle."
Well, he was talking about your healed injury. You knew it was cool, but getting such a reaction is your first time.
Later you follow him, he needed more information, you both encounter several scholars on the way.
A pair of young apprentices whisper as you pass. "That’s the mad one..."
Anaxa doesn’t even glance at them. He flicks his sleeve like brushing off dust.
You follow him through the halls. He talks as he walks, half to you, half to himself.
You listen because you have no choice. And because you’re looking for the smallest crack. Any sign he might loosen his hold on you.
[NOTICE: PATH TO RETURN IDENTIFIED.]
[CONDITION: WORLD COLLAPSE.]
You stop dead in the corridor. Anaxa doesn’t notice at first, he’s already a step ahead, scribbling something on the back of his hand because he’s run out of parchment.
What does that mean?
The system flickers again.
[TRIGGER: CRITICAL INSTABILITY.]
[TARGET: ANAXA - KEY POINT OF FRACTURE.]
[METHOD: BETRAYAL]
Anaxa stops. He turns. He sees your face, how the color’s gone from your cheeks, how your hand’s clenched in the folds of your robe.
"Something wrong?"
He takes a step closer. You don’t move. You just hear yourself say it.
"How?"
"How what? What is it?"
[RECOMMENDED PATH]
1) Strengthen bond → Encourage deeper trust.
2) Reveal partial self-awareness → Grant hope of shared secret.
3) Withdraw → Create sense of betrayal → Amplify fracture.
Anaxa’s fingers graze your cheek.
"You’re trembling," he murmurs. "What happened?"
You blink up at him.
"It’s nothing. Just… late to say it now, but.. Y/N is my name. And I’m not leaving until your research is done."
[PATH CONFIRMED.]
[SEQUENCE: IN PROGRESS.]
You lie awake that night on the mat beside his desk. He murmurs as he reads, lips moving with words only he can hear. You roll onto your side.
"Do you hate them?"
His eyes lift from the script. "Who?"
"The ones we passed by this morning."
"Yes."
"..."
"What's the matter?"
"No hesitation at all.."
So you think of something else. You remember your desk back home.
"I can help!" you say after a moment.
You push yourself upright. You take a scrap of parchment from his pile, a bit of charcoal from the floor.
You draw a dromas leg bone. Then, a simple diagram of the cart’s harness, how the weight sits. Tiny marks for scale. Small truths you remember only because you were once the animal that carried them.
When you’re done, you stack the pages and set them on the edge of his book. You push the stack toward him.
"Here!"
You can taste the salt of imagined tears, see how they'd warp the vellum. Of course he doesn’t actually cry. But he does blink hard like he might.
"You… I didn’t know you could... This is… perfect. You’re perfect."
[BOND: STRENGTHENED]
You smile at him.
One step closer to home.
At dawn, when Anaxa is half-asleep, or half-awake in the way scholars always are, you tug at his sleeve, he startles.
"Where are we going?"
"Okhema"
Before he can ask why, you take his hand, not just the sleeve.
The dromases there watch you from under. You’re not quite one of them anymore, but not quite not, either.
Anaxa stands close at first, he tries to coax them near, but the they shy back. It’s your voice that draws them in.
"What are they saying?" Anaxa whispers.
You smile at the dromas.
"She says she misses the boy who used to bring yellowsoil."
He jots every word down. You translate and explain every action. You show him the tiny scar on one’s flank. His eye catches the shape of your smile, the way your brow softens when you speak to them.
Anaxa tries to coax one last answer from a stubborn dromas, but your eyelids are heavy. He notices, the way your head dips forward.
"That's all for today. Let's head back."
You lean against him on the walk back. He doesn’t mind.
That night, he finds you curled up on your mat. Your hair still smells faintly of hay. He settles near, parchment stacked beside him, sketches you scribbled for him.
He reaches to pull the blanket higher when you mumble.
"Home…"
"Home?"
"I’ll leave…"
Anaxa stays there a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your ribs.
He smooths the blanket over your shoulder with careful fingers, thumb brushing a curl of your hair from your brow. "Not yet."
----
A man's shout cracks your sleep open. Sunlight pools hot on the floorboards, you've overslept badly. Wiping drool from your cheek, you stagger to the window. Anaxa's planted like a dead tree between two red-faced men.
"... peddling your half-beast fairy tales again?" one spits. "You’ve wasted enough time. And now you drag some pitiful stray to prove your delusions? You're mad. Worse, boring."
You see Anaxa’s fingers twitch at his side, but his voice, when it comes, is calm as poison poured in wine.
"Boring? You come all this way to watch my research, then call it boring? Listen carefully, you, who have never labored for a single original thought in your life." He tilts his head, just slightly, "You spit on what you can’t grasp, which, of course, is everything beyond your own reflection."
The scholar steps closer. You see the spark behind Anaxa’s visible eye.
"I will crack this world open if I must," he says, "Your small minds are the only parasites feeding on my work. I suggest you scatter before my partner does more than frighten your apprentices."
The other man shoves him then, hand flat against his chest, pushing him back toward the door.
You rushed and blocked in front of him as fast as you could. Before the man could lay a hand on Anaxa.
The scholar scoffed. You drove your fist into his chest. He flew away, not far, but far enough to taste the earth with his teeth. His friend scrambled back.
Your knees hit the floor. The last thing you see is Anaxa dropping with you, arms around your shoulders.
You sleep for a day. Maybe more. You dream of home, the stale comfort of your old bed.
Anaxa’s head rests on the edge of your mat, hair falling loose across his brow. He startles awake when you move.
"Are you hurt?"
You look at him and shook your head.
[BOND: PEAK]
[NEXT SEQUENCE: BETRAYAL → PATH HOME]
You let him brush your hair back, fuss with the blanket.
The door is open. The price is him.
-----
The Grove shifts in small ways first. You stop waiting by his side when he drafts his lectures. You slip from his reach when he lifts a hand to your shoulder.At first he pretends not to notice. But the shadows under his eye deepen.
You find the other scholars at the edge of the city. They watch you approach.
"Left him at last, have you?"
"I heard you speak of him. I will help you bring him down."
[KEY FRACTURE POINT IDENTIFIED.]
Anaxa found you talking to the men.
"Why are you here?"
"Talking."
His eye flicks past you to those who gathered like vultures behind your shoulder.
"Do you know what they are?"
"I do. But I don't care."
"Go home with me."
"No. That is not my home."
Behind you, the other scholars smile. They know this wound will bleed him hollow.
Eventually, you had to go back to his house. Those men need his research. You pretended to sleep.
You hear him at night, he was leaving the house. You catch glimpses of him putting on his coat and loading his gun.
The people you worked with are gone.
----
"Do you even know what you’ve done? Opened the door!" You shouted but he didn't bother.
[PATH: COMPLETE]
[RETURN HOME: READY]
Oops. Never mind, then.
A hairline fracture snaking up the wall behind the shelves. Without hesitation, you shoved the shelves aside, fingers clawing at the crack, nails splitting as you pried it wider.
Somewhere behind you, Anaxa's voice cut through the hum of the system "Stop!"
[WARNING: YOU'RE RIPPING AWAY HIS CONSCIOUSNESS.]
But your mind was on the widening crack now, you didn't see him approaching from behind nor the alarms shrieking.
You leapt, and then you were sprawled on your bedroom floor, the smell of laundry flooding your senses. Home.
-----
<The other side>
The dromas' colossal shadow fell across the fields. A dromas plummeted to its farm.
Anaxa's scream follows you through the crack. Not from pain, from severance. His soul splits, one half still reaching for you as the rift seals.
[NOTICE: CROSS-WORLD ENTANGLEMENT DETECTED]
"How do I achieve a physical body?"
[HOST REQUIRED TO STABILIZE MASTER'S FORM]
"Find someone suitable."
"Can you at least say something more useful?"
"Would you like to share mine instead?"
"Who are you?"
[NOTICE: MOVING MASTER'S SOUL TO NEW BODY]
[IDENTITY: Y/N'S NEIGHBOR]
You sat in the middle of the circle for the hundredth time. Your throat ached from chanting syllables you didn’t fully understand. Smoke poured from the circle’s edges. You fell back, coughing.
He looked around your cramped room, his gaze landed on you.
“Ah,” he said, “It's an honor to meet you.”
“... It worked?”
“Mm. You...” He crouched, his face was inches from yours. His eyes flicked to the half-burned manga on your desk, the Dazai portrait pinned above your pillow. “were expecting someone else, weren’t you?”
“Oh.. that? I need to have a sample.. maybe I can summon someone like him. Maybe I expected too much haha...”
He nodded and took a good look around the room again.
“Who are you? Or.. What are you?”
“A demon, of course. You did call for one, didn’t you? Or did you think you were only playing?”
“I wanted help. I...” You cut yourself off. The words felt so childish now.
His grin widened. “You wanted revenge. Say it properly.”
He rose, glancing at the futon you’d pushed into the corner. “Is that for me?”
You nodded dumbly. “You can’t sleep in my bed.”
A soft, mocking sound left him. “How polite. Very well.” He stepped over the circle again, the chalk smudging under his heel.
The next morning you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the futon, thumbing through one of your sketchbooks. He looked up when you stirred.
“Your sketches are charming. Monsters? I supposed?” he murmured, flipping a page. “Though not nearly as frightening as real ones.”
You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Hey! That’s private-”
“Private? I am your demon. There is nothing called private between us.”
No one noticed him. He walked at your side, hands folded behind his back. When you boarded the bus, he slipped in beside you.
At school, you paused at the gate. “You can’t come in.”
He only smiled. “Oh, but I already have.”
No one saw him standing behind you at your locker as you fumbled with the jammed door.
“Which ones?” he murmured. “Point them out for me.”
You flinched. “No, not now.”
He pressed a finger to your lips, shushing you like a parent to a restless child. “Hush. I’ll decide for myself, then.”
At lunch you sat alone. He sat across from you anyway, stealing fries off your tray, though his mouth never really seemed to move. He watched everything - the whispers, the sidelong glances, the giggles.
Once, a girl walked by and ‘accidentally’ knocked your lunch onto your lap. You were used to it. But he did. His eyes followed her across the cafeteria.
“Go home,” he said. “I’ll catch up later.”
You waited for him that night. You pretended to do homework. You turned your phone over and over in your hands.
When he returned, you immediately asked him a lot of things. He crouched beside your chair, pressed his cold fingers to your cheek.
“All done. Sleep well, Y/N.”
He laughed when you flinched, that gentle, terrible laugh that promised he was only just beginning.
---
You blamed the nightmares at first. The image of him, you pictured it even though you didn’t want to. He was standing on a pile of skulls.
The next few days, you went to school without him. Well, you didn't notice him following you. At school, the news spread. The teachers were pale, the principal’s voice cracked as he announced the ‘accidents.’
When the final bell rang, you found him leaning against your bedroom wall again. He got home first.
You didn’t look him in the eye as you spoke. “It’s over now, right?”
“Over?”
“They’re gone. So… you don’t have to stay. I can break the bond. I read there’s a reversal-”
For one tiny second, something ugly flashed across his face - primal disbelief. Then it vanished under a slow, mocking smile.
“Oh?” He pushed himself off the wall, closing the space between you in two unhurried steps. “And here I thought you’d want to thank me. Or do you think I came all this way just for your petty vengeance?”
You flinched. He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured. “That little ache in your bones.” His thumb brushed your lower lip “You keep me here.”
You didn’t understand, not really.
“You summoned an incubus. I feed on life. Your life.”
“You thought you could break it like a twig?” he whispered. “You are the twig, Y/N. Snap yourself, if you wish, see what happens to me when there’s nothing left of you.”
He stepped back, all polite amusement again, like you hadn’t just felt his hunger coiled tight inside your chest.
“But by all means,” he said lightly, flicking imaginary dust from his sleeve, “let’s see more of this human world. I’m curious. And you owe me a guide, don’t you?”
You nodded, too numb to speak.
Night brought no rest. Not for you. Those bullies may be dead already but you still saw them in your dream. You lay curled up on your bed, blankets tangled around your legs, sweat at your temples despite the cold air drifting through the window.
He liked this. He liked the way you twisted in your sleep, your pain drifting to him like perfume. He could feel it, the raw sting of your shame. When you woke half-sobbing, he was already kneeling beside you.
“Poor thing.” he murmured. He brought the tear to his lips, tasted it. He shuddered as if savoring fine wine.
“Make them stop....”
He leaned over you, his hair slipping like ink across your pillow. “As you wish.”
You didn’t feel him slip inside your dream, but you felt what he did to it. You dreamed of him standing over you then, your demon in the place where nothing could touch you anymore. He smiled.
You woke and looked across the room, he lay sprawled where you’d slept hours before. His hair spilled over your pillow, one pale hand tucked under his chin like a sleeping child.
You dressed quietly for school. He didn’t stir. You whispered thank you under your breath as you slipped out the door, though you couldn’t tell if you meant it.
----
Two years later. Two years of people whispering how lucky you were. How beautiful he looked by your side. How cold he stayed to everyone else but you.
You graduated. Got a job. And when you unlocked your apartment door after another long shift, there he was. Barefoot on your couch, eyes flicking from the TV to you like he’d been waiting for centuries.
“Welcome home.”
And when you turned your head to hide your exhaustion, he’d smile. Because you still didn’t see it: you were more his anchor than ever. His favorite meal. His only doorway between your world and the dark behind it.
Two years was enough time for him to become normal, at least on the surface. The quiet, polite boyfriend people saw only in glimpses. The one who never seemed to leave your apartment.
He cleaned, cooked, waited at the door when you dragged your feet up the stairs after overtime.
It worked. Mostly.
Until he saw it, that flicker in your eyes. So small anyone else would miss it. But he didn’t. He saw everything about you.
You came home late again. You talked to him about what happened at work. And him, the new hire who is younger than you.
Something cold flared behind his ribs. A hunger that had nothing to do with your life force and everything to do with ownership.
----
One night, you found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wrist deep in soapy water. Your leftover dinner steaming on the table, your favorite drink waiting.
He greeted you with a soft, “You’re late” and you giggled it off, pressing your cheek to his shoulder like a sleepy cat. You didn’t notice the way his jaw twitched when you murmured the colleague’s name again.
“He said he might stop by tomorrow to drop off some files I forgot,” you said, halfway to your bedroom. “Is that okay?”
He turned to look at you then.
“Of course,” he said, “I’d love to meet him.”
[This section contains explicit content from here onward]
In the dark hours before dawn, he lay beside you, awake while you dreamed, his hand splayed over your stomach, thumb brushing the warmth under your ribs that kept him tethered here.
You belong to me, he thought, You’ve always belonged to me.
He’d spent years perfecting this. Making you lean on him, need him, love him in ways you didn’t dare question. But now? Now he’d remind you why you shouldn’t look anywhere else.
You were asleep when he crawled over you, his cold hands brushing under your shirt.
You’d grown used to him, to the way his weight pressed you into the sheets, to the cold breath he let out as he tasted the pulse at your neck. But this time it felt different.
When he pulled your clothes away, it wasn’t gentle.
He kissed you then, but the kiss was a lie, masking the growl in his throat as his hands slid lower, parting your thighs like he owned them.
His fingers pressed in, filling you so suddenly your hips jerked up. He watched your face, the corner of his mouth twitching when you gasped out his name, half a protest, half a plea.
“Quiet now.”
His fingers curled, searching. There. You felt your muscles clench, your back arch off the bed as heat splintered up your spine.
When you came, he swallowed your whimpers with a kiss, his tongue tasting the ragged sound you made. He didn’t stop until he felt you shudder limp under him, boneless and pliant.
Only then did he draw his fingers out. He licked the taste from his knuckles.
And then you felt him press forward, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You barely had time to gasp before he pushed in, one deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs.
He didn’t pretend to be gentle this time. He wanted you to feel every inch, wanted you to know who you belonged to.
You clung to him, out of instinct. He caught your wrists, pinned them to the pillow as his hips rolled into yours.
You could feel something else then. The sigil bloomed where his hips met your belly. He felt it too, the surge of power coiling under his skin, his horns flickering into existence like a crown reborn.
“This is better, isn’t it?”
When he spilled inside you, he pressed in so deep you felt it everywhere - the warmth. The symbol under your skin flared bright. You felt the world tilt. The taste of him in your mouth, your chest, your veins.
Now you’d crave him. Just as he craved you.
He pulled back just enough to see your face. His horns glowed faint in the dark.
You woke to the sound of faint humming, the smell of something warm and sweet drifting from the kitchen. For a moment, you didn’t remember why your body felt so heavy.
The blankets were twisted around your hips, your skin sticky with sweat. When you sat up, a faint ache bloomed deep in your belly. But there was nothing.
You glanced at the clock - 9:04. Your heart jumped in your throat before you remembered: It’s Saturday. No work for you.
You wrapped yourself in your robe and padded down the hall, bare feet cold on the floor. He was there, of course, exactly where you always found him.
He looked up the second you entered.
“Good morning,” he said softly. “You’re up early for a day off.”
You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I… Can I have some warm water?”
He nodded. You jolted as his hand brushed yours while handing over the cup.
“You alright?”
You gulped it down anyway, trying to ignore how your knees trembled when he leaned in.
“Strange dream last night?”
You didn’t remember, not clearly, but flashes stung the back of your mind: your own voice crying for something you couldn’t quite piece together.
---
You hadn’t planned to stay out so long. But the moment he stepped into that shop, you realized how strangely bare he looked in the same old clothes you’d first found him in. Almost like he never really belonged to this world at all.
So you picked things out for him: sweaters, dark coats, a simple suit that made him look human in it. He let you fuss over him. You told yourself you were just being kind. Just helping him blend in. But the part of you that thrilled at the thought - him looking like a normal man beside you - made your throat tighten.
Dinner out, too. You barely tasted the food, too distracted by the way the waitress lingered when she asked for your order, eyes flicking to him, pink flush on her neck. He only gave her that polite, distant nod.
When you got home, he sat cross-legged on the floor while you blew his hair dry. You combed it out, careful not to tug, your pulse quickening every time your knuckles brushed the warm skin at his nape.
He turned slightly then, eyes catching yours in the mirror’s reflection. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
That night you fell asleep before you even realized. Office lights on, the dull hum of a copy machine somewhere far off, your desk scattered with half-finished reports.
And him.
Not in his usual bare feet and loose clothes, but in a dark suit. Tie perfectly knotted. You dreamed you were bent over your own office desk, papers sliding to the floor as he pressed into you from behind, his breath hot against your ear, one hand firm on your hip, the other tugging at the buttons of your blouse until it gaped open, exposing the soft swell of your chest to the flickering ceiling light.
You moaned his name into your forearm, your nails scraping the wood while his hips rolled against yours.
He hovered above you, drinking in every tremor of your body, every soft whimper that slipped past your lips. The warmth in your belly flooded through the bond, the hidden sigil flaring under your skin with each pulse of your heartbeat.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Even here, you want this so badly.”
Your dream-self moaned, his name tumbling off your lips in a breathless chant as he thrust harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the office walls.
His hands found your breasts, kneading roughly as he rutted into you.
He could’ve left your dream alone. But where was the thrill in that?
So he added visitors.
The vague shapes of coworkers, blurry at first, then sharpening as they stepped into the room. The manager, the shy girl from the break room, the colleague you mentioned.
They watched. Pretending they didn’t see the way you clutched the edge of the desk, half-naked, skirt bunched at your waist, his hips snapping against you over and over.
“Oh? You like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your shoulder as his fingers pinched your nipple harder. “Being watched while I ruin you?”
You tried to twist away, your hands scrabbling for something to cover yourself, but he only caught your wrists, pinning them to the desk as he thrust deeper.
When you woke, it was with a muffled cry against your pillow, your thighs pressed tight together, a feverish flush creeping up your neck. You remembered hearing your name on his tongue, your own voice begging, the heat of shame that made you feel sick and alive all at once.
You turned your head just enough to see him, stretched out on the futon at the foot of your bed.
Why did I dream of that? you thought.
He acted like nothing had happened.
When you made breakfast, he drifted behind you, his fingers brushing the small of your back by accident as he reached for the kettle.
Every touch jolted through you like a spark, a hot flush burning your cheeks as you remembered the way he’d pinned you down.
When your breath caught the third time, he tilted his head just so, his mouth curved in that soft, polite smirk.
“Are you sick?”
You swatted him away, mumbling some excuse about work calls, errands, anything but the truth. But he could feel the way your skin quivered under his touch.
He bit back a laugh as he turned away, hiding the satisfied gleam in his eyes.
---
You lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Sheets tangled around your legs, your skin flushed and slick with sweat. You’d tried everything, counting your breaths, burying your face in the pillow, even slipping out of bed to splash cold water on your cheeks.
None of it worked. That heat coiled low in your belly refused to fade.
You glanced at him sprawled so peacefully on the futon. His chest rose and fell in that perfect mimicry of sleep. You swallowed, guilt prickling under your skin.
He’s helped you so much, you told yourself. He’s always here for you. He won’t mind.
So you slipped from your bed and crawled over him. He didn’t move, not at first. But the second your trembling fingers brushed over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up, you felt it, that faint hum under his skin.
You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your thighs shook as you lowered yourself onto him, the stretch was sudden but so slick, so warm it made you cry out softly into your palm.
No pain? you thought, half-dazed.
You rocked your hips, slow at first, biting your lip to keep the soft, broken gasps from spilling out too loudly. The drag of him inside you hit something that made your vision blur, your nails scraping weak lines over his chest.
You didn’t even notice when his eyes flicked open.
You felt your walls flutter, the edge so close you couldn’t stop the desperate whimper: I’m gonna...
And then his hands clamped around your hips as he slammed you down to the base. The sigil under your belly flared up brightly.
“Since you volunteered, the seal is complete.”
You didn’t even have time to ask what he meant, he rolled his hips up, hard, knocking the last word from your mouth. You collapsed forward, draping your arms around his shoulders as he shifted, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss was greedy, his tongue claiming your gasps as your hips rutted helplessly against his. The mark beneath your skin burned with each thrust, the need flooding you until your head spun.
“Fyo...Fyodor... I’m...!” you sobbed against his mouth, the heat snapping inside you so violently your whole body seized around him.
You trembled in his arms, clutching his shoulders as the last waves crashed over you - shame, heat, relief all tangled in a haze that left you gasping for air.
He pulled back just enough to brush his lips over your tear-damp cheek.
You were still catching your breath when you felt his hand clamp firmly around your arm, steadying you before you could tumble backward off the wall. You looked up. That guy - the same white hair, black streaks you saw last night on the street.
“Well, look at that” he said, “Should’ve figured you’d be the type to climb walls. Makes my job real easy, though.”
