Chuuya’s Wife

20s. HSR. BSD. NARUTO. HxH. JJK. TFC.

[panyan5654]

LOVESICK HORRORS [1/5] 🦇

[Bruce Wayne]

I was thinking about why I liked yanderes so much, and I came to the realisation that I really enjoy the horror/thriller aspects of them. So that’s what I’m going for in this series!

I’ve always been a huge fan of anything horror; books, films, games, etc. and I just really like the idea of being chased in the dark by a obsessed and deranged guy who would do anything for me ✌️😔

Scaroused is a real feeling yall 🗣️🗣️

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

IM SCAROUSED

[panyan5654]

LOVESICK HORRORS [2/5] 🦇

[Dick Grayson]

Hiding from him wasn’t the best idea…

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

He’s the most terrifying out of all the batkids ngl but ayeeeee he’s hot

[panyan5654]

LOVESICK HORRORS [3/5] 🦇

[Jason Todd]

Even if he was bleeding, he’s not gonna stop until you’re in his arms~

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

AHHHHHHHHHH FUCK YES

[asadmoldyteacup]

Drawing him with my mc so he can get some rest ♡

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

HES SO BBEEEEEEGGGG

[pumpkinhrat]

im back with more stratt doodles

[arthdoesart]

they're tired and clingy

[kindrehd]

STILL LIFE

[liahcharms]

a wicked mind .⋆♱

Who knew the Ouija board was not as useless as it seemed? And who knew a demon you managed to summon would not only be among the most dangerous, but also eager to grant your weird wish? Fuck-a-demon-on-a-camera kind of wish! The one and only ticket that would surely guarantee a boom in your career. That is, if the footage is found, of course.

a part of slutty (slasher) summer

.⋆♱ pairing: ꒰ Pornstar!Reader x Demon!Trueform Ryomen Sukuna ꒱

.⋆♱ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18+ :: horror :: set in 80s :: demon summoning :: strong female reader :: she's such a minx and slut ugh :: and also a monsterfucker :: blood :: violence :: cameraman!naoya :: side character's death :: cabin in the woods :: sex tape recording hehe :: double penetration :: anal sex :: Sukuna is his own warning :: oral sex :: belly bulge :: cum overflowing :: period sex :: blood consuming (just a bit...) :: so obsessed with the reader :: squirting ꒱

.⋆♱ words: ꒰ 9.6k ꒱

.⋆♱ notes: Overthrowing all laws of human body capabilities in this one, sorry. I'm not a med student, but I am a monsterfucking obsessed girl, and yes, this one is by far the most self-insert fic about my delusions...

The warmth of the setting sun licked the back of your neck with soft tongues as you put your hair up and sighed deeply. A red Cadillac rolled slowly along the sandy forest road, the trees brushing its gleaming paint, birds looking down at your furrowed, sweating forehead.

Looking at the map with a big X, you hummed and raised your gaze to take in the view that hadn't changed for a while.

"We're lost," Naoya sighed, tapping his fingers on the wheel. "We're lost, those fucking branches will scratch my car, and it's almost dark."

You gave him no mind, still following the map with your finger and occasionally glancing around. But everything looked the same – the trees, the bushes, the path, which curled and bent like a serpent, leading you only further into the forest.

Thick branches covered the dawn, painting the sky pink and orange, with just a few strands sinking through the fan of lush leaves, as if to gently remind you that the evening was perilously close.

And there was truly nothing worse than getting lost deep in the unknown forest, with a map drenched in the coffee you spilt on it during the break at the gas station and the nerves that were slowly eating you both alive.

The drive that was supposed to take two hours suddenly stretched to four. Four long hours with your cameraman, Naoya, whose forehead stayed wrinkled for at least an hour.

"But we saw the sign by the main route. It should be here," you said, pushing your sunglasses up. "Look, that's the road we're taking, and the cabin should be–oh!"

Not even a minute later, after the next deep turn, the cosy wooden house finally appeared on your horizon.

With a little garden, the swing shone gold beneath the spilling sun, and short steps led to the porch. Big logs of wood lay beneath the stairs, the gentle, warm light from the lamp welcoming you in.

"Oh, it's amazing!" you gasped, opening the door before the car had fully stopped. "Just look at it! I wonder if someone died here."

Naoya scoffed, parking on the gravel road. "Hopefully not. It would be awkward."

A soft hiss slipped past your lips as you peeled your thighs off the leather seat. Tiny shorts curled just beneath your ass, the backs of your thighs wet and sensitive after hours of being stuck to the sun-burning heat.

"Awkward to see a ghost?" You asked, slowly climbing up the stairs.

In the meantime, Naoya took your suitcases and the equipment bag before closing the trunk. "Uh, awkward to make porn in a place where someone died."

A single, soft "Oh" fell past your lips as you took the key from beneath the old mat.

It was the first time you'd been to this place since Yuki recommended it to you last year. It's very serene, she assured you. Quiet, lonely, and fun, with a lake nearby and no other soul in the forest. A perfect house if you want to rest a bit from university during the summer break.

Yet you thought that a cabin described by your friend sounded like the perfect place to start a little project of yours that's been burning your wicked mind for a while.

"You want to be a pornstar?" Satoru raised his brows and let the pen fall onto your dorm's carpet as you studied for the finals. "Like, a real pornstar? A person who makes porn?"

It's not as if he didn't know you were a campus sweetheart. A slut, more like it, yet your idea nevertheless left his mind in a daze.

You nodded, putting your pen down. A question for radiative physics class scribbled messily, as your eyes shone almost evilly.

"Are you really surprised?" A scoff slipped past your lips, eyes narrowing. "Besides, you're no better whore than me."

Satoru leaned against your roommate's bed as you both sat on the floor. A tiny table between you, two cups of coffee, dirty black, and mock exams not even half finished.

"Well, yeah. But I want to work in astrophysics, and if I remember correctly – you do too." He tapped his pen against his pouted lips, a deep thought clearly bubbling behind his ocean eyes. "I mean, if you'll keep your face away from the camera, it should work."

"Of course I will," your eyes curled into a cheeky smile, something malicious already bubbling in a pretty mind of yours. "Actually, I already have an idea," you crawled closer to Satoru, sitting right in front of him with a raised hand. "You know the recent boom in slashers, right? Okay, imagine me, the poor sweet virgin, being chased by two killers in the woods, before they tie me up and fuck me senselessly. With all the artificial blood and stuff, after they killed all of my friends, I went on a summer camping trip with."

Satoru listened with arched brows, clearly amused by the gory, slightly concerning plan. He knew you were a hardcore freak. A nerd too, always shining brightly in your shared classes. But the freak first.

A weirdo, almost a lunatic, finding heat and bliss in the weirdest things, yet always meeting his needs during sex. Because sex with you, dearest heavens, was mind-blowing. A heavenly ecstasy, pleasure wrapped at his fingertips, bursting together with the sweetness of your sly tongue. Skin, fingers, the wetness, that always dripped all over him in such an–

"Why are you hard?" you hummed, eyes squinting gently. He didn't react quickly enough as your foot found its way to press against his bulging sports shorts. "You thought about me moaning like a bitch on a tape, huh?"

He chuckled, long fingers wrapped around your ankle, then pressed your foot closer. "I did, sweets. In fact, I wouldn't mind being on it with you."

Tilting your lovely head, the sole of your foot brushed the full, fat shaft of his cock. "That's good to know because I've been meaning to ask you to play one killer."

"And the other?"

You giggled. "Your friend, Suguru, from the arts seems quite lovely. I'm sure I could do a lot with his tongue piercing."

Satoru's head tilted gently, and a soft scowl formed between his brows as the pressure became almost painful. His teeth gritted, fingers clutched tighter around your ankle, yet he did not push you away.

"So you'll play a virgin, huh?"

A wide grin twisted your lips. "Your sweetest one."

And thus, a few weeks later, after all the exams had been passed with a pure blessing, you found yourself inside the cabin.

Naoya, your dickhead friend from the film department, agreed to take part in your little project and arrived a day early with you to prepare everything. Suguru and Satoru were due to arrive tomorrow afternoon, so you had time to wander restlessly around the house while Naoya set up all the filming equipment.

The inside of the cabin seemed even lovelier, warmer, with the last threads of sun slipping through the small windows, basking the creaking floor in flame. The smell of wood, dry and clean, drenched in the sap of forest leaves, danced in the slowly setting darkness right over the high porch.

The fireplace was there, cosy and filled with logs, yet the sweat still clung to your spine, as if the heat of the journey hadn't yet rinsed away with the slowly falling evening.

Naoya put your suitcases in the hallway, then took a deep, tired breath. "I need a shower. And something to eat."

The owners supposedly left you some food, so you opened the small kitchen's fridge, the flickering light casting your face in cold light.

"Hmm, bread with peanut butter and jam?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at his scowl.

Always so mean, so spoilt, yet unfortunately, he was the only one who agreed to take part in your wicked project. The only one who hated the idea to the point of feeling no sexual attraction to you.

"What jam?"

"Strawberry, of course," you furrowed, taking the jar from the fridge.

"Fine," he said, looking around and spotting the small stairs leading to the upper floor. "We should have two bathrooms, so let's hop in first."

You giggled, taking out the rice cooker. "We can shower together, if you wish."

But he didn't say anything, leaving you with a snicker and a low, "Slut," that met your grinning cheeks.

The shower was cold, sweet, wetting your body pleasurably as you pinned your hair up. The sweat clinging to your skin, dust, and heavy air dirtying it, swirled together in the drain of the small shower. It wasn't the cleanest you've ever seen, but compared to your dorms, everything seemed better.