You tried to laugh it off, tugging your wrist free. “Haha… guess you caught me. So we’re good, right? We can forget this?”
He laughed “Forget it? C’mon. If I let you slide, I’d be out of a job.”
He flipped open a slim black notebook, pages scrawled with names and tiny notes. He turned it so you could see your name, already underlined twice.
“You got a cute signature, by the way,” he said, tapping his pen against it. “Late, trespassing,… gonna be fun explaining this to your homeroom.”
“Wait! You can’t just-”
“Hey, rules are rules. Break ‘em, pay for ‘em.”
He slid the pen behind his ear. “I’m not your friend. I’m just the guy who keeps the scoreboard honest. So… better luck next time, yeah?”
He turned away, hands shoved in his pockets. “Try the front gate tomorrow. Might save you the trouble of runnin’ into me.”
And just like that, your class points were gone, and so was he.
You couldn’t let him win that easy. Later you found out his name - Boothill.
So you planned your first real prank. A chalk eraser rigged over the council office door, ready to drop a fine, dusty cloud right on that stupid hair the moment he strolled in.
Your best friend caught you stuffing the eraser into your bag during lunch break.
“You, pulling a prank? On Boothill?” She flicked your forehead. “Good luck, genius. Why not go for something better?”
“Better?” you asked, rubbing your forehead.
“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “Make him fall for you. Break that icy heart, then dump him in front of everyone.”
You rolled your eyes, shoving the eraser deeper in your bag. “I’m not running a soap opera. One prank, and that's it.”
Turns out, one prank wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anything, because Boothill saw it coming from ten meters away.
“Aw, come on. You think I haven’t seen the eraser-on-the-door trick since primary?” Boothill’s laugh rumbled in his chest as he stepped closer. You spun around, and nearly bumped right into him. He held the chalk eraser in one hand like it was a dead mouse.
“You know, if you’re gonna try and prank me, at least be original. Or… maybe you just like my attention, huh?”
He dropped the eraser into your hands, brushing chalk dust off his coat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone in the hall.
You’d given up, or at least that’s what you told yourself. The pranks didn’t work. The eraser failed. The water bucket failed. The glitter bomb? You didn’t even get to set it up.
You were late again, overslept. This time, though, it wasn’t Boothill waiting at the wall.
By recess you were back in your usual seat, eating bread with your friend and planning tonight’s freedom.
“So,” she said, mouth half full of rice cracker. “Movie or karaoke? Wait.. You didn't tell me about Boothill.”
“I’m done with him.”
She snorted. “Coward. I told you, break his heart instead.”
You shoved the rest of your bread in her mouth to shut her up, which only made her laugh harder.
When the last bell rang, you stayed behind, wiping chalk dust off the blackboard and sweeping the crumbs from the floor.
When you finally stepped out, there he was. “Well, look who it is.” he said, pushing off the wall with that annoying catlike grace. “Gave up already, huh, sunshine?”
You scowled. “Sunshine?”
“What? That’s you. Right? … Wait. What was your name again?”
“You forgot?”
He just shrugged, “Hey, I catch a lotta rule-breakers. Hard to keep up. ‘Sides, sunshine suits ya.”
He brushed past you, shoulder knocking yours on purpose. “Anyway, keep it up. Gives me somethin’ fun to do.”
You stood frozen, watching his back as he disappeared down the hall. Your phone buzzed - your bestie, blowing it up with “Movie tonight? Or pranking plan?”
You glared at the message, then at the empty hall. Fine. If he wanted a nickname, he’d get one, and a heartbreak to match.
Your bestie didn’t just rope you in, she basically drafted a full-on script. By the time lunch break rolled around, you and your three partners-in-crime were ready.
You stood cornered near the old vending machine, tray of half-eaten lunch on the floor, one friend looming with arms crossed, another talks just loud enough for people to definitely hear.
“Seriously? You’re dragging all of us down. Maybe we shouldn’t let you sit with us anymore.”
“Next time you screw up, don’t expect us to cover for you.”
You acted out your role perfectly: the pitiful, stubborn “weak link”.
A few students threw glances your way. Some giggled, some whispered. Then a familiar shape blocked out the hallway light.
“You kids runnin’ your mouths in public, real brave, huh?”
They turned, freezing on cue. Boothill’s gaze swept over them.
“Didn’t your folks teach ya not to pick on easy targets? Kinda pathetic, ain’t it?”
Your bestie, bless her inner theater kid, rolled her eyes at him, scoffing like a brat. “Stay out of it. This is our problem.”
“‘Fraid not.”
He tugged you by the wrist, pulling you out of the circle of “bullies” with zero effort.
“Go pick a new hobby, yeah?”
You cleared your throat, tugging your wrist free, trying not to grin like an idiot.
“…Thanks. I could’ve handled it myself, though.”
“Sure, Sunshine. Looked real tough in there, cryin’ in front of the soda machine.”
You bristled, flicking a piece of dust off your sleeve for dramatic effect. “I wasn’t crying.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
When the final bell rang, you found him waiting outside your classroom door. “C’mon. I’m walkin’ you home today. Gotta make sure no one tries somethin’ dumb again.”
Your bestie peeked around the corner as you left, giving you a massive double thumbs-up - the worst secret spy in history.
You bit your tongue to keep from laughing.
----
Now you just had to keep him hooked long enough to break that stupid, smug grin right off his face.
The next few days you played your part like you were born for it.
After the whole “bullied in the canteen” act, you made sure to pop up around him just enough to keep your hooks in. Not clingy, just coincidentally there. Like fate had a sense of humor.
One afternoon, you waited outside the student council room, pretending to scroll your phone, until the door cracked open and the other council members drifted out in pairs.
Boothill was last, twirling his keys on one finger. When he spotted you, he arched a brow. “You waitin’ for me?”
You made a show of looking startled, then awkwardly thrust the little carton of milk at him. “You’ve been busy. Thought you’d forget lunch again.”
He snorted, flicking the straw attached to the side. “Gonna bribe me with milk now?”
“Or you could give it back.”
He just popped the straw in, taking a slow, obnoxious sip right in front of you. “Too late.”
He tossed the empty carton in the trash the second you turned the corner.
A few days later, you got your chance.
It started with the old lady who sometimes set out food by the front gate after school. You’d seen her chatting with Boothill once, handing him a bag of mandarins while he pretended not to look too soft about it.
So when you overheard her muttering about Momo - her fat orange cat who liked to wander off - you knew exactly what to do.
You trailed that dumb cat for half an hour through muddy backstreets, past someone’s garden, behind the convenience store dumpsters. Momo hissed at you twice, but you snatched her up anyway, ignoring the tiny claws scratching your arm.
You were just rounding the corner back to the old lady’s gate when Boothill appeared.
He froze when he saw you - filthy, hugging that fat orange gremlin. “You steal people's pet now?”
You glared at him through Momo’s tail. “She was lost. Mrs. Oda was worried.” You jutted your chin at the tiny old lady standing just behind him, covering her mouth in relief.
When you handed Momo over, Mrs. Oda fussed over you, patting your cheek and pressing two candy drops into your palm. Boothill just watched.
When the old lady shuffled inside, he kicked a pebble at your shoe.
“Look at you. Little hero, huh?”
You wiped cat hair off your shirt. “Someone had to.”
He cracked his neck, glancing sideways at you as he fell into step beside you, “Next time she calls, lemme know. I’ll help.”
You gave him your most innocent grin. “Aw, look at you. Playing hero, too.”
Behind you, from the corner of the street, your bestie and the other two peeked out from behind the mailbox, giving you silent jazz hands of victory.
Now all you had to do was keep the “coincidences” coming until he fell so hard he wouldn’t see you cutting the strings.
You’d done it all. And still.. nothing.
So when you saw him standing outside the school gate with his usual crew, something in you just snapped. You stomped up, right past his friends’ curious stares, right into his personal space. He arched a brow at you, amused as usual.
“You lose somethin’ again? Or you wanna-”
“I like you!” you blurted, louder than you meant to. “So go out with me. Or not. Whatever.”
A silence fell over the group. Boothill’s friends all turned to stare, one of them coughed, the other bit his knuckle to keep from laughing. Boothill just stared at you for a second.
“...Huh. Sure. Okay.”
He slung an arm around your shoulders like he was claiming you on the spot. “Guess you’re mine now.”
His friends immediately burst into obnoxious whoops and catcalls. One of them punched his arm. Another shouted, “Took you long enough!”
You wished the ground would swallow you whole. This was not in the plan, but it was too late to take it back now.
From then on, he was everywhere.
In the morning, leaning against your locker door with a carton of milk.
During breaks, draped lazily across your desk while you tried to study, flicking your pens off your notebook just to see you glare.
After school, waiting by the gate like a bored bodyguard, walking you home even when you told him not to.
At first, you kept telling yourself it was just part of the plan. But it got harder to say that when he actually did care.
He noticed when you forgot your umbrella and handed you his instead, even if it meant he got drenched.
He pulled you away from suspicious creeps at the convenience store without a word, standing behind you.
He sat next to you in the library, head on your shoulder when he got bored of reading his own book.
And the worst part was… he looked so bored to everyone else. But with you, he was watching. Always. Like he couldn’t risk blinking in case you vanished.
One weekend, you found yourselves at a café - your choice. He ordered for you before you could even speak, like he’d memorized exactly what you’d want.
You stirred your drink. “Hey,” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You’ve… you’ve been in a relationship before, right?”
Boothill tilted his head, sipping his iced coffee through a straw he was definitely chewing just to annoy you. “Nah.”
“Seriously? No one?”
“You’re the first.”
“…Why?”
“Never seemed worth it. ‘Til now, anyway.”
Then he reached over, flicked a crumb off your cheek with that same annoying gentleness. You could only stare at him. You’d started this as a joke, a revenge plan, a petty prank. So why did it feel like you were the one losing now?
----
It wasn’t supposed to drag on this long. But every time he smiled at you, every time he waited outside your class, it got harder to remember why.
So you did the only thing left in your little revenge script. Blocked him on every app. Ignored his knock on your classroom door. Dodged his waiting shadow at the gate.
Your bestie covered for you, kept him busy.
You told yourself it would fade. He’d get bored, find someone else.
Except he didn’t.
---
It was late, the rain smashing the windows like a thousand tiny fists. You were towel-drying your hair, half-listening to the thunder, when the doorbell rang. Your parents were at Grandpa’s house, your phone was dead.
You cracked the door open, ready to snap at some poor scammer.
And froze.
Boothill stood there on your porch, soaked through like he’d walked straight out of the river. His bangs plastered to his forehead. One eye glared at you from under all that dripping hair.
You were so stunned you forgot to slam the door in his face. “...What the hell”
He pushed right past you. The rain hit your ankles where you stood barefoot. His wet coat brushed your arm.
“Hey-” you stammered, shutting the door before the storm could blow it off the hinges. “You’re soaked. You’re gonna catch a cold.”
You grabbed the towel off your shoulders and pressed it against his hair, mumbling something about idiots and umbrellas. He didn’t move, just let you fuss for about three seconds.
Then his hands clamped your wrists, stopping you mid-motion.
“You think you’re funny, huh? Blockin’ me. Hidin’. You really think that works on me?”
“Boothill-”
His grip tightened just enough to sting. His hair dripped onto your collarbone.
“You shoulda known better,” he murmured, leaning in until your foreheads touched, wet hair brushing your cheeks. “You shoulda known once we start somethin’ like this..”
He kissed you. You tried to breathe but he didn’t give you space, his hand fisted in the back of your hair, tilting your head like you’d try to run. When you gasped, he bit down, his teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to make you wince.
“There ain’t no backin’ out.”
His thumb dragged across your bitten lip, smearing the sting deeper.
“You run again? I’ll just drag you right back.”
He kissed the bruise he’d left, like an apology that wasn’t really one at all. Then his mouth ghosted your ear.
“Remember that next time you think about ghostin’ me, Sunshine.”
So far, you claimed you’d saved him from certain death. 'Several times', you said. Jing Yuan didn’t remember dying once, let alone repeatedly.
“If you’re going to spin tales, at least make them interesting.”
You only said, “You’ll see.”
And so Jing Yuan let you stay, half out of curiosity, half out of caution. He knew better than to ignore strange omens, or stranger people. Just in case, he asked Fu Xuan to dig up every scrap of your history.
“Nothing out of place.” she said. “You’re not getting soft, are you?”
He’d only hummed. “Depends on who you ask.”
After that, he watched you closely, just as you watched him, never more than a shadow apart.
When he rose, you were there, sweeping the steps before he even touched them. When he dropped a brush, you caught it. When he reached for a sword, you’d already wiped the blade clean.
One evening, he found you crouched by the main door, inspecting the lock for the third time that night.
“You know,” he drawled, folding his arms, “if an assassin wanted me dead, I doubt a loose latch would be my undoing.”
“Locks buy time. Time buys life.”
“Whose life?”
“Yours, general.” You shut the latch with a soft click, then stood. “Do you know how many things in this house could kill you?”
“Enlighten me.”
You turned, sweeping your gaze across the room, the drapes, the hanging scrolls, the ornamental spear by the window. “That spear could be a projectile. The drapes could hide someone. The inkstone on your desk is heavy enough to crush a skull. The rug at your feet could trip you if someone needed you to fall fast enough.”
He let out a low laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Remind me whose side you’re on.”
Yours was the same answer as always: “You’ll see.”
----
You often saw it before it happened, the image of Jing Yuan crumpling where he stood, or an arrow catching him at just the right angle, or poison slipping through the wine. You never knew when or how exactly, only that if you ignored it, the vision always came true.
So you stayed close.
You’d carved out a peaceful little life for yourself - a small room, warm food, the hush of your own thoughts - and you wouldn’t let anyone ruin it by killing the general.
For some reason, you linked the clues together and found out that his life matters. In order to protect this peaceful life of yours, you had to make sure he lives. Maybe changing the general matters? What if the next one is not as good as Jing Yuan?
Days passed with nothing.
So, finally, you let yourself rest. Just a few hours at home.
Then the vision hit you - spilled tea, blood.
You were up and gone before the image even cleared.
By the time you reached the grand study, Jing Yuan was lounging behind his desk, cup in hand.
“General!”
The guards jumped.
He raised the cup. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
You strode forward, snatched the cup from his fingers, and sniffed the rim. A thin bitterness under the scent of oolong. You glared at the trembling attendant by the side table, the only one close enough to swap the pot.
Jing Yuan watched the whole thing. When the guards dragged the attendant away, he leaned back.
“You were right.”
You set the poisoned cup aside, careful not to spill a drop. “You should be more careful.”
He chuckled. “I should just hire you.”
“I’m not interested.”
That caught him off-guard.
You only bowed. “I have another matter to handle. You’ll be fine now.”
----
The next morning, you reopened your shop for the first time in weeks. You’d just finished sweeping when you heard the bell over the door jingle. You looked up, and there he was - General Jing Yuan. He ducked his head a little to fit through the doorway meant for humbler guests.
“Good morning.” His gaze slid over the shelves of charms, the soft cushions, the lacquered counter. “Business back to normal, I see.”
“What can I help you with today?”
“You protected me so thoroughly, I’m curious if you’ll be just as thorough with my heart.”
“You want to know about love?” you asked, deadpan.
He smiled. “Isn’t that more dangerous than assassins?”
You sighed, motioned him to sit. The cushions sank under his weight. By then, people were already peering through the windows, word spreads fast when the General is seen visiting a little fortune shop. A line formed before the tea was even steeped.
Still, you focused only on him. You set the incense, shuffled the cards, let your sight settle in that half-place between now and not-yet. The vision flickered. A glimpse of a silhouette, soft laughter behind a curtain. But the details refused to settle.
“It’s… unclear..” you admitted at last. “There’s someone. Close to you, very close.”
“So I’ll see them soon?”
“If you’re patient.”
“I have all the patience in the world.”
You lowered your eyes, shuffling the cards back into the deck. Behind him, the door opened again, another guest, then another. The line curled out into the street like a festival crowd.
“Next” you called gently, and the next client stepped forward.
Jing Yuan lingered longer than he needed to. He watched you guide an old woman to the cushions. When you finally stood to light the lanterns for closing, earlier than usual, he was still there by the door, leaning against the frame.
“You should rest” he said. “You look tired.”
“I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”
He huffed a laugh. “I’ve never been rid of you. And I don’t think I ever will.”
You said nothing, only turned the sign back over, Closed, the little squeak of its hinge the last word between you.
That night, long after you closed the shop, you sat alone with a cup of tea you didn’t plan to drink. The leaves floated on the surface. You narrowed your eyes at the shapes, reaching for the faint line of the General’s fate that still tugged at you like a stray thread caught in your sleeve.
At first, there was only darkness, then the swirl of steam parted, and you saw it: a great wolf, silver and massive, its shape tangled with shadow. You couldn’t read if it was threat or guardian. Just the wolf, watching you back through the cup’s reflection.
You didn’t sleep much after that. By dawn, you’d decided you’d rather risk looking a fool than keep something like this from him.
The gates to the Seat of Divine Foresight were already open when you arrived. The Cloud Knights at the door recognized you now.
You found Jing Yuan where he always was at that hour.
You dropped to your knees so fast your bag tipped over behind you.
“General?” You touched his shoulder.
He stirred, lids fluttering open. “Mm…? You’re early... I must look terrible.”
“You look..” You bit down the word dead. You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead instead. “You- have a fever...”
He smiled weakly, half-turning his head into your palm.
“You’ve never..”
“First time seeing me like this huh..” he murmured. “Maybe I should’ve let you lock me in my place instead of working.”
“I saw something last night.”
He cracked one eye open. “Oh? Did it tell you I’d get sick?”
“A wolf.”
“A wolf...” he repeated.
“Does it mean something to you?”
But his mind was already drifting. You sat with him, then the physicians came.
When he woke later, propped up in bed, you sat at his side.
“You’re staying here tonight?”
“You need to rest.”
He caught your wrist. “I’m starting to think I always needed you.”
You let him hold your hands a moment longer. But when you pulled away, you didn’t leave.
By dusk, an attendant came bowing at your door. A room prepared for you, just down the corridor. By the General’s orders, they said, with a respectful tilt of the head. So you stayed. Drifted at last into an uneasy sleep.
You didn’t wake when he came in. The door didn’t so much as creak. He paused at the foot of your bed, gaze moving over the calm rise and fall of your breathing, the small lines of fatigue that never left your face.
“I don’t think I like being pampered.” he murmured, “At least, I never did, not until you came along.”
He sank down beside you, careful not to wake you. One hand lifted, then traced a single lock of your hair where it spilled across the pillow. He caught it between his fingers and bent low to press a kiss against it.
You shifted in your sleep but didn’t wake.
He stayed there a while longer. When he finally stood to go, he let the lock of hair slip through his fingers, slow and reluctant, as if leaving it behind cost him more than he cared to admit.
---
You hadn’t meant to check on him, but your feet carried you down the familiar corridor anyway.
You found him outside, in the garden. He sat on a bench. Beside him sprawled his great lion.
“Come to watch me nap?”
You ignored him, your gaze drawn instead to the lion. You’d seen it from afar before. It tolerated everyone, you’d been told. So you stepped closer. The lion raised its massive head, its eyes meeting yours. You reached out.
The growl rumbled up before you even touched its mane. A low, resonant warning that made Jing Yuan’s smile falter.
“What’s gotten into you?”
You tried again and this time, the lion lashed out. A clawed paw, quicker than you expected, raked across the back of your hand.
You jerked away. Jing Yuan was on his feet in an instant, one hand pressing a cloth to the cuts.
“Easy,” he murmured to the lion, “You’ve never done that before.”
Later, a healer bound your hand with clean white bandages. You didn’t feel the sting, your mind was elsewhere.
As you crossed the corridor, so lost in thought that you nearly bumped right into HuoHuo, who squeaked and dropped half of whatever she's holding.
“Ah- You should be careful!” she said, “Mr. Tail says you… um…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You have a dark shadow clinging to you.”
You stared at her.
“It’s not just misfortune.. it’s following you. Be careful!”
You managed a nod, mind already drifting elsewhere. That night, you sat again with the tea cup. You willed the shapes to show you the wolf again. But this time, the shape was clearer. The mane flared out, not a wolf, a lion. The tea cooled in your hands. Outside your door, you thought you heard footsteps.
----
If someone had hexed you, then they’d have to answer for it.
You found your old shaman friend in a narrow house. She took one look at your pale face, your bandaged hand, and ushered you in without a word.
The ritual dragged on through the night. The shaman’s chants tangled with your half-waking dreams until you couldn’t tell what was real and what was the shadow clinging to your back.
“Whoever cast this thread on you will find it snap back at them.”
You staggered home, half-delirious. Somewhere in the city that same morning, the guards found an escaped prisoner. Dead. Some said his face was twisted in terror. You were already drifting into a fevered sleep you couldn’t wake from.
In it, you felt the brush of a cool cloth at your brow, the faint smell of fresh ink. A low voice, murmuring to someone, but the words blurred and scattered like mist.
When your eyes finally fluttered open, you found yourself not in your own bed but tucked into a wide couch lined with soft pillows, draped in a heavy robe that smelled faintly of him.
You shifted, and felt it then, the rise and fall of someone’s breath beneath your head.
Jing Yuan, hair unbound around his shoulders, a stack of paperwork balanced across his knee as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have you curled up in his lap while he worked.
You jerked up too fast, the blanket nearly slipping to the floor. “General—?”
He didn’t look surprised at all. If anything, he sounded amused. “Finally awake?”
“Why am I here?.. You could have put me in my own room. I don’t want to bother you.”
“You do bother me,” he said mildly, setting the scroll aside at last. He brushed a hand over your hair, as if testing your temperature. “Stay for dinner. I insist.”
Your protest died on your tongue.
“…Fine. Just dinner.”
You’d barely settled on the cushion across from him when your gaze caught the polished wooden bowl on the tray - a small pile of uncooked rice.
“What is it?” Jing Yuan asked, leaning forward, elbows on the low table.
You gestured to the rice. “There’s a way to read fortune with this.”
His eyes glinted with sudden amusement. “Oh? Show me.”
You hesitated, but before you could say no, he was already scooping the raw grains into a clean bowl, setting it gently in front of you. Then, absurdly, he picked up a single grain between his long fingers, held it out to you like an offering.
You stared at him. “That’s not how it works..”
“Eat it. Maybe it’ll sweeten your words about my future.”
You shot him a look, then took the grain from his hand. You closed your eyes.
When you opened them, he was still watching you.
“Well?” he asked, “Will I see the love of my life soon?”
You rolled your eyes. “You have enough charm to ruin the market for the rest of us. Breathe the air, everyone within ten paces would fall over themselves.”
He huffed a laugh but leaned closer, “But I want details. Is it someone I already know?”
You flicked your gaze away, tracing idle circles on the rim of the rice bowl. “It’s… not clear yet.”
He was quiet for a heartbeat.
“You speak like you’ve no stake in it.” He cocked his head, smile thinning just slightly. “Is that because you already have someone in mind?”
The room seemed to press in. His eyes searched yours, glinting cold even through the gentle curve of his mouth.
“If you do,” he said softly, “I hope they know how fortunate they are. Who is it?”
You blinked at him, momentarily stunned by how tightly his hand was curled around the edge of his cup. Slowly, you shook your head.
“There’s no one.”
The air shifted. His shoulders eased, the tension melting so quick you’d almost think you imagined it.
The rest of dinner blurred pleasantly. Occasionally, your gaze drifted to the pile of raw rice left untouched. He kept glancing at it too, as if half-expecting you to pull another vision from the grains.
“Rest here tonight.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already standing, smoothing out his robe. He picked up a stack of scrolls from the side table.
“Rest well.” he said at the threshold, glancing back once.
You slept poorly, a restless half-sleep, visions flickering. The warmth of the guest room couldn’t keep them at bay: the smell of smoke, the sickening jolt as your own blood bloomed red against your palms. Someone’s hand at your throat.
You woke with a sharp gasp, only to feel something rough and warm dragging over your cheek. You flinched back so violently you hit the head board. Jing Yuan's lion stared down at you, tongue flicking out to lick your face again like it was greeting you.
You pressed your palms to the sheets, trying to push yourself further back, but the lion shifted forward.
Then a hand cut through, slipping between you and the lion’s massive paw. Jing Yuan’s voice came right after.
“Enough.”
The lion backed off with a rumble, settling obediently at his side. Jing Yuan turned to you, brushing your temple with the back of his knuckles. “You're alright.”
Before you could say a word, the vision struck you so violently it bent you double. The lion’s mane flashing like a crown of fire behind someone else’s eyes - his eyes.
You staggered out of his reach. “What is this?” you rasped. “Why.. Why?”
“Oh? Did you see something?” he murmured.
“Why.. General?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because I love you.”
“That’s not love.”
He stepped closer, so close you could see the shadow flicker behind his calm gaze, something vast and hungry wearing his patient smile like a mask. “Don’t say that. You always worry so much. Let me make it simple for you.”
You tried to run, but his hand caught your wrist before you reached the door. There was no pain, not really. Just the sudden weightlessness as darkness crashed over you like a wave.
You woke to the hush of your own ragged breath. You were on a low bed. The door was thick wood, the lock an iron bolt sunk deep into the frame. No windows.
You sat up, hand throbbing where lion's claw had once raked across your skin. On the small table by the door sat a single folded scrap of paper.
The moon watched over Mondstadt, as Diluc moved like a shadow between the rooftops. He turned a corner, melted into the darkness of an alley, and waited. Sure enough, you stumbled into view seconds later, clutching a small notepad and a pen.
He seized your wrist before you knew he was there. The notebook tumbled to the ground. You yelped as he pushed you against the wall.
“You’ve been following me” he said, “State your business.”
“I-I’m a reporter from Fontaine!” you blurted, “I swear, I’m just here for a story!”
He glanced down at your belongings, then let go of your wrist only to snatch up the notebook, flipping through the pages. His thumb brushed over your hasty sketches of the Dawn Winery. “Erase this. Now.”
“Not for free.”
His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You want me to erase days of work? Fine. But you have to give me something for it.”
“What do you want?”
You hesitated, then said the first thing that came to mind. “Make me some wine.”
For a moment, you thought he might laugh. But his face stayed unreadable.
“You’re asking me to brew wine,” he said, “in exchange for your silence?”
“Fontaine would kill for the real thing. I want one bottle. Then this-” you gestured at your notebook “never existed.”
Finally, he exhaled.
“Fine. One bottle,” he said, “Come to Dawn Winery tomorrow at dusk. If you ever follow me again,” he murmured, “I won’t be so forgiving.”
You swallowed but managed a nod.
“Deal.”
---
The bottle weighed heavy in your hand as you drifted aimlessly through Mondstadt’s sunlit streets. The trade had been fair, but now the silence felt heavier than the wine itself. The pages you’d given up still burned in your mind: the truth, the danger, the hidden side of Mondstadt. What good was being a reporter if you had nothing to report?
You wandered out through the city gates, letting the breeze tangle your hair as you trudged along the grassy slopes just outside the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a bard’s melody floated through the wind.
“Psst. Hey!”
You froze. The voice seemed to come from nowhere, until a rustle of leaves made you look up. There, draped across a thick branch of a wind-swept tree, was a boy, or at least, he looked like a boy.
He swung one leg lazily, grinning down at you. “So you want to hear about Diluc Ragnvindr, huh?”
“Who are you?”
He pressed a hand to his chest with a dramatic flourish. “Venti. A humble bard! And you—” his gaze flicked to the bottle in your hand, “—seem to have something I really want.”
You hugged the wine to your chest. “This? I worked very hard for this.”
“I’m sure you did!.” He perched himself upright, leaning down so his hat nearly brushed your hair. “How about this? You give me the wine...” he winked “and I give you something much tastier. Rumors.”
You squinted at him. “What could you possibly know about Diluc?”
He giggled then flipped down from the branch in one graceful leap, landing so lightly the grass barely bent.
“Oh, I know plenty.”
You weighed the bottle in your hand. With a sigh, you handed it over.
Venti popped the cork right there, tipped the whole thing back, and in a few gulps, the priceless vintage was gone. He smacked his lips like a cat that just lapped cream. “Ahh. Glorious! So, about Diluc…”
“He doesn’t let anyone get close, you know? But-” Venti poked your shoulder with a grin. “Donna.”
Your eyes widened. “Donna? The flower girl?”
“Mhm!”
You stared at your empty hand where the wine had been. When you looked up again, Venti was gone.
---
You were so close, Donna’s flower stall was right there, and you could already picture the shy blush on her cheeks when you asked about Diluc Ragnvindr. Another angle for your story, your story that must be told, no matter what your promise said.
But just as you lifted your hand to wave, a hand slammed over your mouth, and you were yanked back into a narrow passageway between two stone buildings.
Instinct kicked in - your training, all the rough Fontaine street brawls you’d survived - you twisted, stomped, elbowed. Whoever had you didn’t even flinch.
“Stop.”
He turned you just enough that the fading light caught his crimson hair.
“How did you..?” you hissed when he loosened his hold just enough for you to speak. “How did you know?”
“I know everything that happens in my city. You were not keeping your promise.”
“I didn’t leak anything! I haven’t printed a single word!”
“But you’re still digging.” he cut in, “You’re dangerous because you don’t know when to quit.”
Your fists clenched against his coat. Before you could snarl back, a sudden gust whipped through the alleyway.
Diluc’s hold faltered for the barest second, enough for the wind to slip under your feet. Then your boots landed back on solid stone.
Venti, perched atop the stone arch beside you. “Told you I’d help, didn’t I?”
“You... you can’t be serious,” you hissed up at the bard. “He’s going to kill me..”
“Oh, he won’t kill you.” He hopped down, landing in front of you, “Come on, my dear little quill. You want a story? I’ll give you a story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tonight,” he whispered, “we visit the lion’s den.”
And before you could protest, Venti twirled his hand and the wind rose again, swirling you both up into the night sky like two dandelion seeds on the breeze. You landed, not in the plaza but among moonlit vineyards, rows of grapes, the Dawn Winery looming ahead like a dark secret waiting to be poured.
You turned to Venti, who winked, pressing a finger to his lips. “Ready to snoop? You did say you wanted everything…”
It became a game, in the end. Each night, Mondstadt slept, and you and Venti didn’t. You’d crouch in the shadows of the Dawn Winery’s sprawling grounds. Venti’s laugh would flit through the rows like a playful breeze, carrying you closer and closer to something.
And every time, without fail, Diluc would find you.
He’d yank you out from under a bush by the collar of your coat. He’d appear behind you in the cellars: “Out.” He’d catch Venti perched like a cat on the balcony rail, your camera in his hands and snatch the film before you could even snap the shutter.
At first, he’d been cold, irritated that you kept testing him.
Then he’d grown familiar. Almost weary in the way he’d sigh when he found you halfway up the library shelves. “Again?”
You’d grin like a child caught stealing candy. Venti would hum excuses about the “freedom of the press” and get flicked on the forehead for his trouble.
You started to wonder if you enjoyed being caught as much as you enjoyed digging.
One night, you didn’t come.
Diluc stood by the window in the dim hours past midnight, gloves off, hair loose around his shoulders. Outside, the vineyard rustled softly in the wind. The leaves should have held whispers, a muffled laugh from Venti. The thrill of the hunt waiting for him to slip out into the dark to drag you both back into the light.
But tonight, there was only silence.
He waited longer than he’d admit.
The hour grew later. He found himself standing by the old grape trellises, the ones you favored for hiding when you thought you were clever.
Why does it feel… Empty?
----
You’d planned everything. This time, you told yourself, you’d get something. Venti, swaying half-drunk on cheap cider, had laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the crates you’d stacked as a planning table.
Venti’d promised fireworks before promptly passing out on top of your stolen stash of pyrotechnics.
So when the time came, it was you who hauled him onto your back, fireworks and all, stumbling under his weight as his braids tickled your ear and he mumbled nonsense about wine, freedom, and apples.
You were halfway down the forested path when the underbrush rustled. A low, wet squelch, then a ripple of green, and the faint glow of Dendro energy pooling at your feet.
Slime.
“Venti, get up!” you hissed, shoving at his side.
But he just snored. You turned, just in time to see the Dendro Slime lunge, You braced for the hit, but it never landed. Instead, the Slime split in two under a single clean strike, dissolving into burning sap.
You nearly dropped Venti right there. Because standing behind the dying embers was him.
“Diluc!!!” you squeaked, and before you could stop yourself, you flung your free arm around his coat. “My savior!”
His chest was warm. Smelled faintly of charred vines and something sharp and sweet. For half a heartbeat, you felt safe.
Then reality smacked you upside the head. You were hugging Diluc Ragnvindr.
You jolted back, hands up. “Haha! Never mind, thank you! We’re fine, no more slimes.. gotta go!”
You elbowed Venti hard enough to make him grunt awake. He peeked over your shoulder, blinking blearily at Diluc. “Oh. Hi!”
“Run” you hissed, already shoving Venti down the path as Diluc’s eyes narrowed.
---
You found the fireworks, right there, dumped neatly at the edge of the vineyard by the old stone wall.
Venti cackled when he saw them. “Oh, our fiery bird left us a gift! How thoughtful.”
You just glared at him. “Light it.”
And so, just as the sun dipped, Venti flicked a spark of fire from the tip of a matchstick. Color exploded into the sky, reds and golds and crackling silver that showered over the vineyards like a festival.
While they all rushed out to gawk at the spectacle, you slipped through the side gate, quick as a mouse. You were inside.
Your boots padded across the polished floors. You found yourself in a wide, echoing hallway, lined with expensive vases and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow you.
Carefully, you brushed your fingers against the rim of a massive porcelain vase teetering on its pedestal.
It wobbled. You nearly died right there. You steadied it, sweat breaking down your spine.
“Put it back.”
You froze, your reflection wavering in the smooth vase surface.
Swallowing hard, you turned, and there he was. Leaning against the doorway.
“Uh… hi?”
You’d never seen him this serious.
One heartbeat he was leaning in the doorway, the next, he’d crossed the hall, his hand snatching your wrist and dragging you away from the teetering vase.
“Hey! Let go!” you hissed, stumbling to keep up as his stride devoured the distance.
He didn’t. He pushed you through a side door, into a wide courtyard behind the manor.
“Fight me.”
“Fight..what? Are you insane?!” you yelped, backing up so fast your heel scraped over the flagstones.
He pulled the claymore out in one smooth motion. “So that I can get you out of my head.”
“Are you insane?! I don’t even have a Vision!”
You dove, rolling sideways as his blade cracked the stone where your shoulder had been. Sparks danced up into the night sky like startled fireflies.
You scrambled back on your hands. You ducked another swing. Another. You knew how to slip a punch, throw an elbow, but this?
And just when your lungs burned and your legs gave out, the wind rose, like a hand cupping your shoulder. The breeze wrapped around your chest, your throat, your wrist where you still clutched your battered camera.
Your eyes widened as your hand lit pale green, just for a breath, just enough to send a swirl of wind cutting sideways. Diluc stepped through it like it was mist, grabbed your shoulder, and sent you sprawling on your back, the wind dying out as soon as it came.
You lay there, gasping, staring up at his hair haloed by the moon. His chest heaved, not from exhaustion, from holding back. You realized he could have done worse. He didn’t.
You’d lost. Of course you had. But you were alive.
Your camera, jammed under your spine, whirred, and a single photo fluttered out, drifting to the stones between you.
You stared at it. Now you work? Now?!
You snatched it up just as his hand darted down. You twisted away, holding it out of reach.
He lunged again, not with his sword, just his arm, reaching to tear the picture. Your free hand hit his shoulder. His palm slammed into your ribs, off-balance, and the world tilted. Your back hit the stones. His weight pressed yours down and then his mouth crashed into yours.
You both froze. Your pulse pounded so loud you thought he’d hear every stupid word in your head.
“Up you get!”
Venti’s voice, bright and bubbling behind you, the wind snatched you both apart like a playful tide.
Next thing you knew, you were stumbling back through the vineyard, half-dragging your aching limbs while Venti perched on your shoulder like an annoying parrot.
Hours later, you and Venti ended up at the Angel’s Share, ironically, snuck in through a side door. You drank yourself warm while Venti crooned a song about your “fearless midnight kiss” that made you want to drown him in the last bottle.
When the tavern lamps burned low, you slumped over a table, the photo pressed flat under your cheek, Venti giggling in his sleep beside you.
A weight settled across your shoulders. You squinted up through bleary eyes.
Diluc. He said nothing, just tucked the blanket tighter, brushed your hair from your forehead.
---
You’d told yourself you’d keep the promise. You’d told yourself the photo would stay tucked away. But back in Fontaine, the temptation was too strong. You could see it so clearly: Master Diluc Ragnvindr — the stoic, scandalously handsome lord of Mondstadt’s finest wine. The perfect hook. The perfect lie to feed the hungry crowds desperate for foreign romance and scandal in their next glass.
And so the presses ran.
The front page: a half-shadowed photo of him in his courtyard.The headline: “Secrets of Mondstadt’s Famed Dawn Winery - Meet the Master Behind the Flame.”
It sold out the first day. Then the second. Then the third. Fontaine’s merchant ships started docking at Mondstadt’s port, each one carrying squealing nobles and tourists desperate to taste the vineyard’s ‘secret vintage’, to catch a glimpse of the brooding noble on the page.
A fellow reporter got to Mondstadt to interview the tourists.
“Excuse me, sir! May I ask why did you choose Dawn Winery for your tasting today?”
The merchant, cheeks flushed from a little too much red, slapped down the wrinkled newspaper as if it were proof enough.
Diluc Ragnvindr definitely knew this.
Back in Fontaine, you sat in your cramped room, window open to the smell of rain. Another fresh stack of newspapers sat at your feet, the proof of your new fame.
You could almost feel the storm rolling across the sea toward you.
When, not if, he found you again, you’d be lucky if he only burned your notes this time.
Assisstant!Jiyan x Shaman!Reader x Ghost!Geshu Lin
You heard the news from a customer - talk of an abandoned building, burned down, with no one knowing who did it.
By the time the rumor reached your door, you were already sitting cross-legged on the floor. Jiyan sat opposite you, his voice calm as he read the short report aloud.
“It says they think the dry weather’s to blame.”
You tilted your head, your sightless eyes half-lidded as you listened, not to his words, but to the quiet unease beneath them. Even now, after all this time, he still tried to soothe you. Funny, considering you were the one who had pulled him from the wreckage of his own fury years ago.
“It’s not the weather,” you said. “ I can feel it.”
You heard the faint rustle of fabric as Jiyan shifted. Probably folding his arms across his chest, a habit when he didn’t want you to see the small worries written across his features. As if you needed eyes for that.
“If you insist,” he sighed, “I’ll take you there.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers along the side of his hand until you felt him press his palm to yours. Years ago, he’d have fit in your shadow. Now his presence felt like a wall behind you.
The abandoned building was half-swallowed by the forest at its edges.
Jiyan guided you with a care that belied the muscle you could sense beneath his touch. When you stumbled over a fallen beam, he steadied you with a single arm around your shoulders.
“Almost everything’s gone.” he murmured as he scanned the blackened husk of the place.
“Not everything.” you said. You turned your face into the breeze that had begun to snake its way through the skeleton of the ruin.
You felt Jiyan’s attention shift, he was looking at something you couldn’t sense yet, his presence pulling slightly away from yours.
“Jiyan?” you asked, but the wind rose at your back like a hand pushing you forward.
Your cane tapped over scorched concrete as you followed the chill through the bones of the building. Behind you, Jiyan’s footfalls faded.
Ash and wind tangled around your ankles as you felt your way deeper into what must have been a back room. Your cane struck something.
You knelt, hands combing through the wreckage until your fingers met something. Small, round.. ears? A teddy bear?
Before you could ponder it, a sharp creak bit through the silence. To your left, the wind howled, then slammed open a half-burnt door so violently it knocked you sideways, pushing you into the room beyond.
“A blind shaman? Leave your soul here and be gone.”
“I don’t think so.”
You steadied yourself with a breath, the talisman’s beads pressing into your thumb. With a flick of your wrist, you scattered a circle of salt from your pouch. The presence shuddered, its hiss warping to a snarl.
“You dare...”
You stepped closer.
“I hate your kind... ALWAYS SO ANNOYING!”
You pressed your palm flat to the cold air, giving a final chant. The circle faded. The cold ebbed away, leaving behind only the teddy bear and the hush that comes after a storm.
Relief hadn’t yet settled when a new weight pressed onto your shoulder. But the grip was not Jiyan’s, you knew his warmth by heart.
“Strong, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
You felt him lean closer.
“Geshu Lin..” he purred. “Remember that when you dream. I like my prey aware when I come for them.”
The air thickened, you could feel him bending closer, the tips of something cold brushing your temple. Then the scent of scorched air broke.
“Get away from them.”
The hand lifted. The cold presence slipped back, slithering past you like smoke.
When you and Jiyan returned home, your palms still smelled of burnt wood and salt. He brewed tea in silence while you sat cross-legged again, skimming pages of old notes you could never read but memorized long ago.
“Geshu Lin…”
Behind you, you felt Jiyan’s steady weight settle by your side.
That night, sleep dragged you under. You recognized the dream before it fully took hold: an icy finger tracing your neck, a voice hissing your name.
You stood somewhere that felt like nowhere — the same abandoned ruin but swallowed by fog. And in the fog stood a human-like figure.
“So easy,” he crooned, “I could pluck your soul out through your pretty throat...”
You tried to speak but something cold wound around your neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.
You jolted awake. The air beside your bed moved. Something was breathing.
“...Jiyan?”
He stood at the foot of your bed. His silhouette was familiar, but the way he stood was all wrong. His head tilted too far to the side.
“Such a sturdy vessel.”
“Let him go.”
You’d always known this part of Jiyan, the hollow in him that made him so easy to invite spirits through. But never without permission. Never like this.
Geshu Lin laughed. It was wrong, hearing that laugh with Jiyan’s warm tone.
“Why would I? ”
You braced your palm on the floor as the incantation ripped from your throat. With a sound like a gasp being torn in half, the thing inside him ripped free.
Jiyan dropped to his knees in front of you, you caught him.
“You’re back...”
He only nodded. You felt the way his whole frame trembled. Strong as he was, even Jiyan wasn’t built for this kind of trespass.
Later, with the smell of ink and dried herbs curling through your room, you sat behind Jiyan, guiding your brush over the bare skin of his back. You knew the lines by touch alone, your fingers found the shape of old scars and muscle, the way his spine curved beneath your palm.
He sat like a stone. He only murmured once:
“Here. Start from here.”
Your brush found the base of his neck, and from there you painted your wards. When you were done, you pressed your palm flat between his shoulders. Warmth soaked into your skin.
Days later, you tracked Geshu Lin’s scent of rot to the edge of town. An old factory this time. He waited for you there, borrowing another body- a man, maybe mid-thirties.
“Back again.. You can’t save them all, you know.”
You could feel Jiyan standing behind you. You ignored the chill prickling at your throat and lifted your cane, steady as a blade.
“I can send you on,” you said. “Somewhere better.”
Geshu Lin laughed.
“Better? Don’t be dull. This is the most fun I’ve had.” He leaned closer, “I’ll stay. As long as I like.”
Your fingers found the beads at your neck, the salt, the paper seals hidden in your sleeve. Jiyan’s breath stirred your hair as he shifted behind you, waiting for your word.
“Then I’ll do what I must.”
The ritual began. And this time, you promised yourself, Geshu Lin would not slip through your hands so easily.
You had purified spirits so lost they didn’t remember their own names. You had soothed the wrath of many things. But Geshu Lin was different, and you knew it the moment your last chant fizzled on your tongue like a dead spark.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Seems like you've lost.”
---
Back home, you explained it to Jiyan while you sat at the low table, tracing the edge of your empty teacup.
“He doesn’t stay because he’s trapped. He stays because he wants to. And the only way to move him on is to fulfill that want.”
You could sense him there, standing in the kitchen, tall enough that when he leaned forward to stir the soup, his broad shoulders brushed the old rack of spices. He’d been so quiet while you spoke.
“Why won’t he tell you? Why kept dragging us into troubles?” Jiyan asked at last. You heard the flick of a knife, the soft thud of vegetables hitting the board.
“He’s stubborn. Or maybe he thinks I can’t do it.” You paused, “Or maybe it’s just a game to him.”
Silence filled the room again, broken only by the soft crackle of oil and the faint clatter of chopsticks against the side of the pot. Jiyan’s presence steadied you, it always had. A fortress you could lean your back against when the wind turned cruel.
You almost didn’t feel it when Geshu Lin slipped in that evening. One moment, you and Jiyan were sharing your quiet dinner. The next, Geshu Lin was perched at the far end of the table, one leg crossed neatly over the other like he owned the place.
The body he wore tonight was different again, younger maybe. He propped his chin on his palm, watching you like a cat might watch a trapped bird.
Jiyan’s chair scraped against the floor. “Out.”
You reached out and caught his wrist.
“Let him stay.”
You could feel the anger radiating off him. He didn’t like Geshu Lin near you, didn’t like him inside anything living. But you knew if you forced him out now, you’d learn nothing. Geshu Lin would just slip back in tomorrow, or worse, into Jiyan again.