Leaving the bathroom in nothing but tight shorts and a skimpy top, without your bra – everything just to give Naoya another reason to measure you with his nasty gaze – you saw the sandwiches ready on the table.

"Ah, thank you, my dearest househusband," you giggled, sitting down by the wooden table.

The warm light of the old lamp bathed his dirty-blond hair in yellow. Snake eyes, always so priggish, narrowed to two almonds. Yet he didn't comment, joining you at the table with his own sandwiches.

"We need to choose the bedroom for filming. I'll set up the camera today. We can also go around the house in the morning to check the whole plan for the script," he started, and you nodded, your mouth glued with peanut butter. "Let's change the sheets for ours, because there's a chance the artificial blood won't come off. Ah, and I can't film their faces, right?"

You hummed, wrapping your hair with a clip. "Well, they'll have the masks, so it doesn't matter. Try to avoid mine."

"No cock sucking then?"

Your head tilted, brows furrowed, as you thought for a moment. "I guess, unless you can do a super close-up of my lips. My pussy's much prettier anyway."

He trembled, as if shivers smooched down his spine. "I can't believe you got accepted for astrophysics."

You giggled, licking your fingers clean and tapping two on your temple. "That's because I have an amazing mind."

He looked at you for a moment. At your lovely, sly grin. Cheek with a hint of reddish jam. Eyes mingling devilishly. Hair pinned up in a clip, a few strands falling gently along your warm cheeks. You were almost irritatingly ethereal, smart, beautiful, and such a pervert that Naoya truly couldn't comprehend how someone like you could have the mind to study astrophysics at the most elite university in the whole country.

"Sure you have," he muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich.

When the evening had finally fallen deep and the darkness had fully slipped into the warmly lit cabin, you decided it was time to go down and check the basement. Although finding the key proved more difficult than you'd thought it would be, as if the owners wished to keep whatever wickedness was locked there.

And this only made you crave going down there even more. Naoya waved his hand and went upstairs to work on the cameras. Leaving you with a, "Just scream if something happens, but don't expect me to go down there," as the single look into the unfathomable darkness of the basement made him shake his head.

"Coward," you giggled, turning a small lamp on.

It flickered once, twice, before finally burning out and leaving you with a sigh. So, with the flashlight in your hand, you went down. Step by step, careful and slow, as the old stairs creaked beneath your feet. The darkness wrapped you, a faint light bathing the long descent that seemed never-ending.

Until you finally touched solid ground and found yourself in a small basement. Spider webs hung from the ceiling, a few shelves filled with old books sat serenely in the dusty corner, and a small table nestled against the wall. It looked plain, rather uninviting, yet you had nothing else to do until tomorrow, so you walked around, checking each book. Some old tales, long-forgotten romances, dusty history books, a few classics…

"Oh?" fell curiously, as your fingers bumped the skin–clad book.

You pulled it from between other volumes, feeling its weight in your palms. It was thick, old, almost ancient, and wrapped in a thick leather belt, as if whatever it held were utterly unkind. It felt soft beneath your fingers, almost human–like, yet its cover was sewn with nasty, crooked stitches. Long, dirty, yet real, you traced them with your fingers, each bumping against your skin.

So you did the only proper thing and laid it on the table. With a small flashlight between your teeth, you pulled the old belt, trying to fight its strong grip. It must've sat here for a long, long time, as the dust swirled right in front of your lashes, sticking nastily to your freshly washed face. The belt was long and thick, almost like tree branches, yet softer to the touch.

It finally gave in, letting you unwrap the book from its snug clutches.

Demonology, was written inside, without any other information. No author, no publisher, no date, only crooked, ink-spilt letters bending on the front, yellow page.

Your eyes glimmered in the faint lightning, heart suddenly skipped a beat as you clutched the book tighter. Oh, it felt as if you'd just discovered a long-lost treasure, a rare gem, almost a groundbreaking archaeological find. It was amazing, wicked, and scary, and as you flipped a few pages, a small gasp slipped past your wrapped-around-the-flashlight lips as you saw the old, yellow pages, carefully filled with various demons and their descriptions.

Oh dearest, Naoya would faint just from seeing it.

So you quickly closed the book and went back upstairs. You ran through the hall and living room before storming into the largest bedroom to scare the man hunched over the camera.

"Fuck! Can you please at least knock?" His palm fell on your quickly falling chest, snake eyes much larger than usual.

The little camera was set on the tall tripod, facing the king-sized bed. The room was rather big and cosy, with wooden walls and a large window directly above the bed frame, overlooking the deep, dark forest.

Naoya sat on the bed, yet his head shot your way the moment you stormed like a nightmare.

"Look!" Walking his way, you held the heavy book right in front of your chest, presenting it full to his bulging eyes. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

His straight brows furrowed. "Do I wanna know?"

Flipping the heavy cover, you showed him the first page. And the second, and the third, each one scribbled messily, with handwritten notes and crooked pictures of demons.

"Where did you get it?" he asked softly, taking the book from your hands. He read the pages with a frown, his finger brushing the old, crumpled paper. "It's at least a thousand years old."

"Oh, I found it in the basement. Locked with some old leather belt. I barely managed to open it, but here we are."

Naoya looked up, eyes almost stormy, a deep sigh and a wish to wig you from head to toe already bubbling in his chest. "You saw a fucking human-skin-bound book, bent shut, and decided to just open it? Without even thinking why it was secured like an artefact from the deepest corners of hell?"

You walked around the bedroom and looked at other shelves. With many more books than you expected, yet they seemed to have been read by the travellers and owners themselves. Nothing truly interesting that piqued your interest.

"Why not? I was curious. It's not as if anything will happen. And why do you think it's bound in human skin?" You shrugged and popped a squat to check the lower shelves filled with board games. "Oh, they have a monopoly. How about doing oral sex instead of paying rent for stepping on the property?"

Naoya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. One breath after another, through the nose and past the mouth, as he tried to calm himself.

"Have you seen it? It's clearly human skin. Don't you think it's fucking terrifying?"

Your head shook as your fingers traced an old, dusty box, deeply hidden beneath other games. "Hm, I think it's fascinating. You know, maybe it was made by some wicked witch or, oh, a cult. Do you think it was made from someone who was sacrificed to the devil?"

Naoya began to regret agreeing to your pleadings. The image of your pouted lips and plush breasts beneath the skimpy top still swirled in his mind, yet every part of him, every sense, was screaming in alarm to get himself away from his peculiar friend.

Although a friend could've been far too strong, as you loved teasing him and he somehow easily gave in to your haunting whispers.

"That's it, I'm taking it ba-"

"Oh my god!"

His heart nearly stopped in dread as you discovered something he was desperately trying to hide from your sight. He hid it deep beneath the heavy board games, covering it with a flimsy tablecloth he found on the shelf, just to prevent you from seeing this devilish thing.

"I can't believe they have a Ouija board!" you gasped in awe, quickly joining him on the bed. The board was already unpacked, clutched in your fingers, as you looked all around it and finally set it down.

And then…

And then something flickered behind your eyes. A sinister, ominous plan, blended with the lovely – or rather, malevolent – smile that made your cheeks swell. Naoya could read your mind with an almost horrifying precision. Knowing you for the past year, he could pinpoint each of your perverted thoughts.

So he quickly shut the book and smashed it against the board. "Absolutely not."

Your lips pouted as one hand swiftly grabbed his wrist to stop him from rising. "Oh, come on! You have no idea what I wanted to do!"

Naoya gritted his teeth, trying to free himself from your grasping fingers. "Truly? Because I think you considered summoning a demon from this book using this devilish thing."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the laughter that was barely held back in your throat.

Naoya was seething. Oh, he was so, so furious, and you could see faint grey smoke swirling above his scowling head as he tried to pull your fingers apart, one by one. But you held him in an almost unbelievably tight grip, eyes fixed on his face.

"Actually, I thought about summoning a demon and fucking him on camera."

You laughed when Naoya let out a low, tired groan, and instead of lifting the book, he simply leaned over and banged his forehead against it. Until your crackling filled the dim bedroom, lit only by the warm bedside lamp and moonlight spilling past the thick trees.

There was something warm in the way excitement clung to your spine when Naoya finally gave in. You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, and a sigh of surrender finally escaped his lips.

"Why do you need to be like that?" he asked, voice muffled because of the book.

"Like what?" you hummed, brushing his dirty-blonde hair. "Just imagine how famous I'd become. That's, like, oh god, the perfect way to boost my career. And don't you want to be known as the first director to film a fucking demon?"

There were many things Naoya wanted. But summoning an ancient monster wasn't one of them.

And yet, he muttered a quiet, "Fine," and took his hands off the book and the board. "But you know there's a chance this thing isn't even working?"

"I know it is," you giggled, opening the book again. "I just feel it."

"And you know that there's a low chance that demons actually exist?"

"No, they do."

Naoya grimaced, yet still flipped the book over to you. "How can you be a physicist and believe in such things?"

You hummed, reading the description of each demon carefully. "It's fun."

And that was truly the simplest way to describe it.

Fun.

Being slightly obsessed with creatures and demons was fun. Spending nights preparing for exams, then watching horror films on your old, self–bought TV, neatly hidden in your tiny closet. Reading erotica about monsters, spectres, and vampires just to feel a thrill that tingled your spine in the most pleasurable way.

During the day, you've learned about the mysteries of the universe; at night, you've bent all your beliefs just to get yourself off to the dream of fucking with a monster.

Your dirty little secret, neatly concealed behind a mask of a simple campus slut and a nerd. Because you enjoyed being a weird girl, with perverted fantasies and wickedness always lurking around your lovely face. You loved sex, yet finding people who could truly satisfy your craving was difficult.