“We need to know,” you murmured to him. “If we’re going to end this.”
Slowly, Jiyan sat back down. His hand stayed on yours beneath the table.
Across from you, Geshu Lin smiled.
“Good choice, little shaman. You are fun, after all. Shall we play house awhile?”
He plucked a piece of tofu from your bow. You listened to him chew.
You would keep him close. You would feed him tea and your warmth and your patience. And when his guard slipped, you would listen for the truth he thought you’d never find.
Beside you, Jiyan’s breath stayed calm, but you could feel the tension in his bones like a drawn bowstring.
“Eat as much as you like.”
Outside, the wind rattled the old eaves.
Dinner left an uneasy hush clinging to the corners of your small house. The bowls were emptied, Jiyan beside you at the sink as always, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, warm dishwater running over his big hands.
Usually he’d turn on the old TV for you to keep you company while you sat cross-legged on the cushion near the low table, waiting for him to finish. He’d tease you sometimes for “listening to nonsense shows” and you’d tease him for pretending not to enjoy them too.
But tonight, before Jiyan’s hand even brushed the remote, Geshu Lin had it. He sprawled where Jiyan usually sat, slouched deep into the cushions, flicking through channels.
You didn’t say a word. Just listened to the screen’s shifting noise as you talked quietly with Jiyan about mundane things, how the neighbor’s cat had gotten into the grain again, whether you needed more rice next week.
Halfway through your soft laughter at Jiyan’s grumbled story, the volume spiked. The cheap speaker crackled with shrill laughter and the clash of some game show, loud enough to drown your words.
You felt Jiyan stiffen at your side.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Let him.”
Jiyan didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue. When the last bowl was set to dry, he turned off the TV himself, ignoring the lazy glare Geshu Lin shot him from the floor.
Outside, the night air was crisp enough to bite the sweat at your collar. You walked barefoot onto the packed earth of the yard, your cane tapping softly as you traced the edges of the old stepping stones. Jiyan followed. Geshu Lin’s footsteps came behind too.
You paused, breathing in the hush between trees. There, you lifted your head.
“There’s a spirit here.”
Geshu Lin’s answer was an amused hum. You heard the rustle of cloth as he stepped ahead of you. One flick of his hand and the soul that lingered flickered out like candle smoke.
“You didn’t even try to speak to it first?” You asked.
“No fun in that.”
Then he brushed past you and slipped back inside, as if it was his home.
The chill lingered on your skin until you felt something heavy drape over your shoulders, Jiyan’s coat.
“He doesn’t care. Not about them.. or you.”
You turned your face toward him.
“I know. But he’s telling us pieces, even when he thinks he’s not. One day he’ll show us what he really wants.”
“I’ll watch him. Even if you won’t make him leave.”
You smiled faintly, leaning your shoulder against his arm.
“I know.”
By morning, the corner where Geshu Lin had sprawled was empty, the cushion still dented by his weight as if he’d just stepped out for a moment.
Jiyan made your tea that morning. Neither of you spoke of where Geshu Lin had gone. You only held the cup in both hands, listening to the quiet drip of the kettle.
---
You never turned away the small requests. People came to you for blessings, for guidance, for a glimpse at futures they were too afraid to touch on their own.
“It’s… my love line...” she said, “I… I can’t keep anyone close. Every time I feel happy, something happens. I feel like… something’s stopping me.”
The incense at your side burned slow and steady, its smoke coiling through the room.
Behind her, you can see, a shadow coiled in grief like a snake that refused to die.
“A ghost follows you. He won’t let you love anyone else.”
You felt her breath hitch. The cup rattled against its saucer.
“That must be my ex... He— he killed himself after I broke up with him. He said if I left, he’d—”
You laid your hand over hers before she could finish. She flinched at first, but your warmth steadied her.
“Leave it to me.”
His house was still standing, though the neighborhood had long given way to empty windows and stray cats hunting in the overgrowth.
Jiyan moved ahead.
Inside, you barely had time to kneel near the faded tatami when the air snapped like a dry twig. Cold swept at your back. You straightened.
“You don’t belong here anymore,” you said softly into the chill. “Let her go.”
A low growl answered. Jiyan moved in, placing himself between you and the snarl of grief. But the ghost pushed back, forced Jiyan backward just enough to open a crack. And through that crack, Geshu Lin slipped in.
He laughed as he stepped between you and the ghost. His grin was wolfish in this new host.
“So noisy. Let’s help you along, hm?”
He kicked the old table, sending it crashing through the flickering outline of the ghost. The spirit shrieked, and before you could react, Geshu Lin turned to you, one hand slicing a line across his palm.
You smelled the blood first, then something else, like ash stirred into mud. He grabbed you by the chin, and before Jiyan could surge forward again, he pressed that dark mixture over your closed eyes.
Pain flared. It dug under your eyelids, the world behind your eyes bursting with shards of light and color you hadn’t tasted in so long.
Your throat caught on a scream that barely left your lips.
When the burning subsided, you were left gasping in the darkness. But it wasn’t just darkness now, shapes swam at the edges of your mind’s eye. You swallowed the ache in your skull and stood. Jiyan was back at your side.
Your fingers found your prayer beads.
“You loved her once. Let that be enough. Go where you belong. Find peace, so she can too.”
The pale blue shape shivered, then thinned, drawn gently into the warmth you offered. With a sigh, the cold ebbed away. The house settled into silence.
You exhaled, swaying slightly. Jiyan’s hand cupped your shoulder, his other palm brushing under your eye, smudging away the last smear of that dark, sticky mud Geshu Lin had left.
“I can see...?” you rasped, half disbelieving.
Jiyan’s thumb stilled on your cheek.
“What did he do to you?”
You turned your face just slightly, toward the door where Geshu Lin had already vanished. You knew he hadn’t given you this sight as a gift. It was bait. Or a test. Or both.
But for now, your sight was your weapon. You’d use it.
Jiyan wasn’t convinced. The moment you stepped past the threshold, he wrapped you in his coat and practically carried you to the only doctor he trusted.
You sat obediently in the stale-smelling exam room, eyes still burning while the old doctor muttered about miracles and nerves and how impossible it should be for you to see at all. But in the end, he shrugged and said your eyes were healthy. You thanked him.
Back home, Jiyan sat you on the edge of your futon and tugged your chin up so he could squeeze the new eyedrops in.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“It doesn’t. I’m alright.”
The door creaked open. Neither of you had left it unlocked, but locks meant little to something like Geshu Lin.
He wore the same stolen skin as before.
“How tender. Let’s see those pretty eyes, then.”
Before Jiyan could rise to block him, Geshu Lin shoved him aside. He crashed into the shelf behind you, catching himself before the old wood splintered.
And then Geshu Lin was kneeling before you, one cold palm tilting your chin up, his breath brushing yours.
“Still cloudy?”
You had no chance to answer before his mouth pressed to yours. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel, either. A sudden flow, a river of something too bright pouring down your throat, behind your eyes, crawling like fire through your veins.
You gasped when he pulled back, the taste of iron lingering on your tongue. Light sparked behind your eyelids, clearer now. When you opened your eyes, the world around you swam into something closer to focus.
The first thing you saw was Jiyan, his broad form blocking your side, one palm braced on your shoulder to keep you steady as he glared at Geshu Lin like he might tear his throat out with his bare hands. With a soft click of his tongue, Jiyan lifted a handkerchief and wiped the smear of blood-tinged spit from the corner of your lips.
You caught his wrist before he could pull back. The room felt huge, bright, you could see the shape of his jaw now, the way his hair fell over his brow.
You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his warm skin. His eyes went wide, and his ears flushed pink at the tips, a color you could finally see instead of sense.
“So this is what you look like…”
He ducked his head slightly, the heat on his face betraying him even as he muttered,
“Stop… staring like that…”
Behind you, Geshu Lin laughed.
“Ah, how sweet. See? Now you’re not so helpless. How could I fight you properly if you were fumbling in the dark like a worm?”
“So that’s why you did this? To make me a ‘worthy opponent’?”
“Of course. What fun is a hunt if the prey can’t see the blade coming?”
He didn’t linger. Just brushed his knuckles over your cheek, then slipped out the door. You exhaled, still cradling Jiyan’s face. His hands closed over yours.
Outside, you could see the dawn beginning to break. The world was brighter.
That night, the warmth of your new vision flickered with dreams you couldn’t quite hold, the shape of Jiyan’s silhouette framed in soft lamplight.
Outside your dreams, the house creaked with familiar hush. Jiyan’s weight shifted quietly near the door, his steps careful not to wake you as he gathered what he needed.
He found Geshu Lin at the far edge of the forest shrine.
“You should stay dead.”
Geshu Lin only laughed, brushing dirt from his sleeve like it was nothing.
“And let you have them all to yourself? I think not.”
When the first blow landed, it cracked the shrine’s old pillar, they moved like shadows clashing in moonlight. Geshu Lin flickering and slipping from one spot to the next. Neither would yield, not until one of them died.
When you woke, that quiet link between you and Jiyan humming like an alarm you couldn’t ignore. You wrapped yourself in your coat and found them by the shrine just before dawn.
They lay there, both half-torn and breathing hard, Geshu Lin sprawled against a cracked stone lantern, Jiyan half-kneeling in the dirt, his big hands braced on scraped earth as he forced himself upright when he heard your steps.
You dropped beside Jiyan first.
“Jiyan!”
His eyes softened the moment they met yours. He rasped out your name, but before he could say more, a dry scoff snapped your attention back to Geshu Lin.
He lay against the stones, eyes half-lidded. There was a smear of something like annoyance between his brows by the sight of you kneeling over Jiyan first.
When you shifted, you reached a hand to him too.
“Stay still. Let me—”
But Geshu Lin’s eyes glinted, a flash of that wicked grin twisting his battered face. He caught your wrist, tugged. In an instant, you were pulled down, your knees scraping the dirt beside his chest.
“Trying to bind me again?” he purred, as you fumbled for the bracelet in your sleeve. You pushed it onto his wrist.
“Nice try.”
Jiyan’s hand closed around your elbow, the other braced against Geshu Lin’s chest as he tore you back, pulling you free of the ghost’s lazy hold. You felt Jiyan’s steady breath warm against your ear as he held you close.
---
The next morning, the sky was gray when Jiyan brought the old truck around front. He held the door for you, the faint stiffness in his shoulder the only sign of last night’s fight still clinging to him. Geshu Lin, already perched in the passenger seat.
A commissioner’s land — bought cheap because someone else’s bones were buried in it. The rich never liked their houses haunted. So they called you.
By mid-morning, you’d traced the old burial markers with your cane, your fingers brushing the stone marked the grave while the incense burned in neat spirals at your feet. Jiyan dug the shallow grave under your soft chants.
When you were sure the spirit gave his reluctant nod, you let Jiyan lift the bones from the dirt, wrap them in clean cloth, and place them gently in the prepared casket. By noon, the new resting place was ready. The job was done.
Your throat felt dry by the time you settled into the back seat. You didn’t mean to drift off. The truck’s gentle hum and the warmth of the noon sun blinking through the window pulled at your exhausted mind until your eyes slipped shut.
You half-woke once when your head dipped sideways, resting against warmth you knew instantly wasn’t Jiyan. Geshu Lin stiffened where he sat, one hand twitching at his side like he meant to shove you away, toss you out. But he didn’t.
Sleep tugged you deeper.
You dreamed of a graveyard. This one sprawled endlessly, rows of rough markers in muddy trenches. You heard shouting, boots trampling wet earth, and the sharp, hopeless cries of men dying. Soldiers. Somewhere in the sea of armor, you thought you saw a face. Geshu Lin’s.
You woke up, but not in the back seat. You were in your room, your blankets tangled around your legs. For one brief heartbeat you thought maybe you’d simply slipped too deep into your dreams.
Then you heard it, a noise like something heavy tipping over.
Your sight caught the trail of red across the hallway floor. You pushed yourself up, as you stumbled into the narrow hall, you saw Jiyan lay there. Blood seeping into the old floorboards beneath him.
You jolted awake, the seatbelt biting into your shoulder. The truck’s engine hummed steady under your cheek. The window beside you glowed with sunset now, blurring over trees whipping by.
You dragged your eyes up and found Jiyan glancing at you in the rearview mirror.
“Bad dream?”
“Yeah..”
Jiyan held your gaze a moment longer, then he turned back to the road. Beside him, Geshu Lin’s reflection caught the faint light. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror.
That night, you willed your eyes to stay open. But sleep found you anyway. And so did the graveyard, you dreamed of the same dream.
You woke gasping, only to realize you hadn’t woken at all.
The nightmare clung to you like wet ash. When you finally forced yourself up from your tangle of blankets, the room was cold. You needed water.
Your feet tapped softly through the dark hall. The kitchen light was already on, that sickly yellow hum flickering under the door. You pushed it open and froze.
Geshu Lin was kneeling in front of the open fridge. Its pale light washed over him.
Every shelf was gutted, jars upended, vegetables rolling on the tile, a bottle of sauce leaking slowly onto the floor.
You stepped closer and reached out.
“Geshu Lin?”
He whipped his head up. For a moment he looked at you like a starving beast.
“Want to touch me so badly?”
Before you could pull your hand back, he lunged. His weight slammed you down onto the cold tile, the back of your head cracking against it hard enough to fuzz the edges of your vision. He straddled you there, knees pinning your hips, one palm braced on your chest like he could peel you open with just his thumb if he wanted to.
Your hand rose, pressing your fingertips to his forehead. Your other hand tugged at the bracelet around his wrist.
“I’m not done with you yet—”
His snarl split the grin apart. His hand shot up, wrapped around your throat, pressing hard into your windpipe until your vision burst into sparks.
Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, useless against his crushing grip. The shadows danced at the corners of your sight.
You didn’t hear Jiyan come in. You felt him as the door slammed open.
“Stay with me. Please... stay—”
---
The antiseptic sting of the hospital room, such annoying smell. Jiyan must have carried you here. But Jiyan himself was nowhere to be seen.
You drifted again, half between sleep and waking, you saw the pieces he didn’t want you to see.
The same graveyard. You saw Jiyan, but younger. Geshu Lin beside him, laughing as he wiped a blade clean on a strip of red cloth. And you, smaller than both of them, clutching a scroll to your chest. You were friends?
In the dream, Jiyan fell first, he got a bullet through his chest. You remembered how your hands had pressed to the wound. You remembered Geshu Lin screaming at you to run, but you didn’t. You stayed beside Jiyan’s body until the sickness ate you alive weeks later.
“I’ll finish it this time. He’ll remember. And so will you.”
You gasped awake. Your throat stung as you pulled at the IV, the nurse’s voice calling your name.
You texted Jiyan:
Where are you?
No reply.
When the nurse touched your arm to ease you back onto the bed, you flinched. You swung your legs over the edge instead. The bracelet Geshu Lin hadn’t broken still clung loose on your wrist.
You needed to find Jiyan. Before Geshu Lin pulled him back into memories so old they could drown him.
The nurse called after you, but your feet were already carrying you down the hall, your phone pressed to your palm, waiting for his name to light the screen.
You found him, the wind sharp against your hospital gown where it flapped beneath your coat. And next to him was Geshu Lin, palm braced against Jiyan’s chest.
“Remember what you owe me—what you left me with—”
“Enough!”
Geshu Lin turned. “Stay back!”
“If you don’t stop—” you cut him off, “I swear I’ll kill myself here and now. You want him to remember? You think he’ll forgive you when I’m gone?”
Jiyan’s breath hitched, he regained his consciousness. The old past and the present blurring at the edges like smoke. Before Geshu Lin could force him under again, you bolted up where they are and grabbed Jiyan's wrist.
“Come back to me.”
His hand clenched around yours so tight it almost hurt, like he was telling you he wouldn't go anywhere.
When Geshu Lin turned to slip away, you caught his sleeve.
“If it’s in the past, then let it stay buried.” You searched for his eyes, “You have us now. All three of us. Isn’t that enough for you to hold on to?”
He scoffed. But his hand didn’t pull away.
So it stayed like that, for now.
A new trio. Jiyan’s soft grumbles every time Geshu Lin draped himself over your couch like he owned it. Geshu Lin flicking your charms across the room, only to catch them midair when Jiyan threatened to pin him to the wall again.
----
You’d always shown your softest edges to Jiyan. It wasn’t intentional, it was simply natural. He’d been by your side so long. You never guessed how the weight of that closeness scraped at Geshu Lin’s ribs like an old, stubborn splinter. He watched you lean into Jiyan’s care, the gentle way you teased him when his hands fumbled with the incense sticks, the faint laugh you let slip only when you thought no one else was listening.
Geshu Lin did care for Jiyan — once. Maybe even now. But not enough to share. Not this time.
You’d spent that evening pacing from room to room. The family had begged you to clear out the last scraps of a restless spirit that knocked over dishes and whispered curses in the attic. Easy work.
Outside, Geshu Lin leaned against the garden wall, the cold edge of a rusted sword balanced across his palms. He flipped it idly.
And Jiyan hovered nearby you during the ritual. He waited for you to finish. Tonight he’d decided, he’d tell. That he wanted you to stay his, fully, in this life where he’d found you again.
He found Geshu Lin first. The ghost greeted him with that lopsided grin.
“Brave, aren’t you? Planning to steal them away for yourself?”
Jiyan ignored the bait, or tried to. He glanced at the blade in Geshu Lin’s hand.
“Drop it. I don’t want trouble tonight.”
“Oh, but I do. I want what you keep clutching in that stubborn chest of yours. Let’s wake it up, shall we?”
The blade plunged in, making a clean thrust under the ribs. Jiyan gasped once, his wide eyes catching Geshu Lin’s for the briefest heartbeat, like he saw every memory waiting just beyond the crack in his spirit.
The sword shivered as the soul inside it poured through.
You stepped out then. Jiyan’s shape slumped against Geshu Lin’s arm. The sword glowed faintly where it pierced flesh and soul alike.
Your mouth parted “Ji—”
Geshu Lin moved faster than your half-cleared eyes could track. The back of his hand cracked against your temple.
You hit the stone steps, your last sight the flicker of Jiyan’s eyes. How strange, it's like the person facing you right now is not Jiyan himself.
And Geshu Lin, leaning close as your vision went black.
“Sleep well. When you wake, we’ll all be whole again.”
Hiii!! First off, I wanted to say i love love your works!! I absolutely fell in love with the mydei grovelling series (im a sucker for that trope) and wanted to ask if you could do something similar(grovelling) for phainon?🫶
PURE EXPERIMENT
Phainon x Reader
Warning: This work contains explicit NSFW content intended for mature audiences only.
When you, Caelus, and Dan Heng crashed down onto Amphoreus, it felt like the universe itself had spat you out into a place it had long chosen to hide.
Caelus was the first to move. His signature baseball bat rested against his shoulder, Dan Heng followed, you were right after.
You saw a figure stepping out. Caelus was barely prepared for what was coming. The man caught the bat with one hand. Dan Heng stepped forward next, but the man shifted his stance, brushed his cloak aside, and broke the spear in half.
Your gun was up, you fired several shots. The bullets were blocked effortlessly.
“I mean you no harm.”
You kept your sights on him.
“My name is Phainon. Welcome to Amphoreus.”
What came after blurred into a fog. He explained too much and yet not enough. In the end, the meaning was simple: you, Caelus, and Dan Heng were staying. For how long, you don't know.
Phainon regarded the three of you as if he’d been waiting for centuries. Behind you, Dan Heng said nothing, but the look he shot you said everything: Stay alert.
You tightened your grip on your gun, even if you knew by now it wouldn’t help.
“Come,” he said, “You three must be exhausted.”
You’d barely gotten used to the unsettling quiet of Amphoreus before it turned to chaos again.
Phainon claimed it wasn’t his place to interfere, yet here he was, striding beside you. You thought he'd be introducing you to someone else as a guide and then leave.
Then there's more fighting. You don't know why you always encounter these monsters thingy.
Between skirmishes, you caught whispers of Nikador. What was that? Titan?
On that path, you ran straight into Mydei.
He was tall, built like he’d been carved straight from the marble beneath your boots and you couldn’t help it.
“Woah... look at him..” you whispered under your breath, elbow nudging Caelus.
Caelus, predictably, chimed in with a grin. “That’s what I’m saying.”
That earned you both the look. Dan Heng’s narrowed eyes spoke first: Focus. You coughed, eyes darting away awkwardly. Caelus whistled under his breath, turning his grin into a tight-lipped hum. Mydei, for his part, just stared at you both.
Phainon glanced at Mydei, then at you. “What about me, then?”
Was he serious? Well, you were curious. And, well, fair was fair. So you stepped forward, a little too bold for your own good, pressing your hand to Phainon’s arm, just beneath the layered cloak. Solid. You pretended to check your wrist-guard as you withdrew your hand, face heating under Dan Heng’s silent judgment.
“Yeah, you’re… um. Sturdy.” You coughed again. “Moving on.”
With Mydei now at your side your group pressed deeper into the ancient corridors.
You met Castorice, she's beautiful in her own way, though she looked pale in your opinion. The fight was ugly. You mostly kept to the edges, rerouting your drone’s output, tossing makeshift barriers and feeding Caelus and Dan Heng the openings they needed.
When it was over, the ruins were eerily quiet again.
When you three stumbled back to your assigned quarters, you barely had the strength to peel off your gear before collapsing. Caelus snored first. Dan Heng slept near the door, half-sitting.
Hours later, you blinked awake to the low hum of the complex. No one else was up yet. Caelus drooled on his sleeve. Dan Heng’s breathing was as calm as ever.
Your curiosity wouldn’t let you stay still. You slipped your boots back on, checked your gun, and stepped out into the winding corridors.
You’d heard murmurs about a communal bathhouse here. You found it, well it was close to wherever you three are staying. You didn’t mean to linger, but the sheer number of people made you pause. Some bathed quietly, but most gathered around something in the middle, giggling and shouting.
That’s when you spotted him, a flash of silver hair slumped awkwardly near a low wall. His cloak was half undone, collar askew, eyes unfocused.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” you muttered.
You pushed your way through the crowd and reached him just as he slumped sideways. You caught his arm, startled by how heavy he suddenly felt. His skin was burning hot where the steam had gotten under the layers of his uniform.
“Phainon? Hey! Don’t die on me!”
His eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again as you dragged him out through the haze, ignoring the curious stares behind you. Once in the open hall, you propped him against a pillar, pressing your palm to his forehead for a moment. Yes, still burning. You tugged at his cloak, loosening buckles and straps until he could breathe again.
After a few minutes, the sharpness returned to his eyes.
“I… appreciate your intervention.”
“What were you doing in there?” you asked, still holding onto his arm just in case he tried to tip over again.
“Observing..”
“Observing what? A sauna full of people cooking themselves?”