And so, among all the men you've slept with, Satoru was the only one who always agreed to your devilish scenarios. The obsessive ex, stalking murderer, a clown chasing you through the haunted house with a knife. His teeth on your skin, yours on his, until, sometimes, you've drawn a bit of blood from his lips, cherishing the metallic sweetness on your tongue.

Him, eating you out during the period, waiting for your shuddering climax, kissing you deep and filthy, with your own blood smeared all over your fucked face.

But Satoru also wasn't a thing. A creature, a monster, who would satisfy your most wicked, carnal pleasures.

And Naoya only needed to know that it was fun.

"Oh," your voice dropped as you turned to a blank page. "Ryomen Sukuna," you read aloud, yet found no description or sketch of the only demon, only his name and DO NOT SUMMON written in crooked, wicked letters.

Naoya looked up, seeing the same sinister flicker behind your eyes. "No, absolutely not," he said, his finger immediately falling on the warning. "Let me help you translate it. It means that, under no circumstances, no matter what happens, we mustn't summon this specific demon."

But he knew, he saw, that you were dead set. Your lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes shining sweetly, as you looked up and nodded.

"This one. I have a good feeling," you giggled, already placing the book and the Ouija board on the bed in front of you.

"Don't you think there's a reason he's the only one marked like that? Without any description, not even a sketch?"

You hummed, scanning for any information about the demon. Only its name, the warning, and something dark and smeared on the paper, ending just at its edges. Blood, perhaps, yet you quickly hid it with your hand to prevent Naoya from seeing.

"I think no one has ever seen him, and it's our duty to step into uncharted territory," you giggled, seeing as Naoya nevertheless stood behind a small camera.

Straight eyebrows still slightly furrowed, dark eyes rolling. "You're an astrophysics student, not an archaeologist."

"Demonologist."

He scoffed. "Anyway, the camera is ready. Do you want to change or…?"

You looked over the skimpy, whorish enough outfit and shook your head. Tight shorts curled just beneath your cheeks, perked nipples visible through the top, lingerie long gone. Cute, perfect for an innocent, porn-style look.

"No, it's good," you plucked at the scuff of your top, lowering it gently. Letting the camera capture the fuller view of your breasts. "How is the angle?"

"Below the neck," Naoya murmured, adjusting the camera slightly. "In case of something, we can cut the recording. You know, that video of your face would probably bring you more fame, right?"

You corrected the pin-up and smiled cheekily. "I believe my body is hot enough to guarantee success."

Naoya didn't say anything, but simply hummed and raised his eyebrow.

It was time.

The warm light from the lamp cast a gentle halo over your body. Basking in its warmth, you let the rays spill around your naked arms, breasts, and thighs, pressed together as you sat on your heels.

With a nod of your head, Naoya raised his thumb and a little red dot of recording lit up.

"Hi everyone," your low, seductive voice wrapped around the camera's deep lens. "It's so late already, isn't it? Well, how about I keep you company and maybe have some fun, hmm?"

The camera dropped slightly onto your hands, then zoomed in on the Ouija board. Fingers clenched around the heart-shaped planchette, with a glossy eye in the middle.

"By having some fun, I mean, what do you think about playing with a few demons? Sounds cool, doesn't it?" Your giggle mingled with the sharp, flickering sound of a lighter as you lit a candle. Putting it on the bed, where the mattress felt most stable. "Mhm, let's hope we summon a sexy demon. I'm sure he could take such good care of me."

Your thighs basked in the candle's warm glow as you pressed two fingers to the planchette and took a deep breath. Excitement and stress mingled, bubbling in your chest, the familiar, thrilling throb deep in your lower belly already pooling in your shorts. If you parted your legs right now, Naoya could clearly see a small, wet patch just beneath your moist pussy.

With a wooden heart in the middle, you started, "Is there anyone with us tonight?"

There was a brief moment of silence, the dim room lit only by a flickering candle and a warm bedside light. Naoya stood behind the camera, visibly troubled. His lips were pressed together, and eyes looked slightly uneasy as he nervously glanced around the room before finally looking back at you and shaking his head.

The plachette didn't move either.

"It seems our demons are a bit shy tonight," you laughed, biting your lower lip. "Hm, how about we call for the specific one? Maybe it will answer to my sweet pleadings."

You took another deep breath, pressing the index and middle fingers tighter against the heart-shaped wood. "Ryomen Sukuna, are you with us?"

Naoya gripped the metal frame of the bed, crystals of sweat already beading on his smooth temple. The owl's muffled hoot echoed deep within the forest, and a gentle wind stirred the curling branches that tapped at your bedroom window. The silence remained thick and still, and even though it was midsummer, a cold sweat kissed the back of your neck.

"Hm, Ryomen Sukuna, would you like to visit the sweetheart tonight?"

The shivers of excitement ran down your spine, as if something unfathomable and bloodcurdling were about to happen. Yet the room remained dusky and chilly, with only Naoya's shuddering breaths mingling with the candle's flickering flame and the hum of crickets beneath your porch.

"I don't think he's–"

But then the flame flickered. Gently, curling and twisting in the still air before finally dying out. Grey smoke from a vanilla-scented candle curled over the glass, and you both watched it with wide eyes.

You, biting on the inside of your cheek to muffle the giggle.

Naoya letting a low, "Fuck" slip past his lips as he started looking around the room.

"Don't worry," you said, clearly trying to lift his spirits. "I moved on the bed and–"

"No."

His voice… you've never heard it like that before. Low, yet edged with a high note. Trembling and groggy, he stepped back and fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

"Behind you," he whispered, not daring to point his finger. "The corner. There's…"

You quickly turned your head, eyes searching for the thing that frightened him so.

And… oh.

He was monstrous, enormous, and tall, nearly touching the ceiling with his head. Four crimson eyes gleamed brightly from the dark corner, reflecting the warm flames. Four arms stretched long and high, while his body crackled and bent as if awakening after years of sleep, fully straightening from its cocoon.

The breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. Lips parted as you saw a monster up close. If you reached out, your fingers would almost touch the hem of the white robe around his hips. It was like petting a tiger, meant to be watched only from a tightly closed cage.

He was revolting. Monstrous, terrifying, yet strangely beautiful. With muscles rippling along his back, a broad torso, and a grinning mouth in his stomach that made you swallow hard.

Sharp jaw, now scratched by one of his hands as he looked around the room. Crimson eyes glinting between you and Naoya with a squint.

"Call him away," Naoya whispered, slowly stepping further into the room. Away from him, from you. "Fuck, do something."

Coward.

"No," you smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. "I can take him."

Naoya cursed under his breath, eyes fixed on the monster without ever looking away. His narrowed, almond-shaped eyes watched you both carefully, as if gauging the room's atmosphere.

Two upper arms crossed over his chest, lower ones hanging loose.

"What year is it?" His low, scruffy voice sent shivers down your and Naoya's spines.

"Nineteen eighty-five," you said.

The monster, Sukuna, chuckled, ruffling his pinkish hair. "Thousand years, huh. Who set me free?"

Naoya didn't even try to take the blame; his hand immediately pointed at you. And you, pointing at yourself with your index finger.

"Hm, aren't you a dove?" Sukuna stepped closer, and you could almost feel the floor trembling beneath his heavy body. "Do you have any idea what creature you have summoned?"

Naoya backed away, taking careful steps towards the door, before he suddenly stiffened as if remembering that you were still in the room.

Closer to the demon than he was, with eyes shining brightly as if bewitched by a monster in front of you.

Your head shook, a few strands of hair slipping from the clip to brush the flame-kissed cheek.

The monster lifted his fingers, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You could see just how enormous he truly was. Naoya looked next to him like a twig. Yet his figure, towering over your seated form and casting long shadows across the bedding, somehow made you squirm. As the shorts suddenly felt wetter and tighter, you wondered whether Naoya could see a damp patch pooling beneath your pussy from behind.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He gritted, trying take a few steps closer.

You were mesmerised, mind lost in awe at seeing a demon in real life, after years of masturbating to the mere idea of fucking with it.

Naoya drew closer, step by step, carefully, his fingers trying to grab your arm. "Fuck, we need to leave. Now, or else it–"

But then, Sukuna waved his hand, and something wet landed on your arm. It soaked your skin in a sticky, muggy substance, giving off a distinct smell reminiscent of rusted metal.

The one you knew all too well, and as your eyes drifted down to your right arm, your breath caught once again in your throat.

A long streak of blood trickled down your skin, together with something thick. It was quite similar to a tissue, thick yet soft, reminding you of a swollen cheek. The more you looked at it, the more certain you became that it must have been someone's cheek.

Sukuna brushed something from your chin, his thumb damp in something crimson.

Naoya didn't say anything. He simply couldn't, because he wasn't there any more. When you turned back, your eyes fell on the large, dark puddle of flesh and blood pooling around his shoes.

The walls of the bedroom seeping with his burst body, long strings of blood rolling down the wooden planks onto the old, soft carpet. Half of the room, the one behind your back, fully basked in metallic, crimson darkness.

"Oh," was the only thing that could slip past your lips, before Sukuna pinched your chin and brought you back. "He–"

"Was talking too much," he whispered, now squeezing your cheeks with two fingers. "Answer my question, dove. Do you have any idea what you have done?"

And to his surprise, you nodded.

Sweetly, almost shyly, yet he noticed this flame – a flicker – that burned behind your blown-out iris. He noticed your plush lips fallen open, the body wriggling on the bed, thighs clenched tight, until the droplets of sweat beaded between the brushing skin.