You pressed your palm to his forehead again. Still hot. You let out a sigh and leaned back, giving him space to breathe.
“Next time, observe from the doorway, yeah?”
Phainon just gave you a faint smile.
---
Caelus and Dan Heng were as reliable as ever, you knew that the moment you left them behind. If there were invaders left to chase off, they’d handle it. That freed you up to follow your own curiosity, straight into the heart of Okhema.
You’d heard whispers about the Chartonus Smithy. Rows of weapons lined the stone displays. You didn’t buy anything, not yet. But you ran your fingers along the crafted hilts, made notes like a kid in a candy store who knew they’d be dragging Caelus back here later to pick out something ridiculous together.
When you finally stepped back into Okhema’s streets, the dusk lights of Amphoreus caught the edges of the city, turning the rooftops to gold. Time to head back to your place.
You turned a corner and stopped dead in your tracks.
Phainon stood there.
“You shouldn’t be here, should you?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“You look like you’re tracking someone. Or me. Which is it?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced at the slip of alloy sticking out of your bag, a polished dagger blueprint you’d snagged at the smithy’s counter. His eyes lingered there, then drifted back to yours.
“I’ve struggled to protect Amphoreus for a long time,” he said finally, “Seeing others come.. it eases the burden.”
Your shoulders dropped a bit at that. The honesty surprised you.
You tried to wave it off, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “It’s nothing. It’s what we do.” You shrugged. “We’ll help however we can, for as long as we’re here.”
His eyes stayed on you. “I hope you can stay longer.”
You gave him a lopsided smile you didn’t quite feel. “Can’t promise that.”
A silence settled between you. The kind that made you think you might turn around later and see him still standing there.
You stepped backward, giving him a small wave as you turned to leave. “Go rest, Phainon.”
---
The Chrysos Heirs — that’s what people called them here. And right now? They're definitely busy. Busy having a break. One of those breaks was the so-called duel in the bath house. Honestly, duel was generous, it was closer to two bored dude bickering.
You’d stumbled in by accident. In the end, Mydei won.
When you rushed over, Phainon looked seconds from passing out. You muttered a few choice curses under your breath and hauled him upright, arm over your shoulder, ignoring how heavy he was draped across you.
But before you got two steps toward the corridor, Phainon straightened. His grip tightened around your wrist.
“I’m fine,” he murmured. “There’s no need—”
You knew that tone. The I didn’t lose, I allowed it tone.
Which was exactly why your free hand slipped behind your back, reaching for the small device you’d been fiddling with at the smithy the night before, a short-range pulse tool, mostly for recharging drone cores but technically capable of shorting out a grown man’s nerves for a second if you calibrated it just right.
The zap cracked in the tiny space between you, a bright flicker of blue that danced up Phainon’s side and set his neat hair askew for half a heartbeat. His eyes widened, then rolled back as his legs buckled for real this time.
You caught him — again. Muttered another curse — again.
“Overly dramatic puppy.” you grumbled, dragging him back toward the hallways before anyone in the bath house could notice him knocked out cold in your arms.
You didn’t risk hauling him back to your own quarters. Instead, you nudged open the door to his room. You half-dropped, half-settled him onto the low-cushioned daybed near the window. Even unconscious, he looked like he’d chosen the pose on purpose - one arm draped neatly, hair falling across the pillow in a perfect arc.
You stayed for a while, not because you wanted to, you told yourself, but because you needed to see if your device’s timer actually held. Ten minutes? Twenty? Could you get thirty before the charge burned out?
So you sat on the floor beside him, back resting against the bed frame, your little shock device in your palm. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. And when his breathing hitched once, you flicked the switch again, just enough to send another soft pulse through the coils. He settled back down.
“Ohh, might be useful for future enemies. I'm a genius.”
You’d give him five more minutes before he woke up and pretended none of this ever happened.
If there was one thing you’d taken seriously from Miss Himeko, it was her cooking. Or at least, her unwavering faith that a good cup of tea could solve just about anything.
So when Phainon finally stirred awake, you decided to help him properly. You rummaged through the odds and ends you’d pocketed from the local market: dried roots, something like star anise, a vial of shimmering purple powder. You boiled it all together until the steam curled out of the tiny kettle. The result glowed a soft, suspicious purple. You sniffed it once. Himeko would approve, probably.
When you placed the cup in Phainon’s hands, he studied it like it might start to talk to him. Then he looked at you.
“You made this for me?”
You crossed your arms, leaning on the doorframe. “Miss Himeko says hot tea fixes everything.”
He raised the cup and took a sip. The steam curled around his hair, softening the angles of his face. He lowered the cup and gave you a polite nod: “It’s… exquisite.”
A heartbeat later, he froze. His eyes widened slightly. He blinked at the cup, then at you. Then he winced, one hand lifting to press at his temple.
“Phainon?”
He didn’t answer, just lurched forward off the bed, nearly knocking the cup from your hands as he braced himself against the sink nearby. A harsh, choked sound forced its way up his throat.
You swore under your breath. You grabbed his shoulder, steadying him as he doubled over. “Deep breaths, come on, out with it.”
When he finally threw up the shimmering tea, it looked like ink swirling down the drain. He coughed once, eyes watering, shoulders tense under your grip. You rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, muttering apologies.
When he pulled back from the sink, his skin was clammy, but then came a wave of heat.
“Stay still— hey, Phainon, stay still—” you muttered, pressing him gently back onto the bed. You swapped the empty teacup for a fresh one, normal water this time. You held it out to him. “Here.”
But he just stared at the cup, words slurring as he muttered something about the Titans.
“Phainon, focus!” You tapped the rim to his lower lip, nothing. He turned his face away with that dazed, stubborn grace that made you want to shake him and apologize at the same time.
You stared at the cup, then at him. Then you sighed, bracing yourself for the last terrible option.
You lifted the cup to your own lips, taking a sip of the water, just enough to hold in your mouth. Then you leaned down, one hand cupping the side of Phainon’s flushed face.
“Don’t bite me” you muttered under your breath, then pressed your lips to his.
The water passed slowly between you. When you pulled back, he looked at you like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was anymore. You wiped a drop from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.
When Phainon finally stopped fighting the strange haze in his head, you thought it was over. He lay back like he might drift to sleep for real this time. You’d done enough damage for one day, the cursed purple tea was out of his system, the water seemed to help, and the worst of the nausea was gone.
But the heat lingered. He shifted restlessly on the bed, one hand tugging at the collar of his robe as if it were strangling him. You grabbed the edge of his sleeve and shooed his fingers away, muttering under your breath, “Don’t you dare disrobe on me!”
He only cracked an exhausted laugh that faded into another low sigh, then his eyes flicked open,, focusing on you like you were the only thing that made sense.
“Your hand… is cool.”
You swallowed down the awkward knot in your throat and pressed your palm gently to his cheek, feeling the fever burning under his skin. You hesitated, then pressed your other hand to the side of his neck, fingertips brushing the rapid pulse beneath his jaw. He was scorching. He leaned into the touch like a cat.
But as the heat spiked, so did the strange flicker behind his eyes, his lips parted, mumbling half-formed words you couldn’t follow.
“Hey— Phainon! Focus.” you whispered, shifting to lift the water cup to his lips. He wouldn’t drink on his own, so you did it again. The moment the water touched his tongue he shuddered.
His hand slipped behind your neck pulling you into a deep kiss that startled the air right out of your chest. You yelped against him, your palm pressing instinctively to his chest to push him back. He didn’t flinch, only deepened the kiss, a muffled sound caught in his throat as your push pinned him halfway to the mattress.
Your mind reeled. What am I even doing. His heartbeat thundered under your palm, hotter than your own. His cloak slipped free under your elbow, half-off his shoulders now.
You forced yourself to break the kiss. “You’re— seriously—”
But before you could fully pull back, Phainon shifted, the weakened half-dream grip of a man whose body forgot its limits. He rolled, and suddenly you were the one pinned under him.
You bit down on the side of his neck, just enough to shock him. He flinched. You scrambled out from under him.
“Uh- So... I'll send someone over. Stay here.”
You needed backup. Reliable backup.
You ran as fast as you could, spotted Aglaea passing by.
“Aglaea— do me a favor—” you blurted. “It’s Phainon— he’s— got a fever. Weird one. Could you— maybe—”
You didn’t even finish.
“I’ll call for Hyacine.”
Good. You exhaled, pressing your palm to your chest where your heart still raced.
By the time Phainon’s fever finally broke, you’d half-convinced yourself he’d remember everything. But when he next found you, he didn’t bring it up at all.
----
When the three of you Caelus, Dan Heng got that flickering message from Himeko, it felt like your heartbeat had been dropped in ice water.
« Be careful — that place… the records say—»
The signal flickered and died, leaving you staring at the screen.
Not five minutes later, your phone pinged with a new message - Screwllum: « Are you lingering on the Astral for a reason? »
You fired back: « Well, I'm on this place called Amphoreus — you heard of it? »
The line flickered. The text bubble formed. Then it vanished mid-typing.
You found Phainon again later that evening at the Marmoreal Market. You almost missed him in the bustle, standing next to Mydei by a stall. Mydei’s massive arms crossed, whatever they talked about must’ve finished quickly, because Phainon glanced over your shoulder, spotted you, and gave Mydei a small nod of farewell.
Phainon approached. “I wished to apologize,” he said, “If… I did something that made you uncomfortable.”
There were a dozen ways you could answer, a dozen truths that might bury you both in awkward silence. Instead, you forced a shrug, ducking your head so he wouldn’t see how your ears turned pink.
“It’s fine. Nothing happened. Nothing weird at all.”
Except for the fact I basically poisoned you and then made out with you to keep you hydrated.
Anyway, now that you mention it, I should test how you’d hold up against Himeko’s coffee next. If my tea nearly killed you, her brew might finish the job... Wait, what was I thinking...
Your mind drifted — flicking through Himeko and Screwlum’s message that never finished, something was definitely wrong.
You barely noticed when Phainon reached up and plucked something from your hair. His fingers brushed your temple.
Your mind went traitorously blank. The sudden heat rose to your face before you could stop it.
“Gotta go— BYE!”
You clutched your phone tighter and ran off, reminding yourself Screwllum had tried to reach you for a reason.
A day after Screwllum’s message finally punched through the interference.
Screwllum: « That place is not to stay. Leave before the link closes.»
Caelus and Dan Heng were already making plans, though they hadn’t said it outright yet. But you… you couldn’t stop thinking.
The more you learned, the more Amphoreus coiled around your curiosity like a living thing, and especially him. Phainon. What was he, really? A man? A machine?
You jotted down notes:
— Flame Reaver: Dan Heng’s report.
— Chartonus Smithy.
— Phainon’s real identity.
Caelus and Dan Heng had left, Aglaea called them. That left you alone.
One thing you never told them both, you weren't a normal mechanic. Well, you like them, so you stayed on the Astral with a fake identity.
You packed up your kit and were halfway to the door when you heard it: a soft click and the hush of robes brushing marble.
Phainon stood there. He held something carefully in both hands - small, round, cradled in a wrap of cloth.
“I knocked,” he said, “When no one answered, I thought… I would simply leave this.”
He extended it to you — an egg.
You took it.
“What is it?”
“A chimera.”
He turned to leave. But you didn’t want him to leave, not yet. Not when your mind was a tangle of answers half-buried in your notes. “Wait!”
He paused. You gestured him inside. “Tell me everything about the Chrysos Heirs.”
He hesitated at the threshold, that polite reluctance that said he would always defer if you gave him the chance. So you didn’t give him the chance. You set the egg down on your table then stepped closer. Close enough to see the faint blue shimmer under his eyes, the steady line of his throat.
He opened his mouth to speak and you moved first. Your palm brushed his wrist, pressing to the place you’d marked for this moment. You drew out the Dreaming Injector — your latest delicate invention. A click, the needle slid in. His knees gave way as the serum took hold, the last thing leaving his lips a soft exhale like falling rain.
You caught him, barely. He was heavy, you lowered him to the edge of your narrow bed. His hair brushed your shoulder as you eased him down, one arm draped awkwardly across your knee. Even unconscious, he looked composed. Like he could wake at any second and ask what you thought you were doing. But he didn’t.
You checked his pulse, breath, pupils. Good. The injector worked.
You smoothed the wrap of his cloak aside. You sat beside him, your kit open on the floor. Maybe he really was just a man, but if Amphoreus had taught you anything, it was that nothing here stayed simple.
Your pen scratched across your notes. Your other hand hovered over his chest, feeling that heat still radiating through the thin layers.
Just gather the data, you told yourself. Nothing more.
"I’m sorry for this." you murmured under your breath, not that Phainon could hear you. But you said it anyway.
You slipped your gloved fingers down the front of his robe. The ambient heat pulsed under your touch, your thumb brushing a peak where his skin twitched in response. Even unconscious, some buried instinct shivered under your palm, his breath catching once when your knuckles dragged lower.
You swallowed your hesitation. The reaction was there too, warmth stirring at the lightest press of your hand. You noted the sharp twitch, the faint flex of his thigh where it brushed your wrist.
Stimuli intact.
You leaned back, swapped tools, drew the next dose, a subtle stimulant mixed with your last calibration fluid. You pressed the injector to the soft skin of his inner arm. The serum vanished under his skin. He didn’t wake. Just breathed out, a faint shift of his hips against the bed. You smoothed his robes back down, the smallest shred of mercy for a test that probably made you worse than any invader he’d faced in centuries.
When he woke later, your chair was turned politely away, notes tucked under your palm. He stirred with a faint rustle of cloth.
“You fell asleep halfway through your story,” you said, “Long day, huh?”
You packed up your things, your mind already spinning ahead to what you might see next. He went back to his place.
Hours later, you sat crouched in a dim second-floor window across his room, your binoculars pressed to your brow. You were watching Phainon sitting rigidly on the edge of his bed.
The dose should have settled in by now. It shouldn’t hurt, you’d calculated that precisely, but you’d built it to test thresholds. How much could he really endure? The answer, apparently: a lot.
He stayed composed — back straight, hands folded in his lap. Once, he dragged a palm absently across his throat, his fingers curling tight, nails dragging at the fabric as if to bury the itch. But that was all.
You watched until the sky began to pale behind the roofs. By then, you already knew what you’d do next.
Morning, before anyone else stirred. You rapped your knuckles on Phainon’s door. A few beats later, it creaked open. He stepped aside wordlessly to let you in. He offered you water. You waved it off with a soft laugh, slipping past him into the small chamber that smelled faintly of last night’s candle wax.
“Actually — I’m here for a screw.”
You gestured vaguely at your wrist. “Fell out of my watch when you leaned on me, probably.”
Ever obliging, he dropped to one knee without protest, sweeping his long sleeves aside to check the narrow gap under the bedframe. You watched him carefully, the subtle tremor in his breath as he bent forward, the stiff line of his shoulders as the serum’s echo crawled along his nerves.
And when he reached deeper under the bed, his head turned away, you slipped the tiny vial from your sleeve, thumb flicking the stopper off the fine mist sprayer. A gentle puff — soft enough to vanish into the fabric of his collar. He froze mid-motion, then exhaled, body slumping, chin dipping to his chest as the soft, sweet haze pulled him down faster than the dreamer’s pulse had done last time.
You caught him again, steadying his shoulder before he folded fully onto the floor.
You glanced at the door, checked the latch, then let your eyes drift to the calm ruin of him sprawled at your knees.
Data first, you told yourself.
Amphoreus would keep its secrets, but you’d keep pushing.
You waited until his breathing evened out. The sleeping mist did its work perfectly. One test at a time. That’s what you told yourself, again and again, as you eased him fully onto the low bed. The stone floor was too cold, you needed him warm. Curse you, floor.
You pulled on your gloves. You tilted his chin up first, thumb brushing his lower lip open as you angled your penlight into the dark. No swelling in the throat, no unusual teeth. Normal. At least here. Good. You clicked off the light.
Next came the robes, it took you a while to get him ready. Layers peeled away carefully, the fabric folding into a neat pile on the bedside chair. He lay there exposed under the lamp. You can see the delicate line of muscle along his ribs, the faint twitch of a nerve under his navel. He was warm to the touch.
A light pinch to one nipple, your fingers rolling the peak until it stiffened under your touch. He didn’t flinch, but his breathing stuttered, chest rising sharper with each pass of your gloved thumb. Responsive. Normal. You noted the way his brow twitched, the smallest sound slipping from the back of his throat when your nails scraped lightly over the sensitive skin.
You worked lower, one hand bracing the sharp line of his hip, the other wrapping around him, fingers slick with carefully measured lubricant from your kit. You stroked him slow at first, watching for any sign that the dreamer’s haze might break. It didn’t. His hips flexed instead, instinct pushing up into your palm as your grip tightened, the warmth swelling under your careful press.
You tested the limits, the first pulse was quick, the sudden heat slicking your glove as he came with a soft, muffled sound caught behind his teeth. You paused, checked his pulse, brushed sweat-damp hair from his brow.
Sensitivity test.
You slicked your fingers again, pressed your palm flat against him until he twitched under the touch. The second wave built slower, hips rocking once, twice, a faint gasp curling from his throat as his body shuddered again.
“One more,” you whispered. “Just one more.”
You worked him mercilessly, every pass dragging him closer, your fingers slipping slick against his skin that twitched, flinched, begged silently with every low sigh that fell from his lips. When he came again, it was with a full-body tremor, sweat shining along his throat, his hands flexing uselessly against the sheets.
You checked his heartbeat again, fast, but steady. Good.
You sat back on your heels, taking your gloves off, your mind already cataloguing every tremor.
Nothing unsual spotted.
And yet, you couldn’t help the smallest ache in your chest when you brushed your knuckles against his jaw again.
One more test, you told yourself, then I’ll let him rest.
You opened the small velvet kit tucked in your bag. Sleek vibrators, custom-built, small enough to be hidden. You set them carefully, the metal still cool as you pressed the first tip gently in, watching the subtle clench of his muscles as you worked it deeper.
You left them off for now — invisible mode.
You climbed onto him carefully, straddling his hips, your knees bracing against the mattress, your weight pinning him in the softest mockery of control. He didn’t stir.
Next came the clothespins, well you were testing out your newest inventions so why not. You clipped one on each nipple, watched them darken and stiffen under the gentle pull. A soft, involuntary sound slipped from his throat.
You leaned forward, your tongue tracing the line of skin pulled taut by the pin, sucking gently until you felt him twitch under you. You worked them until they were swollen, flushed, helpless under your mouth. Then came the ointment, a thin layer brushed over each peak.
You shifted him upright, your palms bracing his shoulders, guiding his pliant body to sit half-slumped against the wall. One hand stayed wrapped around him, pumping slow strokes that dragged another low sound from his lips each time. When you felt him tighten, that subtle pulse that said the edge was near, you stopped. Let him twitch, breathe, whimper just once, then pushed him down again.
Ten times more, maybe. Okay maybe more than that, you couldn't remember.
Midway through, your phone's screen flickered
Screwllum: « Report. Where are you? »
You replied as your other hand curled around Phainon’s flushed length, stroking him halfway to another wave before stopping cruelly short.
« Busy. Found the perfect specimen. Need more time. Will send results. » You set the phone aside.
When you were done, you wiped him clean. You dressed him carefully, layer by layer, you noticed his skin twitched at every brush of the fabric. The vibrators stayed hidden. You have no plan of using it now.
You slipped out the door, leaving him folded in sleep so deep he’d wake with no memory at all. You had results to file. And next time, maybe you’d see just how much further he could break.
----
You were talking about your theory with Dan Heng, but your mind kept drifting. To Phainon, obviously. Being a scientist, you couldn't rest until you find out the real cause of literally anything you set your mind on. You felt like you're just toying with him at the moment, but that wouldn't stop you from continue with whatever you're doing. You'll need to finish it yourself.
You three met Aglaea for the next urgent mission. Your eyes darted to Phainon. He seemed calm at first. But halfway through, you caught it: the subtle slackening of his posture, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut even as Caelus asked for explanation.
You raised your hand before anyone could point it out. “Phainon looks exhausted. He can rest, we’ll handle the next target plan.”
No one questioned you. They trusted you with him.
You draped his cloak tighter around him, one arm at his back, guiding him through the halls while the stone corridors swallowed your footsteps. But once the others were out of sight, once you were sure no one would round the corner, your thumb slipped into your pocket and pressed the small hidden switch.
A silent pulse flickered through the signal in your palm. Deep inside him, the invisible hum answered. He slumped against you with a low, breathless sound, fingers digging at the fabric of your sleeve.
“Are you alright?” you asked, your tone laced with the faintest innocence.
You tucked him deeper into an alcove, your palm pressing flat to his chest to steady him. But you needed more. You glanced behind you, the old private bath just a few steps away. Perfect. You tugged him through, flipped the old wooden sign to tell people not to enter.
You pressed him to the wall, your hands running over his chest under the guise of checking his temperature, his heartbeat. His breathing hitched when you pressed your palm lower, brushing fabric that did nothing to hide the heat building underneath.
“Stay still for me.”
Your palm slid lower. When he came, it was muffled against your shoulder, his hips jerking once, twice, hot release soaking the fabric you pressed tight around him to keep it hidden.
“Close your eyes..” he whispered like it cost him everything to stay gentle. You obeyed. For a moment. Just long enough to peek again when you heard a desperate sound. Your eyes caught the subtle roll of his shoulders, the way he turned half-away, face flushed as he pumped himself.
He came again, the sound muffled in his palm as he locked eyes with you across the dim steam-lit corner.
“I didn’t mean to…” you started, but the lie faded when you stepped forward, your palm wrapping around him again, “But you need help, don’t you?”
He barely had time to nod when you sank to your knees, your fingers wrapping him tight as you guided him to your mouth. His gasp turned strangled when your tongue slid along him, the faintest tremor in his thighs as he braced against the wall.
He tried to stay gentle, you felt it, as if he didn’t dare break whatever fragile control still held him together. But when the vibrator inside him got the heat up, he bucked deeper as he spilled into your mouth.
“Spit it—”, but you’d already swallowed by instinct, “out..”
Your fingers pushed him back against the tile before he could say another word, your lips brushing the swollen peaks of his chest, tongue tracing the faint sheen of sweat until your teeth found the soft flesh of his nipple. He gasped, the sound half-strangled when you bit down, leaving a bright, sharp mark that would bruise if he looked for it later.
He shivered, twitching as you stroked him again.
“Stay still,” you murmured. “You’ll get better. Just trust me…”
Every new bite, every low hum of the thing inside him pushed him closer to unraveling completely.
“Keep your voice down,” you warned “You don’t want them to see you like this, do you?”
He shook his head, his fingers clutching at your shoulders. When you flicked the vibrator to its highest setting, the choked sound that left his throat told you everything you needed to know.
The private bath was warm, your breath misted faintly against Phainon’s flushed skin as you dragged your tongue across his chest one last time.
He shivered, hips twitching uselessly as you held him pinned with your knee between his thighs.
You pulled back just enough to reach for your next piece, a thin ring of metal. You don't know why you want to do this. Well, experimenting is never wrong. You stroked him once more, coaxing every last faint pulse of heat from him before slipping the device over him. He flinched and he realized how firmly it locked him down, no chance to rut into your palm again.
You leaned forward, your lips warm against the sweat-slick curve of his nipple, tongue circling slow until it hardened under your mouth. You sucked until he trembled, hips flexing uselessly under the trap you’d left him in.
“Y/n.. Y/n, please...”
His fingers tangled in your hair, a desperate tether as his head lolled back against the tile. When he leaned forward, you let him kiss you. Just as you expected, you pressed the tiny dissolving pill onto his tongue with your thumb, your teeth grazing his lip as you coaxed him to swallow it down. He obeyed instinctively, too far gone to think about the faint bitterness coating his throat.
You pulled back, your eyes flicking over his flushed chest, the tender peaks red from your teeth and tongue. You retrieved your next toys, some small, jelly-soft cups, one for each nipple. The suction was gentle at first, then tightening that made him twitch and gasp, hips jerking helplessly against the locked device you’d left on him.
When you were done, you stepped back. Nice. You nodded to yourself.
You helped him dress, cloak folded carefully to hide the subtle twitch of his body as the jelly cups pulsed gently under his robes. The pill already dragging him down into that soft, drifting sleep you’d planned for him.
You guided him through the corridors, one arm around his waist to keep him steady. He said nothing, just let himself be led like a half-conscious ghost until you reached his chambers. You laid him down on the bed, smoothed the hair from his brow, checked his pulse.
You settled in the chair beside his bed, your kit open in your lap, your notes spread out under the faint flicker of your penlight.
“Check, check.. Let's see what should we do next...”
You adjusted the signal on your tablet, the small receivers hidden inside the jelly cups and the ring sending back soft pulses of heartbeat, tiny electric signals mapping every flicker of his nerves as they twitched helplessly against the constraints you’d left him in.
Develop the senses, your pen scratching notes beside his steady, muffled breathing. Rebuild the vessel.
One test at a time, genius.
You finally showed a content smile.
“I'm so good at this.”
And when he stirred, shifting faintly in his sleep as the cups tugged at him, the locked ring humming its faint warning when his body tried to push uselessly for release, you only watched.
“Not now, Phainon.”
---
He woke slowly, the faintest tug at his wrists telling him he wasn’t free. Cool stone under his back, the faint hush of your breathing close. He turned his head, tried to speak, to ask why — but the words dissolved in the hush between you.
“Alright, I'm almost done. I'll be leaving soon.” You smiled “If you really don’t want it.. I'll let you go. But—”
You leaned closer and loosened the restraints. “You don’t get to come. Endure it. Prove you can.”
He stared at you. You traced your finger under his jaw, then stepped back, letting him sit up.
You pulled the small illusion projector from your sleeve, flipped the tiny switch that shimmered the air around him in a gentle ripple of false cloth. On the inside, he was bare, every brush of the cool air across his flushed skin a reminder that only you knew he was like this.
“I invented this for a customer, I told him he was crazy. But seeing you in this, maybe it's not a bad idea.”
You guided him to the door, your hand pressing flat against the small of his back, you whispered against the shell of his ear. “Go on. Let’s see how long you can endure this.”
Outside, the Marmoreal Market, people come and go.
Then you flicked the signal. Deep inside him, the trio of slender vibrators buried where he couldn’t reach vibrated, making his knees buckle for half a second before he steadied himself with a sharp inhale. His knuckles whitened where he brushed a hand along the low stall wall, covering the way his hips twitched under the false drape of his projected cloak.
He nearly collided with a small cluster of children, three of them darting around him, giggling as they bumped against his side. You only smiled at him, stepping closer, brushing your palm along the curve of his lower back as if to steady him.
The pulse inside him grew stronger. Every few steps you’d let your fingers brush his arm, his ribs, the faint swell under his navel where the tremor inside him left his muscles taut. He breathed through his nose, relieved a half-choked gasp when you leaned close enough to whisper: “I'm not done yet.”
He made it almost to the edge of the market. So close. So close to passing your test.
You let him think he’d won, one more turn, a narrow corridor, then you pressed your palm to his chest, your thumb flicking sharply over the hidden peak under his clothes.
He buckled. A low, raw sound slipped free, half-moan, half-breathless choke as the trapped heat inside him surged. His hips stuttered, the illusion flickering faintly before the projector compensated, his real naked skin flushed under layers only you could peel away.
“Failed.” you murmured, your voice so soft it made his thighs tremble where they brushed yours. You hooked your finger under the choker at his throat, tugged him forward until your lips crashed into his, your tongue stealing every broken whimper before he could swallow them down.
Your other hand worked him mercilessly, stroking him slow at first, then faster, your palm slick with the heat you’d built in him. He broke the kiss to gasp your name.
“I thought you didn’t like this…” you breathed against his mouth, your thumb brushing the edge of his flushed tip, your grip stroking faster. “So why do you look like you’re begging for it?”
He shuddered, hips jerking helplessly under your touch, the hidden vibrators inside him now thrumming at their highest pitch.
You dragged your teeth along his jaw, nipping at the soft skin just under his ear as your hand twisted around him.
“Be quick now,” you whispered, tongue flicking against the shell of his ear as your other hand tugged his choker tight enough to make him gasp. “Or someone might come around the corner. They’d see you like this.. fucked open and drooling for it. Is that what you want?”
He couldn’t answer. His body answered for him - thighs trembling, his voice lost in the soft echo of the corridor as he came apart in your hand, the illusion flickering just enough to let the raw flush of his skin slip through.
You caught his mouth again, swallowing the last shuddering sound as his knees gave way, your grip the only thing keeping him upright while his mind spiraled somewhere you’d built for him.
“Y/n L/n, member of the Genius Society. Pleasure to be working with you.”
----
The marble floors of his house were still warm from the afternoon sun when you shoved him through the door, your palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, “Inside.”
He obeyed, steps echoing through the polished corridor until you pushed him through the bathroom threshold. You meant to wash him.
You turned on the taps, steam billowing as the water filled the carved stone basin. The moment you dragged a damp cloth over his chest, you felt it, the subtle twitch under your palm, the heavy pulse that told you he’d hardened again just from the heat of your touch.
Before you could push him down again, he moved, his hands wrapping around your wrist, pulling you forward so abruptly that you stumbled. The warm water splashed up your sleeves, soaking through your collar as he dragged you right into the bath with him.
The hiss of your slap echoed off the stone, his cheek flushing faintly pink where your fingers had left their mark.
“Don’t forget,” your fingers curling under his chin to force him to look at you. “I’m the only one who decides how far this goes. Not you. Understand?”
He nodded. He stayed still when you turned your back to him, slipping into the bath properly this time. But the moment your spine brushed against him, the slick heat of the water drawing your skin tight, he twitched again, grinding helplessly against you.
You let him, for a moment. Let him rut clumsily until the tremor shuddered through him and he came, soft and muffled under his breath, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck. You didn’t turn around. You stand, peeling off your wet clothes piece by piece, feeling his eyes drag over every inch of skin you’d hidden until now. You didn’t look at him as you cleaned yourself.
When you stepped out, you toweled yourself dry, then dragged him out too, wiping the damp from his chest, his throat, the faint pink welt still high on his cheek. You did feel guilty though, seeing him looking at you with such sad puppy eyes.
You pulled one of his shirts from a nearby hook. On you, it smelled faintly of him.
Later, you went out of the bathroom to take you kit. When you got in the room again, you pressed him back against the wall, flicked open your kit and released two small machine-bugs, slick and jelly-soft. They crawled to his nipples, the subtle hum of their tiny motors latching on, forming a soft vacuum that made him twitch.
You’d just adjusted the seal when a voice echoed faintly through the house. Mydei.
“You in there?”
Your head snapped up, your palm bracing against Phainon’s chest.
“Answer him.”
You slipped behind the half-open bathroom door, pressing your back to the cool marble as you watched him shuffle to the entrance. He cleared his throat once “Yeah, I'm busy.”
Mydei laughed, the sound drifting through the small gap. “Busy? Since when do you lock yourself up?”
You slipped up behind Phainon then, so quiet he barely flinched when your fingers hooked into the hem of your shirt, pushing it up just enough. You pressed against him, the softness of your hips fitting to his length again as you guided him lower.
“You can use me. But keep your voice down.”
He hesitated. Obviously, you just wanted to tease him, but he let the heat took over.
You clenched down around him, your breath catching as you forced him deeper, the quiet slide muffled by the soft fabric still tangled at your waist. His hands gripped the doorframe, words caught in his throat as you rocked your hips back, forcing him to grind deeper inside you.
Mydei kept talking. Every word blurred at the edges when Phainon choked out a reply. Each time he stumbled over a word, you clenched tighter. His breath stuttered, his words caught halfway through your name but he swallowed it down, sweat slicking his hair to his temple.
When Mydei’s footsteps finally faded, you didn’t let Phainon pull away. You dragged him back into the half-dark of the bathroom, your palm bracing his chest as you rocked harder, the slap of skin muffled under the hum of the bugs still latched tight to his nipples.
You pressed your mouth to his, swallowed the moan when he came undone inside you, warmth spilling deep while his chest heaved, the devices buzzing mercilessly until he collapsed half against the tile.
“Good job.”
When you told him to keep the bugs on, he’d nodded, obedient as ever.
----
Two days later, the signal from the Express had gone quiet again. Nothing went your way. You’d lingered at the edge of the Eternal Holy City, half-thinking about the flame reaver the boys had mentioned, half-lost in the memory of Phainon’s breathless gasps pressed under your palm.
You found him coming back to his place from somewhere, probably Aglaea called for him. You trusted in whatever she's doing, she's not a threat to you.
Phainon sort of paused when he saw you coming his way. You could see the faint flush in his cheeks, the soft tremor in his steps when he opened the door to you. He didn’t even ask why you were there, just stepped aside, letting you in.
“Sit.”
He obeyed, folding neatly to his knees at your feet, eyes flicking from the small cake to your face like he was searching for some hidden permission.
“Y/n... I... I want to do it.”
You turned, patted his head lightly.
“Later,” you hummed, half-turning back to the door. “I only brought you dessert.”
“Wasn’t I good enough?” he asked suddenly.
You paused, your fingers still on the door. Then you turned, dragging your eyes over the soft drape of his robes, the faint flicker of defiance trying so hard to spark under that half-ruined self-control.
You stepped forward, brushing his cheek. Then you reached for the slim tool strapped under your sleeve, the small, precise edge of your laser cutter flickering to life with a quiet whirr.
“Stay still.”
He didn’t move when you pressed the warm hum of the blade to the soft fabric at his groin, sliced a neat line where the heavy folds of his trousers hid him from your view.
“This still works, what a surprise.”
You ruined his clothes anyway.
You set the blade aside, lifted the small cake from its box. You caught his eyes, held them there as you dipped your fingers into the frosting, then smeared it, swirl along the length of him.
A faint, strangled gasp slipping out as the cool sweetness met the raw heat of his skin. Your thumb dragged, smearing the cream over the tip, pressing just enough friction. It didn’t take long, the soft smear of frosting mixing with the sharp warmth of him as he spilled against your palm, hips bucking helplessly into the slow drag of your touch.
You paused, studied him. Then you brought your fingers to your lips — the faint taste of sugar and salt on your tongue before you swallowed it down, eyes never leaving his. You hadn’t planned to, but the look on his face made you want him to know you’d taken everything from him.
He shuddered, a soft, helpless sound at the back of his throat that might’ve been your name. You pressed your palm to his cheek, then cleaned him up with a towel.
“On the floor.”
With his knees spread, back straight, eyes half-hopeful when he watched you uncoil the next piece from your kit.
A slender mechanical snake, slick segments glistening faintly under the light, a soft hiss of pistons when you primed the internal motor. It flickered in your hand. You pressed the smooth tip to him. You guided it down, watched it swallow him inch by inch, the soft internal chambers pulsing around him until he whined, hips rolling forward before your palm pressed him firmly back. The machine sealed tight, released cool fluid inside that made him flinch as it soaked him in artificial slickness, its sensors hidden in the inner rings mapping every twitch.
His hands clutching at the carpet, thighs trembling as the device squeezed around him. When he shifted like he wants to remove his clothes, you slapped his wrist away.
“Leave them on. I like you like this.”
Every time the snake contracted around him, milking him slowly, coaxing him to spill over and over, you'd record it through your pen to measure which area is the most sensitive of his.
Each pulse drew more heat from him, the faint sound of liquid cycling through the tubes as the device collected every drop. Your head tilted as you made more notes on your datapad, eyes flicking to his flushed throat where his choker still rested.
He came again, and again, until the soft mechanical coils slackened, the faint light inside flicking to green to signal its reservoir full. The hum faded, leaving only his ragged breath echoing in the hush of the room.
You reached forward, brushing your palm over his hair.
“Well done.”
You were setting the specimen cylinder down on the side table, carefully logging the seal with your thumbprint, your mind already shifting through what calibrations you’d run next. Right, his blood.
Then you felt it, the subtle noise as he moved closer. His palm ghosting over your waist at first, then it turned frantic. He easily tugged down piece of your clothing.
“Phainon—” you started, your hand flying up to push him off you, but you barely got the name out before his hips slammed forward.
His fingers dug into your hips, he rocked into you, each thrust clumsy and desperate, his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he panted your name.
“Stop—” your breath hitching as another deep thrust forced your body forward. “Phainon, stop this—”
But he didn’t, he didn’t even pause when you shoved at his wrist, only moaned your name louder.
Your voice dropped into a warning growl “Someone could come in— they’ll see you like this—”
But he only laughed, his hips snapping harder as his voice shivered against your neck: “Let them. I don’t care. You’re mine.” His words dissolved as he pushed deeper, the tip of him brushing so deep inside you.
When he came, the heat of him spilling deep enough you had to brace both palms on the edge of the bed just to hold yourself steady while he pulsed out every last drop. His breath came in ragged, his hands still clutching your hips.
You grabbed his hair, forced him to lift his head, “Look what you did.”
You turned, forcing him back with your palm, making him watch as you slipped your fingers in and scraped every warm drip of him back out.
You wiped your fingers clean, flicked the mess into the basin nearby, then reached for his shirt, the only piece left intact after he’d shredded yours. You slipped it on, the fabric hanging loose over your hips.
Then you pointed to the floor at your feet. “On your knees. Now.”
He listened, but his eyes never left yours as he lowered himself until he was kneeling where you pointed, his thighs spread wide enough that you could see the faint tremor still twitching along the base of him.
You stepped closer, lowered yourself, one hand tangling in his hair to yank his head back just enough to see your eyes. Then your other hand came down hard across the curve of his ass, the sharp crack echoing through the hush of the room. You struck him again, just enough force to see the pale skin flush red under your palm.
“You don’t get to take what you want,” your fingers digging into his jaw to force him to hold your gaze. “You’ll earn it. Or you’ll crawl for it.”
You gave another sharp slap, his hips jerking forward as the pain seared through him.
His apology came out as he knelt there, skin flushed, eyes glassy under the soft light glow. You tilted your head, pretending to listen, your fingers slipping down to brush along the slick head of his cock.
He flinched, hips twitching up into your touch before you pushed him back down. Your thumb dragged over the tip, enough to tease out another shuddering moan. When his hips bucked again — chasing your touch — you wrapped your hand around his balls instead, squeezing just enough that the desperate wave building in him slammed to a halt with a helpless, broken whimper.
“Not yet.” your thumb pressing firmly under the base to keep him from spilling even a drop. He trembled under your palm.
You brushed his shirt aside, exposing the soft, flushed peaks you’d come to claim as yours. You leaned down, lips wrapping around one nipple, tongue swirling in circles while your teeth scraped just enough to make him cry out.
The wet pull of your mouth, the faint suction, the way your tongue flicked until the sensitive peak tightened like it wanted to feed you something he didn’t even have to give. His voice cracked, your name tumbling out, raw and breathless as his hips rolled uselessly, desperate for the permission you still hadn’t given.
Your lips brushing the edge of his ear as you murmured, “Now.”
He didn’t hesitate, never did when you dropped the leash.
When he was all exhausted, you tucked him to bed and slipped free.
---
You and Caelus were following the clues sent by Screwllum.
The connection had been dead for days, but you were more than capable of getting it back in no time.
Caelus nudged your shoulder. “So… what’s with him?”
You followed his gaze, catching on the figure slipping closer.
Phainon, his hair was damped from sweat, uniform half-undone where new bruises bloomed under his collar. Probably back from a fight. But it wasn’t the bruises you watched, it was his eyes.
“Is he… angry at me?” Caelus asked, blinking at Phainon’s stare.
“Maybe.”
You caught Phainon’s eyes, tilted your head just enough to draw him closer, your fingers curling in a slow come here motion that made Caelus blink again in confusion.
“You go ahead,” you said to Caelus. “I’ve got unfinished business to handle.”
Caelus gave you a look — that half-teasing suspicion — but shrugged it off “Don’t take too long, or Dan Heng will chew us both out.”
You turned just in time to feel Phainon’s shadow fall over you. You reached up and brushed the stray lock of silver hair from his eyes. Your fingertips lingered at his temple, brushing the sweat-damp strand behind his ear.
He shuddered under that tiny touch. His arms slid around you, pulling you in until you felt the sharp tremor under his ribs. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath catching when your other hand slipped down until your palm ghosted over the heavy, twitching heat between his legs.
He gasped — a soft, broken plea spilling out against your cheek. “Please…”
You could feel it, the raw need pressed hard into your palm, the faint shudder when you squeezed, just enough to feel him pulse against your fingers.
You clicked your tongue, your thumb pressing firm at his base, forcing him to feel every ounce of your control as you leaned in close enough for your lips to brush his ear.
“Behave. Or I’ll make sure the whole city sees what you really are.”
You pressed one last, mocking kiss to his forehead.
Your work on Amphoreus was done. You’d carved out exactly what you needed from this place.
⚝His knight
-You were sent to assassinate Prince Mydei, the heir of a kingdom feared for its brutality. Rather than ordering your execution, he forces you to disguise yourself as his personal knight.
⚝Missed opportunity
-A wife who's trying to escape from a cruel husband, who will get the final win?
⚝Late realization
-You were stubborn, so was he. Now that you had to listen to your parents for an arranged marriage, you will live your life to the fullest.
⚝Marriage of convenience
-Reborn after a loveless marriage refuses to repeat the past, his sudden obsession with you turns this relationship into a twisted battle of control.
⚝Prince!Mydei x Vampire
⚝I like it like that
-A cold man falls for the one person who ignores him, not realizing they're secretly obsessed.
⚝Warlord Mydei x Princess!Reader
⚝I got a cat
-Mydei and the cat he chose.
⚝Crossed paths
-A grumpy soldier and a sunshine shopkeeper clash constantly, until he realizes her teasing is the only thing that makes him feel alive. Now he’s stuck awkwardly courting the one person who sees right through his cold exterior.
⚝The Bloodied Savior
-A kind-hearted traveler saves a wounded stranger, only to realize too late that he’s a ruthless noble who will stop at nothing to claim them.
⚝Love cage
-He thought he was the hunter. Turns out, he was the prey all along.
⚝The prince's bride
-The centaur prince Mydei of Kremnos fell in love with a human girl.
Warning: This work contains explicit NSFW content intended for mature audiences only.
You were here to cheer on a baseball match that your friend, Renji, was playing in. You didn’t think much of it, Renji was cool and all, but baseball had never really caught your interest. You sat in the stands, half-focused on the game and half-watching the clouds drift by overhead.
It wasn’t until you heard the collective gasp of the crowd that you looked up, just in time to see the ball coming right at you. Your reflexes weren’t exactly your strong point, so you froze, bracing for the sting of impact square on your face.
Except… nothing happened. You cracked one eye open to see a shadow blocking the sun. Standing in front of you was a tall guy, built like he was carved from stone, holding the ball securely in his glove. He didn’t even look at you, just tossed the ball back over his shoulder and jogged off without a word. You heard someone behind you scream, “MYDEI!!!!”
Renji’s team ended up losing that day, but you didn’t pay attention to the final score. You couldn’t stop thinking about that one moment.
After that fateful match, you didn’t get to see him again. He was just a fleeting figure in your memory, until you stepped onto your college campus on your first day, and there he was.
After a few years drifting through school without much interest in dating, barely noticing the half-hearted confessions passed your way, you ended up catching feelings for someone anyway. And of course, it had to be Mydei.
Everyone seemed to know him, even people outside the baseball circle. He was in a different class, so it wasn’t like you could accidentally bump into him in the hallway every day. You settled for glimpses: watching him at practice, from behind the fence or from the bleachers if no one else was there. Sometimes you’d lift your phone and take a quick photo, just like a fan would, pretending you were just testing your camera.
You knew it was silly. A one-sided crush. You never planned to do anything about it, until the day he stepped right into your classroom.
It was recess, the door slid open and there he was. He didn’t say much, just walked up to your desk and placed a small box of milk in front of you. Your friends broke into shocked whoops behind him, some whistled, a few teased you under their breath. Mydei just nodded once, eyes meeting yours for half a second, then turned and walked out like he hadn’t just lit your whole face on fire.
But the moment he left, so did the warmth. You heard it immediately “Is he doing a dare?” “Bet he’s playing some challenge again.” You didn’t want to believe it, but you knew how things like this went.
So you didn’t drink the milk. Not because you thought it was tampered with, no, you’d just had one too many run-ins with bad food before, and the last food poisoning had taught you to be careful. Instead, you kept the box tucked in your bag all day. You couldn’t throw it away, either. It felt… weird to do that.
Still, one thing about him stuck with you the most - his scent. Even just passing by, Mydei always left something behind: clean, fresh, a little warm like the sun on your skin.
So when the weekend came, you found yourself at the mall, half convincing yourself you were just window-shopping, but really, you were on a mission. Maybe if you found that cologne, you could have a piece of him for yourself.
You stepped into the fragrance store, the chill air immediately wrapping around you, the shelves lined with glossy bottles. You had no idea where to start, just that you were looking for his smell.
You didn’t expect to spend half your Saturday sniffing little glass bottles. The store clerk had shown you a dozen colognes but nothing felt quite right. In the end, you settled on something close enough. Maybe it was just your imagination anyway. You paid for it, tucked the slim paper bag carefully in your backpack, and told yourself not to think too hard about it.