And he could smell you too – the sweetness of your arousal that soaked the flimsy, slutty material of the thing you dared to call a cloth.

From where he came, your attire wouldn't even suit a nightgown. Back then, women dressed modestly and humbly, always lowering their gazes before the King of Curses, trembling at the mere sight of his grinning belly-mouth.

Their eyes always slightly swollen, a little too worried, as mercy did not visit his household and the walls seeped blood far more often than they should. His fingers broke necks effortlessly, feet stomping on piles of bodies of those who dared to bother the King of Curses, whether he was trying to soothe his mind or to haunt.

But then a shaman of sorts, a sorcerer, trapped his body within a cursed book. For the next thousand years, it remained buried deep beneath the shifting layers of a changing world. In the darkness underground, it moved and travelled through countless other fingers of curious, heedless humans who seemed to take pleasure in calling forth demons.

But not him. No, as no one dared to call the most wicked, as if utterly rational it was to avoid the creature of his rank.

And yet, after thousands of years of being trapped, he suddenly appeared in a dimly lit room, with the warm smell of the human body wafting through the air and a little, pretty dove sitting on the bed.

Now, looking at him with flushed cheeks and a lovely glimmer behind her wicked eyes, as he brushed the soft lower lip.

"I should kill you," he murmured, pressing a thick thumb against your lips. You parted them gently, inviting it in with eyes curling into a smirk. "Such a foolish girl. But I owe you for setting me free."

With a nod, you gently sucked on his finger. It nearly filled your mouth, pressing heavily against your tongue as you coated it with sticky saliva. Your lips hollowed, eyes fixed on the demon's face as if trying to memorise all his devilish features. The small bump on his nose, tattoos carved into his skin with almost uncanny precision, pinkish hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward, the second hand releasing your hair from a clip.

He pulled his finger, once again clutching your cheeks with his now wet digits. "So tell me, what do you wish for?"

He held you in a tight grip, pressing right against your jaw until you felt a sharp pain. "I want you to use me."

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes narrowing into two almonds. "Use you?"

You nodded briefly and raised your fingers to press against his thighs. The muscles bulged, bent, and shifted beneath the long, creamy tunic he wore as your hand slid upwards. Higher and higher until your finger tugged at the cloth wrapped around his hips. Your own wriggled messily on the bedding, just to feel the slick pull of your shorts brushing against your already swollen clit.

With a single pull, the cloth fell, revealing…

"Oh," you gasped, as the musky, heavy smell of his two fat cocks suddenly hit your face.

Red, long, with veins curling around their swollen shafts and all the blood already dripping down to feverish tips.

His hand slipped to the back of your head, clenching a fistful of hair and pulling you back. "Do you know what you're asking me for?"

You nodded, long fingers digging into his beefy thighs. "Do whatever you want with me," fell playfully, as you bit your lower lip. "Fuck me for the camera. Please?"

Sukuna's eyes slipped to a little something turned at you two, the red light watching him closely.

"This thing?" He asked, taking it with one of his lower hands.

The small, black camera, with its lens now pointing at you. The need to cover your face was quick, and, unfortunately, as it would turn out, you pushed Sukuna away, trying to cover yourself with a hand.

"Wait, no, my face–"

But you didn't finish, as he suddenly pressed you against his heavy, leaking cocks. Muffling your pleadings, nose buried in his black hair as you took a deep, moany breath and let it leap off his skin.

He hummed lowly, the camera in his hand looking comically tiny. The lens pointed right at your face, to get a clear view of the glossy, sly eyes.

"Push me again, and I'll break those pretty fingers of yours," fell in a rumble that tickled the deepest, warmest flesh of your lower belly. "How about putting your mouth to use, hm? I'm sure you can do more than just look like a whore."

There was simply no way to take both of his cocks into your mouth. Your fingers curled around one, feeling the leaking, creamy precum stick to the pads, lips smooching kisses down another. Too heavy to even stand and cling to his abdomen, yet hard enough to become too big to wrap your lips around it.

You kissed the first shaft. Licking, sucking, biting into the bulging veins, till finally catching wetly on the plump head. Where the smell was the heaviest, oh so manly, forcing your mind to spiral into a thoughtless state, with a heavy pall of lust clouding your vision, as your lips finally wrapped themselves around one cock.

Fingers pumping another, yet your hand was simply too small to wrap it whole.

And your mouth, oh dearest, you took it in, cheeks bulging and tongue pressed beneath his shaft, allowing it to slide in with a sickly, filling pressure. But he was simply too big.

"I can't," you whimpered, pulling gently away. His fingers still gripped your hair tightly, crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of your flushed, sweating face. Utterly lovely.

"You begged," he snapped, a finger from his third hand catching the corner of your lips and stretching them harshly. "I'm sure this filthy mouth of yours sucked on thousands of cocks."

You chuckled, giving a firm squeeze to his second cock. "It did. Yet never on monster's one," instead of taking it back in, you wrapped another hand around it. "But my pussy's stretched enough to take you in."

Gaze fixed on Sukuna's face, a slight heat already creeping up his cheeks. Jumping between Sukuna's face and a small camera held tight in his hand. Well, if NASA will not accept your application, at least you'll have a Plan B.

Your lips traced kisses along his abdomen, with tongue licking the happy trails and teeth biting into veiny skin, before finally reaching his lower mouth. Wet, salivating, grinning just as he did, as you placed a soft kiss against it.

His low chuckle echoed off the wooden walls, the smell of Naoya's blood still heavy in the air, swirling your mind senseless.

Sukuna's lower mouth parted, a fat, wet tongue licking your small lips before forcing its way down your throat. His free hand quickly grabbed your top and tore it off your chest. Your shorts were next, but he didn't let them fall to the floor.

No, instead, with eyes following the way your small mouth sucked on his tongue and both hands took care of heavy, leaking cocks, he pressed the drenched part of your shorts to his face.

Taking a deep, filthy breath, tongue sticking out to lick your creamy cum that stuck to the cloth. Sucking it dry, tasting the sweetness of your cunt and groaning almost pathetically around the flavour that seeped through his body.

You moaned around his tongue, softly sucking the muscle as you felt your taste slip down your throat.

"Delicious, hm?" Sukuna chuckled, brushing the hair from your lovely, flushed face. "Can't believe your pussy is the first thing I taste after a thousand years of starvation. But hell, you taste so fucking good."

Your eyes rolled back as the teeth of his lower belly bit on your lips. Pulling a line of blood that filled both your mouths.

His cocks weighed in your palms with drenched squelches, as you pumped them all this time. Thumbs smearing the precum around the two swollen tips, palms trying to squeeze that fatness that emitted heat against your naked breasts. His lower belly devoured you sweetly, long tongue pressing against yours whole, and you wondered how it would feel deep inside you pussy.

You felt that was close. His both cocks leaking heavily, balls constricting and shafts pumping blood right into the mushroom tips, as your nails grazed their bulging surface.

He suddenly pushed you away from his mouth. With a single, sharp move, he squeezed both of his cocks, pressing the tips against your lips.

You knew what he wanted, so you parted them with a smile, sticking out your tongue. Letting it smash against the underside of his shafts, eyes fixed on his face.

Narrowed, cheeky, curling in the most slutty way Sukuna hadn't even seen among the courtesans.

In fact, he had never met a woman like you, driven by a true passion and lacking any fear towards a monster like him.

You must've been slightly off your head, he tried to reassure himself, before pressing his lips into a tight line and finally letting the long, bubbling pleasure spill all over your tongue.

Splashing it with long, filthy ropes of heavy cum, that stuck in the swollen balls for far too long. Cumming all over your face, lips, breasts, as you moaned and licked both reddened tips. Your tongue pressing to his swollen head, curling around the small slit as if trying to pull more cum out of his warmth. Lips wrapping around them, licking clean, and thighs rubbing against each other until your skin ran a fever.

His eyes narrowed, one of the hand pushing you slightly back, till you fell on your elbows. With a grin and tilted head, as if knowing what he wanted.

"Hmm?" You cooed, parting your legs slowly. Painfully, straining slowly, as he watched your drenched, sticky folds open up with strings of cum sticking to your sweet, swollen hole. "Is that what you wished to see?"

Your fingers scooped his hefty cum coating your face, chin, breast, before pressing it against your pussy, mixing it together with your own juices.

Finger played with your clit, before slipping down to push inside the gaping hole that only waited for Sukuna to fill it with his cocks. Your thighs spread wider, head fell back as you moaned, pulling drenched squelches of his cum mixing with yours.

"Fuck, why don't you join me?" Your tone fell soft and silky as you looked at him with a doe-like furrow. "I think she's missing you. I feel so-ngh-empty here." You pressed your hand to your lower belly.

Something almost predatory bubbled behind his eyes. Almond-shaped eyes that stayed fixed on your face, frozen, as if he didn't dare let his gaze slip down. Through your breasts, soft belly, to the parted, fully drenched thighs that you spread for his massive body, wide open.

"Even whores aren't as wicked as you," he muttered, eyes finally falling down. "Such a fucking slut."

He followed the roll of your fingers. Clit, swollen and drenched, pinched by your pads as you pushed two digits in. Too short to feel any pleasure, yet enough to show him how tight your cunt was.

"I am," you giggled, the sweetness of your voice kissing his warm ears. "And I always wanted to fuck with a demon, so you can use me as you wish."

His knees finally met with the mattress. Camera left on the bedside table, angled to look right at the side of your lovely face.

Two upper hands spread your thighs wider, lower wrapping around your hips to lift you up and press against his lower mouth.

Fat, drenched tongue slipped past the grinning lips, to give your pussy a long, filthy lick. Forcing your fingers out and instead stuffing your hole full, till the creaminess of your cum wrapped around its heavy muscle.

A soft, moaning breath slipped past your lips, eyes rolling back as you gripped the hem of the bedding.

"Fuck, that's, oh my fucking-" His teeth caught on your clit, the painful pleasure washing over your spine as you let him press you to his belly closer.

"And you, foolish woman, think that you can take me whole with this weeping cunt?" He chuckled, trying to force his fat index finger into your whole. The skin stretched almost painfully as he thrusted it alongside his tongue. "I would rip you in half."

Your hips lifted from the mattress, back flush against it, as you wept beneath his filthy body. Your tight walls clenched around his tongue, slick and curved, with the tip already pressing against your sensitive spot, making your toes curl.

"I-I, fuck, I can take you. Mhm, there are two holes for a r-reason."

Sukuna chuckled and scooped a bit of your creamy cum, just to poke with his finger your puckered, tight hole.

"Truly? Because it seems to me that…" He pressed the pad against your ass. But surprisingly, the tight ring of muscles gave way, allowing him to slip a finger inside. "Oh? So you stretched yourself even there?"

Your eyes glimmered with sweat, tears, the pleasure your body was overwhelmed by, and this wicked cheekiness that made the demon's grin widen in an almost ominous sense.

"I know how to take a monster cock," you giggled, wriggling your hips on his finger, tongue, just to feel him deeper. "So why don't you stop treating me like a dolly, hm?"

Your hands slipped down your body. One, wrapping around the perked nipple, squeezing it tight to draw a lovely moan from your pouted lips. Another meeting his tongue pushed deep inside your cunt. Small fingers catching on the tight hole wrapped around it, just to slip in with the nasty squelch.

"Unless you want me to be one?" A cheeky grin flattered as his tongue bumped your plump spot, bursting stars right in front of your eyes. "Nghh, unless you want me to be your sweet virgin girl, hm? I can act innocent, if-"

But one of his hands left your hip to squeeze your cheeks. Lips pulled together, jaw tight, as he lowered himself and locked a filthy strap around your pouty lips.

"Don't fucking do it. Don't act all cute and innocent on me while stretching your ass just to fit my cocks," His crimson eyes met yours – slightly glossy, fucked. "Acting innocent? Are you a child? I fucking hate it."

You grinned wider, biting down on your lower lip, as if trying to muffle, to ignore, the threatening bubbling in your lower belly. The splashes that filled your pouch, heat creeping up your neck as another fat finger slipped inside your ass. Now, two of his fingers pumping you fully, spreading you open as the walls eagerly yielded to the wetness of your cum and allowed them to slide past the muscle rim.

His tongue deep, pressing your small fingers inside against your walls, before you pulled them out and crushed against your trembling clit. Rolling it in slow circles, gently pinching as you sensed the sizzling beneath your skin. Biting your muscles feverishly, as you felt the sudden tightness spreading through your stomach.

"I–I, fuck, I'm going to cum soon," slipped in a moan, as you rolled your hips harder against his tongue. "Sukuna, I–"

But you didn't have time to finish.

Not when he suddenly pushed you away, taking tongues and fingers from your weeping holes. A gasp escaped your throat a second later, when something big and swollen pressed against them.

And as you heard a low "Deep breath, dove," the sharp, drowning pain pinched every nerve in your trembling, tender body.

Your back fully pressed to the mattress, hip slightly elevated, thighs sticking wet to your heaving breasts, as he sunk both of his cocks in your puckered, swollen holes.

Without warning, only a sinister, wicked grin and crimson eyes, cherishing the pain that mingled with pleasure on your lovely face. Teeth biting your lower lip, harsh, drawing blood. Eyes going white, head pounding, as you felt the stretch you'd never even imagined in your wildest dreams.

You pictured yourself getting split on a monster's cock. Fucked senseless, till your spine would arch painfully and its heavy, massive body lay on yours, taking away your breath.

You thought about how bulging your belly would be, but when you looked down, the sheer sight of the plumpness seething through the pouch made your head spin.

"Fucking hell," Sukuna groaned, feeling the sudden tension in your holes. "You'd better fucking relax, dove, because I'm not waiting for you to get used to it." A finger gripped your face, forcing your foggy gaze to meet his. "You were running that pretty mouth of yours all this time, so take it without a complaint."

His cocks snugged against the tight muscles warmly, yet he could barely thrust them fully. His upper hands on the back of your thighs, lower ones spreading your cream–coated folds, just to see the way your poor, weeping pussy tried to swallow him in.

As, oh, she tried, and so he pressed your puffy clit to help her take it full. Inch by inch, as both his cocks sank deeper, sliding through the wetness of your walls till the skin beneath your belly button bulged.

Sukuna giggled, pressing his massive hand against it, pushing both shafts deeper into your squishy insides.

"What's wrong, dove?" he asked, watching the dark, mascara-stained tears slide down your cheeks. His palm cupped them in an almost loving manner, his fat thumb resting on your lips. "Is that not what your silly head dreamed about? Huh? You thought fucking with a monster would be easier?"

His shaft slid painfully slowly, and you knew that, despite all his words, he was trying to stop himself from splitting you in half.

Because he could – of course he did – but there was something about you – wicked, restless, biting deep into his marrow – that somehow made him want you to last a bit longer. The insolence of your working on his nerves, the cockiness and the blush that kissed your cheeks in a wicked manner.

He hated women of your sort.

And yet, right now he couldn't forget the taste of your honeyed pussy on his tongue. The flavour still coated his throat with muggy drops as he savoured it while sliding his cocks deeper through the wetness pooling beneath your hips.

"It's not," you whimpered, taking a deep breath as he finally sank himself fully. He thought you would beg him to stop, push him away, and cry and weep in pain. Yet your hand wrapped around his neck, tugging softly at the pinkish hair. "It's better than I have ever imagined."

It must've snapped something within him.

Because the moment his balls met your ass with a wet smack, he pulled both cocks till nothing but red tips stayed snuggled inside your gaping holes, and thrust back in. And again, again, again, forcing your breath to stay locked deep within your lungs, as he didn't give you a chance to take anything but a shallow weep.

His massive body pressed you deep into the mattress, pussy coating his fat cock with creamy strings of cum, linking your soppy folds with his pubic hair.

No sex you've ever had could be compared to this. No fantasy of yours that slipped wickedly into your mind at night, while you fucked yourself senseless on some jock's cock could meet the reality of taking a true monster's dick.

The musky heaviness that filled your belly was overwhelming, as was the heat he filled you with.

And when he pulled again, you've noticed something dark coating his veins, bulging skin. Crimson, fresh liquid that glimmered beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

"Fuck," you groaned. That's why you felt a cock smack against your cervix that achily. "I'm on my period."

But Sukuna grinned. His cock pulled from your pussy, another one staying still in your ass, as his fingers slipped down and thrusted inside your hole, to swap on the blood-drenched walls.

"Hm, and here I thought you lied to me about being a virgin. I'm afraid I would need to kill you, dove," he groaned, dragging the fingers out. Hefty liquid covered them, the droplets of blood thick and clotted, as he pushed them into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. "Fuck, still just as sweet. But I might like this taste even more."

You moaned, feeling the head of his cock again at the entrance of your pussy. This time, shoved deep till the mushroom tip kissed your bloody cervix, pushing painfully past the swollen muscle to stab the creamy womb.

Your scream was immediately muffled by his lips. Carnal, sweet, his bloody saliva mixed with yours in a raw, sensual kiss. Although difficult, it was to call it a kiss, as he devoured you fully. Lips pressed against each other's tongues, falling past the rim of your mouths as he licked, kissed, bit your face hole, smooching wet, heavy kisses over your sweat-drenched skin.

Like a dog, yet you cried out in pleasure as he folded you in half, his massive body completely pressed against yours.

The splashing in your pouch filled the room, leaving nothing but your heavy breaths. Your sweet moans as he pierced you with his cocks, till your womb was full of everything but his cum.

"Inside me," you cried, wrapping yourself around him. "I need to feel your cum, fuck. I need it inside."

Sukuna chuckled into the crook, one of his hands reaching for the long-forgotten camera. The lens was pointed directly at your crying, pleasure–twisted face as his pace quickened.

The tongue of his lower belly slipping past the monstrous lips, to flicker your puffy clit. To suck on it cruelly, bite softly, as he felt your walls squeezing tight around his cocks. Swallowing them in, letting both drenched shafts, one smeared fully blood, snug into the warmest plushness of your body.

Your eyes rolled back and your lips fell open as the orgasm crept up your neck. Kissing down the spine, splashing low in your belly as his belly mouth pressed its tongue against your clit.

"Smile for the camera, dove," Sukuna chuckled, savouring the pleasure of the view unfolding before his eyes. "Such a beauty, aren't you? Letting yourself get spilt on the monster's cock, huh. A fucking slut," His hand reached for your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into the lens. "Come on, you wanted to do it. Don't leave without showing the climax."

The gushing in your belly was perilously close to spilling. His lower tongue pressed against your clit, cocks swelling even bigger deep in your pussy, as you saw your belly inflating with the fatness of his shafts.

And when his bloodstained lips smashed against yours, as he angled the camera to look directly at your faces, you finally came. "Sukuna, f-fuck, I-I–nghhh–"

Squirting all over his abdomen, wetting the bed and his lower belly, which lapped up your splashing juices and swallowed them all with a groany moan. Your walls clamped around him in maddening tightness, and soon you felt the heavy warmth spill deep into your womb. And ass, with ropes and ropes of milky creaminess, growing your already stuffed belly, till the splashing of your squirt was changed for his cum.