But then you saw him.
On your way out of the mall, your steps faltered when you spotted Mydei standing near the escalator with a few friends. You ducked your head immediately, pretending to look at your phone. You turned your body slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice you slipping by. It wasn’t like you were ready to face him. What would you even say?
Nothing seemed to go your way that day anyway. You trudged home, finished your homework in half-focus, then lay on your bed scrolling through the school website. No new posts about the baseball team. Nothing that gave you an excuse to linger on his name.
The weekend passed the way they always did, too fast. Monday came, and you trudged to school the same way you always did, bracing for another ordinary day.
Except.. there he was again.
You stopped short when you saw Mydei standing by your classroom door, leaning his shoulder lazily against the wall. Your heart did that stupid thing, fluttering against your ribs as if it didn’t know any better.
He didn’t say anything when you approached. Just pushed himself off the wall, held out another box of milk to you.
“Uh… thanks.” It came out awkward, but it was all you could manage.
Mydei just nodded, same as last time, then turned and walked away before you could say anything else. Your friends immediately surrounded you, teasing smiles and knowing looks you pretended not to notice. You sat down and placed the milk carefully on your desk.
Why does he keep doing this? you wondered, tracing your finger over the corner of the box. Maybe you’d ask him next time, if you could get the words out.
---
You told yourself you’d just stop by the field just to catch a glimpse of him at practice. You’d done it before. It wasn’t like you were the only one watching the baseball team train. But today, the sun felt like it was trying to fry you alive.
You had your cap on, tugged low over your eyes, but sweat still gathered at your hairline and slid down your neck. The stands were empty, the team was practicing, but no other students were lingering around. It made you feel exposed somehow, standing there alone.
You were just about to turn back, muttering under your breath that you’d just look like a weirdo standing there for no reason, when you felt a shadow fall over you.
Before you could turn around, something soft settled over your head and shoulders, blocking the harsh light. You flinched, half-startled, half-aware exactly who it must be even before you looked up.
It was Mydei.
He stood behind you, close enough that you could see the line of sweat on his collarbone, the faint damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. His eyes flicked down, checking the jacket draped over your head, then back to your face.
“You’ll get heatstroke standing here.” he said, his voice the same calm, low tone that made your chest do that stupid thing. “Go inside.”
You opened your mouth - say it now Y/N, ask him why, ask about the milk- but all that came out was a tiny, awkward, “Oh—okay.”
He didn’t wait for anything else. He just turned, jogging back toward the field.
You ended up taking it home with you. Maybe you could have run after him to give it back, but you didn’t. You told yourself you’d wash it, fold it neatly, return it next time.
But that night, when you hung it up by your bed, you found yourself leaning in closer. The scent was exactly what you’d been searching for in that mall.
You caught yourself before you buried your nose in the collar like some obsessed maniac. You scolded yourself under your breath—get a grip, you creep—and forced yourself to hang it properly on the back of your chair instead. But you kept glancing at it anyway.
After a whole day of pacing around your room, the jacket draped neatly over your chair, you finally decided to do the responsible thing. You checked the pockets, because that’s what you were supposed to do before washing someone else’s clothes, right? Your fingers brushed against a small folded piece of paper tucked into the inside pocket.
You held it between your fingers for a moment, turning it over once, twice. You could have read it. But your chest tightened at the thought of peeking into something that wasn’t yours. Maybe it was just a note for himself, or maybe it was for someone else entirely.
You tucked it right back where you found it and tossed the jacket into the washing machine, ignoring the nagging voice in your head that wanted to know everything.
The next morning, you spotted Mydei near the field, stretching by the benches. You walked over, clutching the now clean and neatly folded jacket. He glanced up at you.
“Um, here.” You held it out awkwardly. “Sorry it took me a while—I washed it. I, uh, checked the pocket too. There was a note but I didn’t read it, so… don’t worry.”
For a split second, you could swear something flickered behind his eyes, something between disbelief and exasperation. He tilted his head at you, like he was trying to figure out what planet you’d come from.
“You’re… unbelievable.” he muttered, taking the jacket from you. He didn’t explain what he meant. He just draped it over his shoulder and walked off to join the rest of the team.
You thought maybe that would be the end of it. But of course, the universe had other ideas.
A couple of days later, the rumors started trickling through the school halls again. Someone behind you whispered about how Mydei had hooked up with this girl behind the bleachers, then someone else swore he’d messed around with a guy from another class too. They made him sound like some cold playboy who collected hearts for sport.
You didn’t buy it. Even if you didn’t know him well, nothing about how he acted with you matched the rumors.
So you let it go.
One afternoon, you were helping your homeroom teacher set up some extra chairs for a meeting. The storage room at the end of the old hallway was dusty and dim, packed with stacks of old desks and broken chalkboards. You pushed the door open, blinking at the strange hush inside.
There was a sound, but when you peeked behind the shelves, no one was there.
You shrugged it off, stacked the chairs you needed, and shuffled them out into the hall. You didn’t see the two figures pressed into the narrow space between the shelves, holding their breath until your footsteps faded away.
The next day, you told yourself you were just passing by the field. You didn’t mean to stop, really. But it was hard not to when the air around the baseball team felt… heavy.
A group of first-years were huddled by the fence, gossiping.
“I heard he punched Lucas in the face—”
“No way, seriously? Look at Lucas's eye, though—”
“He’s totally scary when he snaps, huh?”
Your eyes flicked over to the bench. One of Mydei’s teammates sat there with an ice pack pressed to a swollen bruise blooming dark under his eye. He kept glancing over at Mydei like he expected another hit.
Your gaze drifted back to the field. Mydei was there, but he looked… off. His swing was sluggish, like he was going through the motions just to get it over with.
When practice finally ended, the rest of the team packed up and drifted off in noisy groups. But Mydei just sat on the low bench by himself, staring at the dirt under his shoes.
You didn’t think much, your feet just moved on their own. You stopped by the vending machine, got a cold drink, and walked over. You stood in front of him until he finally looked up.
“Here.” you said, holding out the bottle. He blinked, then took it without a word.
“Don’t beat anyone else up today.” you said, “You’re cooler when you don’t.”
You didn’t wait for his reaction, your heart thudded too loud for that. You just turned and walked away before you could see whether he was smiling back or not.
After class, you stayed behind to help clean up. The classroom had been a mess from group activities, and the broom was missing again. You trudged back to the same old storage room, muttering about how you should just carry your own broom around at this point.
You stepped inside, flicked the light on. The place smelled the same as always—dust, old wood. You found the broom wedged behind a stack of folding chairs.
But before you could grab it, someone outside must have bumped the door. The latch slipped back into place.
You twisted the knob. Nothing. You didn’t even have your phone on you, you’d left it in your bag back in class.
You knocked once, twice, hoping someone might hear you through the thick door. Then you heard voices outside. The door creaked open, light spilled in.
There was Mydei. His cap was pulled low over his eyes, hair damp with sweat. Next to him stood a girl you didn’t recognize. They both paused when they saw you. You stared back, caught like a deer in headlights.
The girl’s eyes flicked from you to Mydei and back. Then she let out a little scoff and went out. It left just you and Mydei. You clutched the broom, ready to squeeze by him and disappear before this got more awkward. But before you could, he stepped forward, blocking the doorway with one arm.
You could see it then, how tense his shoulders were, the faint flush on his ears, the look in his eyes that wasn’t quite the usual calm.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, so close you could smell him - faint cologne, sweat, the same warmth you’d memorized.
“I need to ask you something.”
You half-laughed. “I’m not gonna tell anyone anything. If that’s what you—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“…Is it really you?” he asked.
You frowned. “What? What does that even—”
You didn’t get to finish. He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, only to bump into the shelves behind you. It was then you caught it, something sharp under his clean scent, something bitter, almost sour. Alcohol?
You barely registered the click as he pushed the door closed behind him. The broom dropped from your hand, clattering to the floor. He crowded the space between you and the door, and then he pulled you in like you’d slip through him if he didn’t.
You could feel the warmth of him through your shirt, his chest pressed to yours, his scent filling your nose until it blurred every reasonable thought. You hated yourself for how your knees went soft for half a second.
Then he tilted your chin up and slammed his lips against yours. No hesitation, just heat and the faint taste of bitterness, and that smell that’d been driving you quietly insane for months.
“It is you...” he breathed against your mouth when he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath hit your cheek. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to do this to you?”
You tried to find words, tried to find air first. “Do what? Get off me first—then we’ll talk—”
But your own voice betrayed you. It shook at the end. His scent tangled with your thoughts, your resolve slipping through your fingers like sand.
But your hands, instead of shoving, clutched weakly at his shirt. And when he leaned in again, your chin tilted up for him before you could stop it.
You hated how much you wanted to lean into the warmth. Every breath you took in smelled like him, tasted like him. And each time you thought you’d twist away, your body betrayed you.
One moment you were telling him get off, the next you were half-pressing your face into his collar, dragging in that smell you’d hunted for in shops, on his jacket.
It was embarrassing, the way you couldn’t stop. Your chest brushed his as you tipped closer, fingertips curling up to hook behind his neck for balance, like your body needed the anchor or you’d just melt right into him.
You felt him grin against your jaw. His hand dropped lower, then he shifted his stance. You didn’t even register what he’d done until you realized he’d nudged one thigh between yours. And you— the idiot that you were—kept leaning in, kept pressing against it like you didn’t even know you were doing it.
His breath hit your ear, hot and sticky. Then his teeth scraped the shell, sharp enough to make you jolt, soft enough to make you shiver instead of push him away. He licked where he’d bitten.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, “You like it that much?”
You tried to answer, to say no, or stop, or what are we doing, but the words tangled up somewhere between your lips and his mouth.
Your thoughts blurred at the edges. Your grip on his neck tightened. Your hips shifted without you realizing, pressing down, wanting more heat, more scent, more him.
Then a wave of dizziness hit. For a split second you felt your knees buckle. The scent that had pulled you in so deep now felt like it was drowning you.
With all the strength you didn’t know you had, you pressed your palms flat to his chest. You shoved. Hard enough that he let go.
Your breath came in ragged pulls. You didn’t wait for him to ask anything. You ducked under his arm, grabbed the broom you’d dropped god-knows-when, and slipped past him so fast the air shifted in your wake.
You didn’t look back. Your heart slammed against your ribs so loud you swore the whole building could hear it. The broom handle rattled against your sweaty palms. You didn’t even dare to think about what you’d almost let happen.
You told yourself you’d forget it. But your lips still tingled with the ghost of his mouth.
You thought about it all night. Actually, all night was an understatement - every hour, every stray second your mind went quiet. Your lips still burned when you touched them. Your face went hot every time you caught a trace of his scent on your sleeves, or in your hair where he’d buried his face so carelessly.
---
You skipped the field. You walked extra rounds to avoid the hallways where he and his friends usually lingered. You spent your lunch breaks hunched over textbooks in the library.
The first few days, it worked. You heard from classmates “Mydei was looking for you.” “Did you talk to him?” But he never showed up at your door again. You let yourself believe maybe he’d drop it.
By Friday, he’d figured out your last trick, your shiny new club. You’d joined it for no other reason than to stay late, to look busy, to have a reason to disappear somewhere he wouldn’t wander near. But even that stupid, flimsy shield cracked like paper the second you heard your name echo in the hall.
You were halfway down the corridor, clutching your notebook to your chest, ready to slip into the clubroom before the door closed behind the last straggler. And then you felt a tug, firm enough that your sneakers scraped the floor.
He barely said a word, just dragged you a few steps back and shouldered open the door of an empty classroom. You stumbled in after him, your notebook nearly falling from your grip as the door closed behind you both.
He was right there. Still in his practice uniform, sweat clinging to his hairline, his collar damp, skin flushed from exertion.
“Why’d you run off?”
“I didn’t—I mean, I have club—” You gestured vaguely to the door, hoping it looked convincing. “I really gotta go.”
He didn’t buy it. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked down, then back up, pinning you in place. He stepped closer.
“You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”
You wished you could step back, but your back was already against a desk. You gripped your notebook tighter, the paper digging into your palm.
He leaned in, bracing a hand on the desk beside your hip. Close enough you could smell the salt of his sweat under the familiar clean scent. Close enough you’d have to lie to yourself to pretend you didn’t like it.
Your heart jumped in your throat when he leaned in closer, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. You could hear faint chatter from the next room, the club you were supposed to be in right now. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back at you.
“Quiet,” he murmured, voice so close it sent a tremor down your spine. “Or else they’ll hear you.”
Before you could snap something back, he pressed his mouth to yours. The taste of him hit you all over again.
Your teeth found his lower lip. He hissed against your mouth, the metallic tang of blood slipping onto your tongue before you jerked back.
He didn’t flinch. His thumb dragging the blood off his lip before he licked it.
“You’re gonna regret that” Then his mouth was on yours again, rougher, his hand threading into your hair to keep you there.
Your free hand shot up, pushing at his chest, but he caught your wrist mid-motion. He didn’t shove it away. He dragged it down instead, lower than you were ready for. Your breath hitched, your palm trembling where he pressed it against the heat between you.
Your mind screamed stop, but your body locked up. He lowered his mouth to your ear, “If you behave, I’ll stop. Understand?”
You nodded.
“Then kiss me properly.”
Your hands trembled, but you did it. And that scent, god, that scent wrapped around your senses again.
He pulled back just long enough to whisper, “If you like it that much, I’ll share it with you.”
Then he turned you around, your back hitting his chest, the warmth of him pressed flush along your spine. His arm slid around your waist, holding you in place. You felt his nose brush your neck, the drag of his teeth scraping your skin. A sharp bite made you flinch, then he licked the sting away.
You didn’t even realize your hands were clutching at the desk’s edge until his fingers slid up, working at the buttons of your shirt. Each pop of a button sent a tiny shock through you, the fabric parting under his touch as he mouthed at your throat, your shoulder.
Outside the door, you thought you heard voices - your clubmates. But in here, all you could feel was his mouth, his scent, his hand sliding under your shirt, making it impossible to think about anything else.
You bit down hard on your lip when his fingers brushed over your chest, teasing at your sensitive buds through the thin fabric. The ghost of his touch left your skin prickling, a heat crawling up your neck that you tried so desperately to swallow down.
He pinched, rolled, never giving you enough to push you over the edge but just enough to make you feel every nerve under his hand spark alive. You gritted your teeth, your breath ragged in your throat but not daring to make a sound.
Then he stopped. For a heartbeat you thought maybe it was over. Maybe he’d let you go like he promised.
Then you heard it. The soft, unmistakable zip of a fly coming undone behind you. Your breath hitched so hard your shoulders jerked. You tried to turn your head, but his hand shot up, pressing your cheek forward again, forcing you to keep your eyes on the scratched wooden desk in front of you.
You could feel it then, something warm, pressing between your thighs from behind.
“If you endure it,” he murmured against your ear, “I’ll let you go.”
Then he shifted his hips, pushing forward, dragging himself against the soft inside of your thighs. Instinct betrayed you, your legs snapped shut in a panic, trying to block him out. But the press only made it worse, made the heat and friction sharper.
A tiny, broken sound scraped your throat but you swallowed it down. You could hear them, your friends, right outside the door now.
“Did you hear that?”
“I swear I heard something in there—”
“Is someone in the classroom?”
Panic and heat twisted together under your skin. You barely had time to breathe before the doorknob rattled. He grabbed you, spun you around, and pushed you down behind the old podium at the front of the room just as the door swung open.
You could hear footsteps, voices drifting closer. Your heart slammed so hard you were sure they’d hear that before anything else. He tugged your half-open shirt off your shoulders in the dark, tossing it behind him like it was nothing. Then he draped his own jacket over you.
“Wear it back home,” he whispered, “And don’t even think about taking it off.”
You could only nod. You clutched the jacket tight around yourself.
They didn’t find you. A few more steps, then the door clicked shut again. The voices faded down the hall. The moment they were gone, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
You fool. Little did he know, everything had been your plan from the start.
You wore it home—his jacket, still carrying the heat of his skin. You told yourself you’d just wear it for tonight, just to calm that itch under your ribs. But you didn’t stop there.
You closed your bedroom door, locked it, turned off the lights. You slipped your arms through the sleeves, tugged the collar up to your nose, and breathed in. It didn’t matter that the fabric had begun to cool.
You pressed your face into the collar, lips brushing where his throat must’ve been hours ago. And you filmed it, your phone balanced just far enough away to catch the way your eyes fluttered shut, the soft, breathless sound of you sighing out his name. Over and over.
You sent him an audio - your voice tangled with a few helpless sounds you could barely believe were yours. Mydei… Mydei… please…
He opened it in the middle of his club, with his earphones on, surrounded by teammates still half-buzzed from a good win.
After school, he came looking for you, face all calm on the surface but eyes betraying every ounce of restraint he’d been clawing at since he’d heard your voice in his ear.
But you were one step ahead.
You hid near the back exit, waiting until the hallway emptied out, until his teammates were gone, until it was just him left in the club changing room, half-dressed, still wiping sweat off his neck with a towel.
You slipped inside so quietly he didn’t even turn around until you dropped the freshly washed jacket on the bench beside him. His brows twitched when he saw it, faint annoyance flickering in the sharp line of his mouth.
“You washed it? What do you want this time?”
You stepped close enough to catch the new sweat beading on his collarbone.
“Make it smell like you again.”
His eyes widened before you shoved him back, the force catching him off guard so he stumbled. His legs hit the bench and he slid down onto the floor, propped half on his elbows, the towel slipping from his neck.
You straddled him before he could catch his breath, knees bracketing his hips, your hands pushing up his shirt just enough to feel the warmth of his chest under your palm.
Your other hand drifted lower, down his stomach, nails grazing lightly until you felt him tense under your touch. You leaned down, close enough that your mouth brushed his jaw before trailing down to the dip of his collarbone.
You pressed your tongue there, then nipped lightly at his skin. The shudder he gave you was reward enough.
“You like this, don’t you?” Your palm pressed flat to his chest, feeling his heart pound like he was about to break apart. “You want me to have your scent... all of it?”
You dragged your tongue lower, your lips brushing over one nipple through the fabric. You sucked lightly, teeth scraping just enough to make his hips buck. He stifled a sound in his throat. Your free hand traveled further down, brushing at the line of his waistband.
He didn’t stop you. His fingers dug into the floor beside him, head tipped back against the wall as he breathed your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore.
He was so easy to read. His body betrayed him with every twitch, every shudder under your palm.
Whenever he bucked his hips, desperate for more friction, you pulled your hand away, just enough to watch his face twist with frustration.
“Stay still” you’d whisper, “Good boys wait, don’t they?”
And he did. He’d force himself to stay still, fists clenched at his sides, his whole body coiled and trembling with every touch.
When you finally slipped the small, cold metal ring out of your pocket, he stared at it, confused for a moment. Then he realized. His eyes flicked up, something between disbelief and hunger pooling dark in his gaze. You only smiled, snapping the tiny lock shut around him.
“You won’t need this for a while.” you murmured, kissing the corner of his open mouth.
He didn’t have time to protest. You made him stand, made him bend over the bench with his pants pooled at his thighs.
The small, slick egg pressed in easily enough, he gasped, hips twitching as you pushed it deep inside him. You pulled your hand away, tucked the tiny remote into your pocket, and smoothed his hair back like you’d done nothing at all.
“Try not to embarrass yourself.” you whispered at his ear, “Or do. I’ll be watching either way.”
After that, you ignored him. At school, you didn’t even spare him a glance. In the halls, when people called his name, you slipped away. But he, he couldn’t ignore you. He flinched every time you passed. He watched you from the corner of his eye, hoping, waiting.
And whenever he got too close to someone else - some pretty girl giggling at his shoulder, some boy laughing at his jokes - you’d thumb the switch in your pocket. He'd pause, his fingers curl around his bag strap to hide the way his thighs tensed.
They’d stare—Are you okay?—but he’d just swallow it down.
And you? You’d watch from across the hall, your own small, secret - knowing he couldn’t touch himself, couldn’t come, couldn’t do anything about it.
You came over just before the final stretch of practice with a bottle of water pressed into his hand. “You’re working hard” you murmured, fingers brushing his wrist just enough for him to feel it.
He waited, searching your face for more: your hand on his shoulder, your thumb on that remote hidden god knows where. But you only gave him that same polite smile and stepped away.
He drank it anyway because what else could he do? The water was cold, a blessing against the heat soaking through his skin. But halfway through the bottle, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, and he realized it tasted not quite right.
The next pitch he tried to throw went wide by a mile. He felt it then, heat blooming under his skin, sinking down deep into his gut. Every brush of his uniform against that locked, aching length made him shudder.
He pushed through, he tried. But the coach noticed “Take a break, Mydei, get your head on straight.”
He pretended to listen. But the second his phone buzzed [Terrace. Now.] he was halfway up the stairs. He didn’t even know how his legs carried him that fast.
When he stumbled onto the rooftop terrace, the first thing he saw was you. Waiting, the wind tugging at your shirt, eyes on him like you’d been expecting him to crawl.
You didn’t say much. “Strip.”
His throat bobbed around your command. He wanted to obey. He needed to. But when he glanced around, fear flickered in his eyes. What if someone looked up? What if someone saw him?
He hesitated, just long enough for you to sigh, for your eyes to flick past him like you were already bored. You turned like you’d leave him there.
“Wait.” First was the jacket. Then, his fingers trembled at the hem of his shirt. He didn’t meet your eyes when he pulled it over his head. The evening breeze hit his sweat-slick skin, the shame of it prickling down his spine.
Next, his fingers fumbled with his belt, then the zip. The faint clink of the lock inside his pants made him shudder. He glanced at you again, pleading with his eyes, half wanting you to stop him, half begging you to push him further.
He stepped out of his uniform bottoms, the cold air hitting his thighs. He stood there, half-naked under the open sky. If someone looked up now—if they saw—
But worse than being seen was the thought of losing you. He couldn’t stand that. So he stayed still, waiting for your next word.
The wind whipped around you both up there, brushing his bare skin and raising goosebumps along his arms and chest. His breath fanned out in soft, shaky puffs, eyes flicking up to yours for mercy that you never bothered to give.
You clicked your tongue before stepping closer, your shoes echoing softly on the concrete. He flinched when your fingers brushed his caged length, his hips jerked like you’d shocked him, a quiet gasp tearing from his throat before he bit it back down.
“You’ve been good enough for this.” you murmured, your fingers deft as you slipped the tiny lock open. The cage dropped into your palm, warm from his body, slick where he’d strained against it for days.
You stepped back, turning to lean against the cold metal fence that ran along the terrace edge.
“Come here.”