The sleepiness suddenly settled over your mind. Your tired body melted beneath his heavy touch. Yet before your eyes could relax for a moment, he suddenly lifted your balm and bit your thumb, drawing a few droplets of blood and pressing the finger against the old, yellow paper of the book.

Right next to his name.

"Now, dove," he chuckled, pressing his own bloodstained finger beside it. "We're making a pact. You can summon me whenever you wish, agreeing to use you however I wish." He looked at your fucked, swollen face for a while, then cupped your cheek softly. "But after your death, you'll be joining my side in hell."

You nuzzled into his warm skin, licking his thumb sweetly. Eyes mingling, bewitching wickedness that sent shivers down his spine.

"You promise?"

He chuckled. "Of course. Who else could ever handle you?"

Your eyes fell on Naoya's body, or whatever was left of him. But Sukuna quickly turned your chin back to his face and kissed you slowly, raw, with the still metallic sweetness of your blood.

"I'll take care of him," he muttered, finally letting his cocks slip from your cunt. The mix of blood and cum pooled beneath your hips before his lower mouth drunk it fully, pushing the rest back inside your whole. "And now. Let's see how much blood I can draw from this sweet pussy, shall we?"

You giggled, nodded with a grin, and turned the camera off.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

The book cover was inspired by the Evil Dead movie series heheh (one of my fav horrors ever)

art by @/kcokaine_

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[thatkawaiidesubitch]

BEST SUKUNA MONSTER SMUT

[slllieeepyy]

sukuna crushes you when he’s sleepy

“ohmygod, kuna— get your fat ass off of me..”

your voice is weak and strained when your husband flops on top of you, his massive form draping over you and knocking the breath right from your lungs.

“mmn.” he just hums, burying his face in your neck, completely disregarding the fact that it feels like you’re being smushed by a boulder.

and he’s not oblivious to it either, he knows just how big he is. he’s proud of it, in fact. and he knows how much you love it.

well… besides for when he’s crushing you.

his arms are wrapped tight around you, securing you from all angles, while his body completely covers yours. six foot five and 250 pounds of pure muscle trapping you on the bed.

“babe, i’m being serious, get off. you’re killing me here.” you mutter, breathing heavily between words.

“shh. lemme rest.” sukuna replies, not able to care less. and he has the audacity to shush you. really?

“had a shitty day.” he adds lowly.

you exhale softly, defeated, and bring one hand up to cradle the back of his head, stroking his hair. “okay. fine. a few more minutes.”

he shakes his head. “an hour.”

“do you want me to pass out?”

||a/n: sukuna version of this suguru drabble (well, kinda. they’re not actually that similar)

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

HNNGGG LORD WHEN

[ewnamored]

(MIS)DEVOTION ⋮ YAN!JING YUAN X FEM!READER

General Jing Yuan is someone you dedicate a lot of your time and trust to, and in return, he makes sure you lack nothing. But when your life begins to feel unsettled and circumstances force you to live together under his protection, you find yourself discovering different sides of him—some you might not be ready for yet, some you still fail to comprehend. WORD COUNT: 30.7k. [READ ON AO3]

• CONTENT: plot and smut, ostensible yandere jing yuan x unaware reader, mentions of corporal punishment, inappropriate personal dynamic (general and personal assistant), power imbalance, stalking, angst, drugging, manipulative behavior, reader idolizes and idealizes jing yuan, vomiting, induced dependency, ankle injury, blowjob, edging, fingering, dub-con sex.

• A/N: Tbh, this was originally supposed to be me expanding on an older idea, but I decided to simply include that old fic entirely for context and write the rest around it. About the first 4k words are from that older fic (edited), but the rest of this work is freshly written. I also hope Jing Yuan here is cunning enough🤞I wanted to elaborate on his strategic mind, but unfortunately, I can’t outsmart him — a downside to writing a character much smarter than you are. Also, some paragraphs are longer to avoid hitting the 1000 block limit, so apologies for that!

“Your mind has drifted away from me yet again.”

The general’s low, humming voice cuts through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. Only then do you notice the sound you have been tuning out — a rhythmic drip onto the floor in rivulets.

Your mouth parts in terror as you realize it’s the tea you were supposed to pour into his cup — not over his important files. A hot stream spills over the desk’s edge, pooling at your shoes, and encapsulates what you’ve been becoming: an incompetent assistant.

You set the pot down with a thunk.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry—” Your eyes dart at him with the most earnest of apologies before they frantically scan the office for something to rectify your mistake.

Though you are genuinely sorry, as always, you instinctively anticipate his comforting words rather than those of ridicule. Do not fret. It’s a mistake anyone could have made — you already hear it in your head. Because, following the pattern you’ve become familiar with, that’s what should be his priority: I hope you are not hurt.

You really do hope for that to be uttered by him, for you to be able to tell yourself that it is not so bad yet. The core of your late clumsiness, manifesting itself in many mistakes, is rather simple: you are worried about a certain situation occurring in your life. Yet, thus far, while your case is still unbeknownst to him, your general has shown you an unheard of patience.

“Hm. You’ve been quite all over the place lately. I might have lost count of how many times I’ve seen you create a disarray in my office.”

Okay. Perhaps it is not this time that you will be indulged.

“I…”

His words, though still sounding as light and teasing as they often are made to, make your body burn with blooming shame, as he for once is taking the matter more seriously. You abandon the search for some towel, frozen by his infiltrating gaze demanding explanations especially; your ignominy now falls from his desk freely.

You cannot truly blame him for finally choosing to be less lenient with you. Considering how prone you’ve been to blunders lately, you wouldn’t be surprised if any other superior had gotten rid of you long ago already.

At the very least, Qingzu is not here today.

You take a leap to be in front of his desk again, stationing your duty, away from the sizable plant you had half a mind to hide yourself under.

Then you speak, trying your hardest not to make it sound like a balderdash. “I won’t make any excuses for myself, General. I should have been more aware of my surroundings…” Though it’s still barely more than a murmur, coming from a dog whining in guilt. “I’ve been falling short in my work and not meeting your expectations.”

His golden gaze lets the silence stretch with its solemnity, filling the room with even more tangible tension — he’s analyzing your nervous mouth as it writhes in need to make more excuses. His own expression however gives nothing away, only adding to your pile of nerves. There is nothing to soothe you here as there usually would be.

Steepling his fingers over the desk, he speaks evenly, if not almost listlessly, “I see. Please, come here for a moment.” He nods towards the space behind his seat.

Your heart hammers at even more frantic pace, so fast you swear your entire body pulses. A myriad of scared thoughts flash through your mind, with one louder than the rest — are you finally going to face punishment for your carelessness?

“Well?”

Driven upon his insistence, you have no choice but to walk over to his side, each step heavy with trepidation. Your mind lingers on those ruined scrolls, trying desperately to remember how crucial their contents were and yet not being able to recall. His eyes never leave yours, weighing your fear as if it could further diminish your value as his assistant.

You stop right in front of him, and he turns in his seat to face you properly.

“Please give me your hand.”

You tried to reassure yourself that, whatever he has in mind, he is still a fair man — one who would never truly hurt you, preferring brains over brawn, preventing over correction. But now, your imagination goes straight to the worst-case scenario. It must be a corporal punishment — why else would he require your hand?

While you did assume that someone like your general would never resort to violence unless absolutely necessary, perhaps he is still traditional, or maybe this is simply a military habit, regardless of how strategic of a man he is.

If he truly intends to strike you, then his hits will be the most unbearable, unparalleled in strength compared to most. You surely won’t be able to lift your hands without sharp pain shooting down to your elbows for days.

“General… I… I’m so sorry, again, I—” You try to plead with him, as pathetic as it further paints you.

“I know that you are. Please extend your hand for me. We have to deal with the situation meticulously,” he says with a heavy sigh, as though even he has had enough of your meekness.

Deal with the situation, meticulously at that. His words ring through your head, and so you believe you are screwed indeed.

Knowing that any hesitation will only exacerbate your punishment, you offer him your shaky and clammy hand.

Your stomach drops when he opens the drawer of his desk and reaches for something. You close your eyes, unwilling to behold the length or texture of the object of discipline. A click echoes as some container pops open, and you nearly jump at the sound.

Then there’s a sudden burst of warmth on your hand. But it is no sting of pain, only a gentle touch of another person.

Opening your eyes, you see him smiling, almost as if he enjoys your dismay — also silently asking if you seriously believed he would harm you. Yet that malice really cannot be so, for he massages your hand with an ointment so diligently, so softly, as if it were a delicate bird in his grasp.

“Huh?” You cannot hide your surprise, stupefied by the revelation.

You’re well aware he’s always been a fan of teasing you here and there. This one maneuver might be a bit too cruel, however.

“What kind of leader do you believe me to be, to expect I would disregard my dear assistant’s burn?” He laughs softly at your oversight, continuing to apply the salve. “While it is relatively small, I wouldn’t want you hissing in pain all day,” he adds with a tinge of mirth to his voice.

The burn. You were so caught up envisioning the effects of his disappointment with you, then its punishment conducted by your general’s hands, you didn’t even notice that your hurt had formed as a small blister already.

Tracing a few splotches of darkened flesh between your knuckles with your eyes, you tune with the aches only now.

Seriously, that benign approach of his toward you; you think he’s too being kind to you, putting the treatment of a tiny wound above his important papers.

“General… I could have managed it on my own…” You sound and definitely feel flustered, evading his gaze. “And where did you even get this burn treatment from?” You clear your throat.

“I foresaw a moment like this,” he explains placidly. He notably takes a bit longer that it is necessary to massage the wound, as if at this point, it’s more about treatment of your spirit, rather than of your skin. “You spilling hot tea was destined to happen, and it did just happen.”

This preemptive measure only taunts your sense of shame to be all the more bloodthirsty. How predictable your carelessness has become, how bad must it be, for him to start anticipating your mistakes….

“Thank you. It already hurts much less…” you say quietly, a little bit tired at yourself.

He pats your hand in response — for a moment, you itch to hold his hand, if only to ground yourself — and pushes the vial into your grasp.

“Now, you are all set to take care of this mess. After that, you and I will have a conversation.”

Once the tea puddles and stains are gone, along with some of the shakiness in your hands, you sit down across from your general, wondering if you’re possibly discussing your own termination. He may have helped you with your burn, but that doesn’t imply you’re off the hook just yet or even at all — call that care simply his generosity.

“Are you mad at me?” The words slip out before you can think them through, fully vulnerable.

You’re this accustomed to his small gestures of comfort. It’s in his nature to never make a mountain out of a molehill, yet he’s not flippant either. That stoic stability is something you’ve come to rely on — and so, without it expressed as sanguinely as always, you can’t shake off the feeling that even he is irrevocably fed up with your clumsiness. And try telling that to someone who often puts him on a pedestal.

“I’m not mad at you. Why do you think so?” he inquires, offering you no more than flat expression. Too bland for your ongoing anxiety.

Your breath hitches. You cannot exactly tell him that you operate based on his reassurance; that would be unprofessional, and you already work on borrowed benevolence.

“I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to…” you begin hesitantly, rubbing your hands against your thighs, “… constantly have to watch your personal assistant make embarrassingly simple mistakes… jeopardizing important matters that the fate of Xianzhou Luofu depends on.” With how erratic you are, you speak in nearly one breath.

“It is.” He doesn’t hold back at being frank. “In this instance, your carelessness certainly sets my work back, as I must wait for a copy of the ruined document to be approved before I can work over it again. And time is precious in many cases.”

While he didn’t end up punishing you, it for sure feels like being whipped by him. You cannot remember the last time you’ve received a direct criticism from him, having been busy spreading yourself thin to impress him; also realizing that a simple sorry won’t cut it for him.

The truth is, you fail to fully grasp your attrition, you being ungainly and fumbling over the simplest of things — even with the other issue you’ve been struggling with encroaching your mind. You weren’t always this clumsy, regardless of any personal problems happening in your life.

Your general, in the past, had made it evident he thinks a lot of you, and you are ruining that good reputation nowadays. Accidents happen to the best, but ones of this extent…

Is it him? The pressure to do your best for someone of his stature you’ve felt from the beginning of your labor for him, dreading the idea of being dispensable? He’s not replaceable; as for you, there’s many awaiting in line to take over your vacant spot should there be a chance to. You’re an ant to his greatness, even if he’d scold you for downplaying your worth. And yet you still wish to make him shine right until his swan song comes.

But then, wouldn’t you be pressuring yourself to stay hyper-aware of your surroundings like you always did, rather than withdrawing focus into the recesses of your mind? Just how when you want to impress someone so immensely, you only end up moving like a nervous wreck, acutely conscious of their presence breathing down your neck.

“I understand,” you say solemnly, lowering your gaze to your lap like the coward you’ve become. You don’t know what else is there to say. Promising him your mistakes won’t happen again is counterproductive — they will happen again. Instead, you add, “I will ensure to be more circumspect.”

He neither acknowledges nor accepts your words, choosing to get to the root of your problem instead. “Why is my dear assistant so distracted these days? I don’t remember you ever having such aspen hands,” he notes with a small sigh.

Fingers drum against the desk in thought, the sound droning in your ears as your anxiety spikes again. You clutch onto your knees, sitting on tenterhooks.

“You can tell me,” he adds more softly, seeing you.

So there’s finally a bit of ray shining through the clouds. Nonetheless, it sounds more like you should tell me — it’s your last call to redeem yourself.

You lift your gaze with something hopeful arising in the storm of angst, to which he smiles lightly — encouragingly so to you. Perhaps, once he hears you out, he will change his mind about firing you.

You begin to realize the truth behind your nightmares is probably closer than you believed it to be, or rather, than you allowed it to be — rejecting the notion the real cause is starting to affect your professional life you were supposed to separate from the private section. You have not yet confessed to the general, unwilling to burden him with something your mind potentially made up.

You lack efficient evidence to prop your suspicion, so it might as well be work-related stress paranoia created by you a bit on edge about the important role. It could even be a simple case of minor memory loss, correlated, and you’re overreacting.

“I can’t help but…” you start to explain with a slight spluttering to your voice, “feel like someone is following me. Or rather, entering my place. For weeks at this point. Yet, I have never caught anyone.”

Raising his eyebrow, he assesses your claim. He remains steady, not panicking over the prospect, not debunking it either, like a proper leader would. “Were there any signs of forced entry?” your general asks seriously, pausing his fingers’ movements to not discourage you from talking.

“N-no, but… it’s as if some of my items have been used. I thought it I simply keep forgetting the last time I used them — I tend to be be in hurry in the mornings — but with how often it happens, I don’t think it’s a coincidence anymore…”

“What items?” Appearing curious, he leans back on the bench, crossing his arms.

“Well… I always make my bed in the morning, but sometimes it looks as if someone slept in it after I come home from work… some of my favorite snacks go missing… my clothes appear rummaged through… and…” Your embarrassment swells at the last mention you’re about to make.

“Yes?”

“Some of my… underwear is gone, not simply lost in laundry.”

It’s clear that this person, a perverse one at that, wants you to notice their presence, to have themselves occupy your thoughts constantly. You only refuse to imagine what they’re doing with your undergarments.

Your general takes your words in for a few seconds, noting how you suddenly can’t look him in the eye again, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Have you thought of installing cameras?” he asks calmly again. He chooses not to comment on your observations, as you know there’s no point in dwelling over them when he’s gathering information.

“Yes…” You nod your head, tracing the galaxy above of Luofu outside the open ceiling. Tiny stars flick there, illuminating the sky gracefully, but instead of handing out the beauty of the stellar, they connect into a constellation of some monstrosity you imagine awaits you back at your home. You snap your gaze back at him, a bit shaken. “However, when I contacted one of the companies, they warned me that if this person can bypass the door’s high-tech security without a problem, breaking in without a trace left, they could likely hijack the cameras and intrude my privacy too.”

Unless they entered your house some other way — but that would be in an incredible feat or agility. The only other entry to your apartment is by reaching the tall height of its building, specifically the balcony hung a few floors above your neighbors.

“I see.” He hums with acknowledgment. “Have you noticed anyone following you?”

“No, General.”

Your eyes brim with tears at the thought of everything. His own soften, though they linger on your trembling lip a moment too long to consider it a simple perceptive behavior.

“Looking back at things, all of these concerns seem valid,” he concludes mildly, keeping his tone calm like you like it. “It would be imprudent to immediately dismiss them as mere forgetfulness. I also trust your intuition that tends to be correct quite often.” He nods to himself. “You’re very brave for telling me that.”

Your chest is noticeably lighter when he offers you the benefit of the doubt, not denying the possibility that you truly might have a stalker.

“But I also would hate for your personal problems to interfere with your obligations towards me… I’m sure you understand.”

Oh. Of course — he’s still not letting go of your ineptitude. You’ve taken him for granted far too many occasions. Just how long can you keep hoping for him to pardon you?

“My apologies. I can’t stress this enough, so— please, don’t fire me. I’ll do anything!”

You plant your hands on his desk and bend over to reach him and plead with your entire being accumulated in your desperate gaze.

His brow raises. “…Anything?” he repeats, amusement weaving itself into his voice.

You don’t know what’s so particularly entertaining about this, but you don’t bother to question it at the moment. “Yes. Anything!” you insist with all of your being..

Your general laughs, diffusing a bit of the tense atmosphere. “Well, anything is excessive. But perhaps, you can start with something else.”

“What is it?” You slump back into your seat, now embarrassed by your show of desperation.

“It would be a good idea to look into the matter. And since you live on your own…” He stretches his arms above his head until he groans tiredly, apparently confident in his decision. “It might be wise for you to stay near me meanwhile.”

You like to believe you have made peace with the fact that he sometimes makes bold moves; while most of them are well thought through, boldness and strategy are still not always exclusive to each other. But as for this one, whatever he’s trying to imply, it already takes you by surprise. You blink twice, struggling to grasp the meaning of his words, even if they’re rather obvious.

“Um… forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but wouldn’t a hotel room be enough as a temporary accommodation...” you say nervously.

“Do you have a guarantee that this possible stalker won’t follow you here as well?” he questions rather bluntly.

Of course you don’t. It’s doubtful a simple receptionist or a layman of a security guard would be a big obstacle to bypass for your stalker, who already seems skilled enough.

“Err… How near are we talking about?” you ask therefore.

“Maybe you should move in with me — temporarily, that is.” He pauses his talk to laugh soundlessly, seeing you all goggle-eyed in response. “My courtyard is roomy enough to assign you a spot with plenty of privacy. Meanwhile, we can look into any possible suspects or traces they left,” he explains with his hands.

You cover your mouth in surprise. “That’s… inappropriate!” you end up blurting out, out of instinct.

“It’s not.” He snickers, waving dismissively. “Not if it’s a matter of preserving your wellbeing. You can stay here, safe, for the duration of the investigation.”

If he says that, then you imagine it must be true. Still… “Wouldn’t that get you in trouble, if anyone were to hear about this?”