He obeyed. Crawled to you on shaky knees, his flushed skin catching the wind. When you gestured, he sat down, back to the fence, legs spread wide on the cold rooftop. His thighs trembled from the chill, from the heat curling deep in his gut—worse now, with the thing you’d slipped in him still humming, teasing him from the inside.
You stepped between his knees, his eyes locked on you like a starving animal watching its meal. Then you lifted your foot and dragged it down between his spread thighs, brushing the underside of his freed cock.
The moan that tore out of him was raw, ripped free before he could bury it in his throat. The shame bloomed in his cheeks immediately, his hand shot up to cover his mouth, wide eyes darting to the half-open door, terrified someone might hear. But whatever you’d laced his water with had already loosened him up from the inside, his hips bucked helplessly into your touch, chasing the drag of your foot like he’d forgotten how to hold himself back.
You pressed your sole a little harder, enough to feel him twitch under the thin fabric of your sock. “It’s still inside you, isn’t it?”
He nodded. He could feel the toy’s soft hum vibrating through him, teasing him where he was most sensitive.
You crouched down, your face inches from his flushed, sweat-slicked chest. Your fingers slipped up, brushing over the flushed head of his cock just once, enough to make his hips jerk and his lips part in a sound that didn’t quite escape.
“If you can get it out without using your hands—” you murmured, “I’ll reward you.”
You sat back on your heels, eyes locked to his face, waiting. Knowing he’d try—humiliate himself for you.
He tried. Rocking his hips against the cold concrete, thighs trembling as he clenched down to push the vibrator egg out.
You just watched, your foot still brushing him every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine that made his control slip all over again. Every time he thought he had it, his body betrayed him, pulling the toy right back where it buzzed mercilessly inside.
“Tired already?” You flicked the remote’s dial higher. The low hum turned sharp, sudden, making his whole body jerk.
He choked on a whimper. Hips bucked, legs pressed wider, toes curling against the rough floor. You could see the moment it pushed him over that thin edge of control.
A low, helpless sound ripped through him as his body spasmed. The egg slipped free with a wet sound, landing near your shoe. He stared at it, breathing like he’d run a marathon, his whole body quivering with relief.
You crouched, picked the toy up by the cord, and let it swing between two fingers, smirking down at the flushed mess he’d become. Then you hooked a finger under his chin, tilting his dazed face up to meet your eyes.
“Stand up.”
He obeyed on shaking legs, one hand braced on the fence for balance, the other hovering uselessly at his side. You tugged him close enough that the tip of his aching cock pressed between your thighs.
“Go on, do whatever you want.”
He didn’t need more permission than that. He moved, hips rocking, dragging himself between your thighs with a broken, muffled groan. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, hot puffs of breath slipping into the crook of your neck as his cock slid along the heat you let him have.
He lost rhythm fast, every thrust rougher, driven by the raw edge of something he’d been holding back for days.
But you were quicker, your hand slipped down, two fingers pushing inside the still-sensitive warmth he’d just emptied. He gasped, hips jolting forward so hard the final pulse of his orgasm spilled hot and messy between your legs, dripping down your inner thighs and the cold concrete.
You took his jacket and pulled it around your hips, covering the sticky mess he’d left all over your thighs.
“Come to my place tonight.” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his slick lower lip. “I’ll take care of you properly there. Understood?”
He barely managed a nod, his hands clutching your hips like he was still trying to ground himself in the taste of you, the promise in your voice.
----
He’d expected many things when he came to your place that night. Maybe you’d drag him inside by the collar and press him into the nearest wall. Maybe you’d barely let him stand before you claimed him again.
What he hadn’t expected was the warm glow of your apartment lights, the faint smell of food drifting from your kitchen. He stood there watching you stir a pot on the stove like you hadn’t just ruined him on the school rooftop hours before.
You glanced over your shoulder, catching the confusion in his wide, pretty eyes. “Sit down” you said, nodding at the low table by the couch. “I made you something.”
A simple meal made with your hands. He ate slowly, stealing glances at you between mouthfuls.
Then you sat down across from him. You talked about him, how he mattered. How precious he was, even when he didn’t realize it. Every word sank into him like a drug sweeter than the warmth filling his stomach.
So when the edges of his vision started to blur, when his eyelids turned heavy and his limbs sank into the floor, he didn’t fight it. He barely had time to mumble your name before the world tipped sideways and slipped into a deep, soft black.
When he woke again, the warmth was gone, replaced by the sharp bite of cool air. His arms were pulled above his head, wrists bound to the headboard. His ankles were parted wide, tied at each corner.
You were there, your weight a warm pressure near his hips. Your fingers dragged something slick and cold across his chest, tracing small circles that made his muscles jump.
He flinched when you touched a sensitive spot just under his collarbone, his back arching instinctively into your hands. The ointment left a trail of cold fire behind every stroke, making his nipples tighten under your touch.
When he tried to lift his hips, hoping you’d move lower, begging in small broken sounds for your hand to slip where he ached most, you only laughed under your breath. You took your time.
When his quiet, needy sounds turned to soft whimpers, you finally leaned back, rolling two tiny eggs between your fingers. He froze when he saw them.
The first one pressed to his nipple, your fingers pinning it down as you secured the adhesive. He hissed at the shock of contact.
The second one mirrored the first, each low vibration echoing through his chest, deep enough to leave him gasping.
“Sensitive here, aren’t you?”
Then your hand slid lower, slick with warm lotion this time, your palm wrapping around his swollen length. He shuddered, his whole body tensing when your thumb brushed over the head, smearing the faint trace of pre that gathered there.
You stroked him slow. The buzz from the eggs on his nipples synced with the drag of your palm, each low pulse pulling a helpless moan from his parted lips.
He couldn’t think of anything else but you. How your scent filled the room. How your soft voice whispered at his ear.
The next day, the whole school were focused on one thing. Did you hear? Mydei quit. Did something happen? He was so good, why would he just disappear?
You stood among them, lips parted in a perfect mask of surprise, brows furrowed in polite concern. You even asked once, “Do you think he’s okay?”—knowing damn well he wasn’t anywhere near okay. He was exactly where you wanted him.
You went through your day like nothing had happened, let the rumors swirl and knot themselves into messy stories that never got close to the truth. And when the last bell rang, you slipped out. You didn’t need to rush. He’d be waiting.
Your door clicked open. The quiet of your apartment wrapped around you like a warm shroud, one you’d filled with him. His scent still clung faintly to the corners, mixed now with your own, all tangled up in the soft fabric of the pillow he was buried in.
There he was. Right where you left him.
The moment you stepped inside your room, you found him on your bed - knees braced wide, naked skin flushed deep pink under the dim light. He was folded over your body pillow, blindfold tight around his eyes. His hips moved, grinding down again and again, chasing the friction he needed so badly. His lips were parted as he whimpered your name in little gasps between ragged moans.
Two small remotes rested neatly on your nightstand. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop, your pillow damp under his belly, his skin shining where sweat dripped down his sides.
You stepped closer just as his whole body shuddered. He gasped, hips jerking one last time. A soft, hoarse cry slipped from his throat as he came, spilling messily over the sheets and your pillow, trembling so hard the blindfold slipped a little over his cheek.
You watched, the smallest smile curling at the corner of your mouth. He hadn’t even realized you were there, too lost in that mindless edge you’d carved into him.
You bent close, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "I’m home."
And in that warm sound, he knew he’d never belong to anyone else again.
You woke up to the sound of your doorbell. Your eyes cracked open, sticky and heavy, a cold compress slipping halfway off your forehead as you shifted under your blanket. Your throat burned when you swallowed. Whoever it was could just leave the package at the door, you weren’t expecting anyone.
But the bell rang again. The third time, there was a soft knock too. You dragged yourself to the door, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other fixing the pad back onto your forehead.
Through the peephole, you could just make out the familiar silhouette - tall, broad shoulders, a black mask, a plain baseball cap pulled low. But you’d know that posture anywhere.
You unlocked the chain with trembling fingers and there he was, your impossibly difficult client.
“What are you doing here? You have a-”
“I’m taking care of you.” He lifted the bag in his hand - a paper bag with your favorite soup place’s logo on it, a glimpse of medicine boxes peeking out from the top.
He didn’t ask permission when he shrugged past you again, heading straight for your kitchen as if he knew where everything was.
And just like that, the living room filled with the sound of him rummaging through your cupboards, the faint scent of hot broth, and the realization that Sunday, the walking money machine, was in your tiny apartment fussing over your cough medicine.
Sunday had been standing under the harsh lights for almost an hour. He looked every bit the perfect centerpiece: crisp suit, sleek hair, and the new glasses perched neatly on his nose.
He’d barely glanced at the one his colleague picked. The moment you tapped the second pair against your palm and murmured, “This one frames your jaw better” he’d just nodded. No questions, he never did when it came to you.
You’d done a quick touch-up then, smoothing out the line of his concealer to balance the new frames, brushing a thumb over the bridge of his nose where the pads rested so the light wouldn’t bounce weird. He didn’t even flinch, just looked straight ahead while you worked, like the world didn’t exist until you stepped back and said, “Perfect.”
Now, with the final take wrapping up, you’d stepped away to check on the others, making yourself useful, as always. Sunday caught it just as the director called for a break: you, standing close to one of the rookie actors. The boy was sitting on a high stool, fidgeting with the hem of his blazer while you uncapped a soft pink lipstick and leaned in, steadying his jaw with your hand.
Sunday’s expression didn’t change at first. He didn’t bother handing his props off, didn’t even tell the staff he was stepping off set. He just moved, straight across the white floor, cutting through the staff’s startled chatter.
By the time he reached you, you were brushing the last swipe of color onto the rookie’s lower lip. The boy’s wide eyes flicked up at Sunday just as his shadow fell over you both.
“Oh my god, S-Sun—” the kid stammered, but Sunday ignored him. His hand shot out to grab your wrist mid-motion.
You turned. “Sunday?”
His gaze pinned the rookie in place. The younger actor squirmed under it, mouth half open as if he might apologize for something.
You didn’t let Sunday speak. You stepped closer, gently pulling your wrist free.
“It was my fault.” you said, “I shouldn’t have done a touch-up here. He already had a look approved. Sunday was just stopping me so I wouldn’t mess it up.”
A neat, quick lie. One that saved Sunday’s perfect, difficult reputation from yet another rumor about how he treated people like territory.
For a second, he didn’t move, just looked at you, reading you the way he always did when you did something for him instead of because of him. Then his eyes flicked back to the rookie.
“Next time,” he said, “get your own makeup artist.”
The kid nodded frantically, half-bowing, muttering yes, I will, like a prayer.
Sunday turned back to you, there was a tension there that told you he’d have words for you later.
The underwater shoot had stretched into the late afternoon, the crew bustling around the edges, half lost in their own hushed awe whenever Sunday emerged from the water. His hair slicked back, droplets sliding down the clean lines of his jaw, the ripple of muscle across his shoulders impossible to ignore. But if everyone else was busy admiring his physique, you were squinting at the faint smudge along the bridge of his nose.
It was a test shoot, after all, the company’s new waterproof line, a sponsorship Sunday had agreed to only because you said you’d make it work. And for the most part, it had. The foundation clung to his jaw, the contour stayed sharp, the subtle highlight catching every perfect angle each time he broke the surface like a god dragged out of some myth.
But his nose — that damned nose — always lost its cover first. The moment he exhaled too sharply underwater or brushed a hand across it, you’d see the pigment fade. It drove you mad, more than it should have, standing there with your kit in hand while everyone else pointed cameras at the parts of him they thought were worth worshipping.
When the director finally called it, the crew started packing up. But Sunday didn’t get out right away. He lingered by the deeper end, elbows hooked on the ledge, eyes following you as you fussed with the leftover tools on your tray.
It wasn’t until everyone else was out of earshot that he finally pulled himself up in one smooth motion, water cascading down his chest, the pool lights turning each drop into liquid silver. He snagged a towel, raked it through his hair once, then draped it loosely around his shoulders as he stepped closer to you.
You were still squinting at the slight raw patch on his nose. “It’s still the nose...” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “The rest is fine but—”
“—How can one person be so clueless about other emotions?” he cut in.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
Sunday cocked his head, droplets clinging to his lashes, his breath misting faintly in the cold air. He looked at you the way he always did when he was about to cross a line.
“If we really want to test how long it lasts…” He stepped forward, close enough that the damp heat off his skin cut through the pool’s chill, close enough that you caught the faint clean scent of his shampoo, the chemical bite of chlorine under it. His hand came up, thumb brushing lightly at your jaw, tilting your face so you could see him clearer “…maybe I should see if it survives this.”
His mouth caught yours, so deceptively careful it made your breath catch in your throat. Then his hand slipped to the back of your neck, damp fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted his head and deepened it.
His lips parted yours. There was a smear of your tinted lip balm on his mouth.
He huffed a small laugh, “Still looks good to me.” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he’d fix it, as if he’d ever let anyone else do it.
Sunday’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing just in time to catch a blur of movement. Someone in black bolting behind the stack of equipment crates, the studio door banging faintly as they fled.
You turned, but Sunday’s hand stayed firm at your neck for half a second longer. Then he let go.
That night, he checked for the security camera. His jaw ticked when the clip ended.
He was standing in front of that staffer’s apartment. It would be a shame not to pay them a visit.
“Forget it.”
“Next time, you won’t see me coming.”
He'd make sure that man paid the price if he didn't keep his promise.
The confession scene had been set in a park — fake cherry blossoms strung through the set trees, petals drifting on cue from hidden blowers each time the camera rolled. You’d watched it unfold from behind the director’s monitor, arms crossed, eyes flitting from Sunday’s face to the script on your tablet to the slightly trembling hands of the young actor standing opposite him.
It wasn’t your first time watching Sunday transform under the lights — the subtle shift in his voice, the tilt of his head, the soft, almost heartbreakingly open look in his eyes when he stepped fully into a character who loved someone so much it hurt. But tonight, it hit different. Maybe it was the lines, the kind you secretly loved reading at night when you curled up with your phone. Or maybe it was just the way he made it real, even when his co-star stiffened again and again, missing the emotional beat by a hair each time.
“Cut. Again.” The director’s voice sliced through the set.
As you moved closer, you heard bits of the conversation. Sunday’s voice was calm, his eyes gentle in a way you knew he reserved only for people he deemed salvageable. “…don’t rush the pause. You look at me first. Feel it. Then say it.”
You stepped in then, brushing stray hair off his forehead, blotting a faint shine at his jawline. He glanced at you only briefly, a flicker of something softer than what he showed the cameras, before turning back to his scene partner.
He got it in two takes after that. The younger actor found the pause, the line landed, and the fake petals fluttered down like blessings when Sunday smiled — that small, trembling smile that would break half the country’s heart the moment the episode dropped.
When it wrapped, you were waiting with a warm pack for his cold hands.
You told him about the week off you’d filed for. “My best friend will cover for me, you’ve met them. They know your shades. They’ll do fine.”
Sunday’s smile stayed on his lips but not in his eyes. For a second you saw the flicker of don’t go — the selfish tug you knew he’d never say aloud.
“A week, then.” He squeezed your hand once before letting it go. “Rest properly. I’ll… be fine.”
You left thinking he’d be fine. And he was, in all the ways that counted — marks hit, tears dropped on cue as millions streamed the newest trending scene. But off-camera, Sunday carried it with him, a ghost hovering just behind that flawless posture.
At fittings, he sat still and let the stylists pin and fuss, but his eyes would flick to the empty spot where you usually perched on the counter. The substitute did well enough, but they didn’t lean in to check the corner of his eye just so, didn’t wipe the faint tint from his lips between takes.
When break times came, he scrolled your messages on his phone. Short updates from you like: “It’s sunny here” “I found this book I think you’d like” He never replied with more than a thumbs up. But he read them twice over when no one was watching, thumb brushing the screen like he might find the warmth of your voice there.
On set, the younger actors whispered about how he seemed polite as always, but distant. He’d slip out as soon as the cut was called.
There, he’d sit under the bright mirror lights, staring at his reflection. The lenses he wore, the tinted balm, the faint leftover scent of your setting spray clinging to his collar. He’d touch the bridge of his nose where the foundation used to slip first, remembering how you’d fuss and grumble and pat it back into perfection.
Sunday knew better than anyone that the machine didn’t stop for something as small as longing. But for that week, the longest he’d felt in months, he let himself count down every empty hour until you’d come back.
Sunday sat alone in the back of the van, engine humming softly under him as they idled outside a late-night ramen shop where the crew was grabbing a quick dinner. He’d waved them off, told them he’d join in a minute, but he hadn’t moved.
The low light from the street lamps barely reached him, but his phone screen glowed bright in the dark. His thumb hovered above the familiar blue icon of your profile — the private one, the one he knew everything about.
He scrolled slowly. Your posts — filtered glimpses of your lunch, your cat curled up in your lap, a faint shot of the ocean you’d promised to visit when you finally took that break. The tiny captions he’d read so many times he could recite them if someone held a gun to his head.
He didn’t like any of them, never left a heart or a comment, never gave anyone else a reason to wonder why your top follower was him. He only watched.
Tonight, though, tonight something new caught his eye. 1 new follower and following.
He knew the number by heart. You kept your circle small. Old classmates, your family, that hobby page for indie makeup reviews you liked so much, him. But this one — he tapped it, thumb tight enough to make the screen creak faintly under the pressure.
A man. Some sun-soaked profile picture of a beach, golden hour light across tan shoulders. He flicked through the feed. Waves, fishing nets, a half-finished tattoo on a forearm.
He scrolled up, eyes scanning the pinned location — the same island you’d posted.
He exhaled. Tapped the man’s message box open — then closed it again. His thumb flicked back to your page instead, to your last story, a blurry sunset over water. He wondered if the man had been standing there too, just out of frame.
Outside, the van door slid open. “Sir, do you want to join them now?”
Sunday didn’t answer right away. He just stared at your profile a moment longer, memorizing the new name, the new threat. Then he locked his phone, tucked it back into his coat pocket, and smiled.
You were back on set the moment your week off ended.
Today, he barely looked at you.
You’d brought him something special - a new collection you’d splurged on just for him, a fresh line of lip balms and tinted sticks in shades you thought would suit the softer scenes for the next arc of his show. You’d laid them out neatly on the counter in his dressing room, the pretty packaging lined up like a gift, little swatches painted on the back of your hand for him to see.
But Sunday just sat there, eyes flicking to your reflection in the mirror once before darting back down to his phone. He didn’t even nod when you tapped his chin up to check the new foundation match, didn’t hum when you murmured “turn a bit for me” in that soft tone you always used just for him.
He let you work, but he didn’t say a word.
When the last scene wrapped, you packed your kit quickly, trying to ignore the tight pinch in your chest. You told him “I’ll leave these here for you, okay?”. He didn’t answer, just gave the faintest tilt of his head, like a stranger trying to acknowledge someone they’d rather not see.
You didn’t ask. You never did when he got like this, prickly for reasons he’d never spell out. So you left when your time was done, you slipped past the line of starry-eyed staff bowing and whispering about how perfect Sunday looked as always.
You didn’t expect him at your door that night. Not with two bottles of wine tucked under his arm and a bag from your favorite takeout spot swinging loosely from his wrist. Not with that quiet, guilty look on his face when you opened the door in your oversized shirt, hair still damp from your shower.
But what he really didn’t expect, what made the edge snap so cleanly through his politeness, was the man in your living room.
He saw him first, sprawled comfortably on your couch, phone in hand, that same easy grin from the profile picture that had burned itself behind Sunday’s eyelids.
He didn’t even bother with hello. He dropped the wine and the takeout on your kitchen table and strode forward.
“Who the hell—” the man started, already pushing himself to his feet — but Sunday was already there, one hand fisted in his collar, the other shoving him back a step.
“You think you can just—” He pulled the man closer.
“Sunday!”
You threw your towel onto the counter, rushing forward to wedge yourself between them. You pressed a palm to Sunday’s chest.
“Stop it! What are you doing?”
Sunday’s jaw clenched, his hand still tangled in the other man’s shirt. “This— you just let him— here? In your house?”
“What do you mean? He’s my sister’s fiancé.”
For a second, nothing moved. The man in Sunday’s grip snorted, equal parts nervous and offended, and tried to tug himself free.
“He’s staying over because they’re visiting.”
Sunday stared at you. Then at the man. Then back at you. All he did next was slowly loosen his grip, pushing the man back with a final, frustrated shove.
“Next time you get mad at me for nothing…” You gave him a smile. “…maybe bring dessert, too.”
You’d barely stepped out of the shower when your phone buzzed. By the time you opened the message, Sunday was already downstairs, asking if you were free, if he could come up, if you still had those new lipsticks he’d seen you stash away in your kit.
You were bone tired, but you didn’t have it in you to say no when he knocked. So you let him in, hair still damp, wearing an old tee and soft shorts while he made himself perfectly at home on your couch.
You sighed, rummaging through the bag for the softest shade, the one you’d thought would suit him for an early morning scene tomorrow. “You really want to test these now?”
He only looked at you with that faint glint under his lashes — the same one that always told you he’d decided this was happening, whether you liked it or not.
“Just one,” he murmured. “One for tonight.”
So you relented, sliding onto the couch beside him.
A soft coral-pink, glossy but not too bright.
“Stay still.”
He did, for about two seconds.
You angled his chin up, did the usual. The moment you leaned back to check, Sunday tilted forward. His mouth caught yours in a soft kiss before his hand slid up your back to hold you there.
It wasn’t deep at first, just the faint drag of his bottom lip over yours, smearing the color you’d so carefully applied. He pulled back just enough to see the faint surprise flicker across your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek.
“Doesn’t suit you,” he murmured, “Try another one?”
“Sunday! The point is to test on you, not—”
You didn’t get to finish. He kissed you again, deeper this time, a soft push and pull that left the tint smudged at the corner of his mouth and yours. When you huffed and pushed at his chest, he only chuckled under his breath, the sound rumbling against your skin as his lips slipped to your jaw, then lower, the faint brush of his mouth at your neck making your breath catch embarrassingly loud.
“You— this is wasting the samples—” you hissed, trying to angle away, but his teeth grazed your collarbone through the thin cotton of your shirt, his hands anchoring you right there on his lap.
“Mm. I’ll buy you more,” he murmured against your skin, lips dragging along your shoulder, heat pooling where he pressed soft, biting kisses just above the collar of your shirt. “Better ones. All the shades you want. Ruin them all if you like.”
“Do this again and I swear I’m quitting. Find someone else to—”
Sunday lifted his head just enough to catch your eyes.
“Quit?” He leaned in, brushing your lips again. “Try it. I’d make sure to ruin your life.”
You were speechless, half flustered, half tempted to shove him off the couch for real this time. But his mouth was already tracing your jaw again, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt like he’d never once intended to let you go.