Your general’s reputation already teeters these days. Some of the decisions he makes, while yielding the most optimal outcomes, are risky at their core. You can already imagine the headlines — Arbitral General of Luofu having an affair with his assistant, shameless enough to have her living at his house—

He can see all that worry written across your face and laughs quietly again, making your cheeks burn — it’s as though he knows something you don’t. “Whatever you must be thinking, you have quite the imagination. As for your concerns, I’m sure others will understand your situation — you are not the first person I’ve hosted at my estate for protection reasons. Meantime, I could help you train yourself how to handle stressful situations without those affecting your work.”

If you weren’t so desperate to make amends with him, as well turning wretched from the fear of being watched, there is a chance you would turn down the proposal, assuming a cloud knight to guard your house is all you need. But if there’s anyone that can protect you against that intruder, you believe it’s your general.

“Alright. But I really don’t want to put you out…” you acquiesce, fidgeting with your hands. The idea of living with him has you nervous — to put it mildly. It almost feels like a nuclear option, simply because it’s living in close and intimate proximity with someone you who admire a lot.

“You won’t. I assure you,” he says, exuding enough confidence for you to believe him.

He leans forward slightly, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the desk as his gaze locks onto yours with unwavering certainty. “If there is really anyone stalking you, we will look into that adequately. Perhaps, as soon as they see just who you have protecting you, they will realize there is no point in continuing their pursuit,” he speaks warmly.

For a moment, he lets his finger hover before he lets the tip tap against the desk once, setting his decision in motion. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth appears, then vanishes immediately, leaving his amber eyes to anchor you with their usual, relaxed expression.

“Thank you, General… there is no way I can express my gratitude properly, I—” you talk sweetly, wiping those few tears you’ve shed. Your other hand, you press onto your chest in relief, and you smile with hope. You feel much safer, knowing no harm can befall you when you have him to guard you, that the crisis already feels like it’s behind you. You might be no soldier, yet even as his personal assistant, you get to see why it’s worth following him. “I will make sure to repay you greatly.”

He reciprocates your smile easily. “I’m being nothing but noble. I wouldn’t have you feel indebted,” he says, resting his head on his palm, a contended yawn passing through. “Although, the least my dear assistant can do for me is to keep smiling — so wide, just like that,” he adds teasingly, that now, your shy chuckle stems from something else than dread.

You have been proven you have nothing to fear with him around, so long you count on him.

“I will try for you, General.”

“Excellent.” He stands up from his seat, ready to start first preparations. “Oh, and…” He looks at you in that “I know you well so you better listen for the sake of your wellbeing” type of look.

You sigh inwardly, knowing he can be and is about to be stubborn. “Yes?”

“Perhaps you ought to take a day or two off. At least, until I get the estate prepared for your arrival, and establish a baseline of the situation.”

“It’s not necessary—” you try to say. You’ve already slacked off more than it’s necessary, and the constantly growing pile of documents on his desk is trying to eat you alive.

“It is. More than you think. It’ll allow you to cool down, as well rest after prolonged stress.” The slight sternness to his voice makes it clear to you it’s an order, not a suggestion. “Meanwhile, I’ll have someone guard your house, so you don’t have to worry about staying here for a little longer.”

You frown. He smiles wider. You know you have lost.

“Alright. If you say so, General,” you mumble reluctantly. “Thank you again.”

“And finally, here is your room. You will have a plenty of space to unwind at the end of the day.”

With this guest room in the sleeping wing as a final destination, your general finishes giving you a little tour of his spacious, refined house of a siheyuan style.

It matches the style of other houses on Luofu, yet it is undoubtedly far heftier in comparison. You can already see yourself sinking into a slumber as luxurious.

As for the owner himself, he stands in front of you in the lit corridor, being that flicker of hope for your mind — finally able to declutter from the noise the person responsible for stalking you has been inflicting.

“Thank you so much, General!” You beam with genuine gratitude, stopping yourself last moment from giving him a hug. You can finally focus on your duties with more flexibility.

He smiles gently, looking down at you with warmest of his gazes, his hands behind his back. “Don’t mention it. I will always do everything in my power to ensure my assistant’s safety. No harm shall befall upon you.”

With every handing of a beau geste, he manages to knock breath from your lungs with such burnished words. You do know he must mean those in a rather friendly way, always so eager with his altruism for those in need; however, they still tug at your heart and have you flustered from the sheer intensity of them.

You truly have little to worry about, with an exception for your ability to remain cool around him.

“Ha ha… that’s very reassuring.” You scratch your cheek in a small show of abash.

He pats your shoulder as he often does, the gesture spreading all the more of that gooey feeling of giddiness in you.

“And if you happen to hear scratching at your door at night, do not fret. It’s just my cat who thinks she owns every space,” he remarks humorously. “Albeit, she mostly chooses to sleep by my side.”

“Oh, I see.” You nod your head in acknowledgment, storing the given information for the sake of your mental wellbeing. “Good to know before I assume it’s some monster trying to get to me…” You frown, as if you genuinely considered such possibility.

He laughs quietly, dispersing that momentary fright of yours. “I doubt there’s any around. But should you find any, please come to me immediately.”

You look at him carefully, wondering if you caught the implication correctly. “Do you mean it seriously, or are you teasing me, General…?”

He huffs through his nose softly, his hand still on your shoulder. “You should come to me said in all seriousness. Whether your fear is a product of your imagination or an actual threat.”

The more he offers you something, the more you start to think about how he’s so kind to you. It’s unlikely you could ever find such an employee again, and so you have to count your blessings and make sure you are worthy of him. If anything, seeing how much he has done for you lately, the patience he shown you, you feel all the more motivated to get better and spruce up your work ethics. Your job is to assist and take some burden off his shoulders, meaning it’s you who has to be reliable first and foremost.

“I see. Thank you,” you say with renewed enthusiasm. “And your room is…?”

“Oh, right. My room is right over there.” He points at three doors away, the opposite side of the corridor, finally letting go of you that still circulates his warmth.

His room is rather close to yours. A good thing, knowing he’s within your reach.

“I see.” And feeling inclined to ask: “Is there anyone else staying here with you at the moment?”

“Not currently. I just had a delegation leave last week,” he informs, leaning back against your door with his tall presence. “You seem lucky enough. Although, Yanqing might storm into here from time to time. Please try not to mind him.”

“No, I would never mind his presence here.” You shake your head resolutely. “I also understand that he’s your retainer.”

“Hm. That seems right.” And when you furrow your eyebrows, wondering what he’s getting at, he teases, “You know, you look just like someone who’d buy him a new sword despite him being on a spending ban.”

Your mouth opens in offense. “I would never!”

You protest, affronted, only makes him chuckle. “Truly?” He tilts his head, his gray bangs falling to the side.

Alright. Maybe you would, if the boy pleaded with you enough. Not that you’d hand your general the victory so easily.

“Of course not. You’re his master, not me. I shall not interfere with your methods,” you say awfully wisely, crossing your arms.

“Unfortunately, you underestimate his skills in persuasion.”

Perhaps.

Working for the general, you naturally get to see Yanqing often. You and him are on good terms, especially when you’re a person capable of coercing the general to stop being lazy when the boy especially needs him. And seeing him work so hard and put pressure on himself, it’s easy to respect him despite his (for the immortal race, at least) younger age.

“You know what they say, General…”

“Oh? And what do they say?”

He comes awfully close, teasing you in that oppressive way he can exhibit by simply entering your space, as if he can never get enough of it.

Your heart skips a beat, kicking into double-time. “Er… that… go big or go home,” the saying leaves your mouth awkwardly, and you take a tentative step back.

“Do they now?” He smiles a bit smugly, in a manner that makes you wish you could wipe it off.

“Yes. At least the younger generations do.” You scoff.

“So you’re calling me old now?” He sighs pitifully, placing a dramatic hand against his forehead.

You find yourself suddenly wanting to clear the misunderstanding, even if the man in question is clearly taunting you. “N-no, not at all—”

“I was jesting, of course.” The audacity comes with how unabashedly he admits it. “Though, now I’m curious if you have heard that from Yanqing himself. I find it hard to follow up with what younger generations say these days.”

“General!” you scold, quickly and finally deciding to disappear inside your room. “Please don’t even try to bother to ask him that!” And so, you slide the door shut, effectively removing yourself from his frolicking sphere.

“I’ll consider, though no promises. I hope you’ll feel at home!” he shouts behind the door before his steps retract.

You already do feel home, in a way; he’s for sure being himself regardless of where you are.

You still indulge him every time.

Someone once told you that you make the general all boyish, more like a younger version of himself again. Their speech had a negative sound to it, this person infamously describing General Jing Yuan as someone who used to wreak havoc, but you took pride hearing that. Because if you can make him smile in that brisky and radiant way instead of letting him erode and turn gloomy, it is all worth it. You’ll keep that star shining among others.

The night has fallen, veiling Luofu like a diaphanous blanket with neon lights shining through. Yet sleep doesn’t come to you at all.

You wanted to believe that the process of acclimating in a new place will be easy on you, stemming from the fact that you have a big protector staying a few feet away from you, him wielding centuries of experience in martial arts to further cement his capabilities.

But with only one night in, your mind decides it needs more time to catch up with the sense of security your potential stalker has stripped you of — even with the dim lights on.

The shadows cast from the furniture around the room appear suspicious, forming into abominations, and you anticipate for one of them to throw itself at you the moment you close your eyes. Your ears pick up any tiniest noise, even if it could be wood contracting from the humidity drop.

You end up shedding off the soft duvet and leaving the room with a spring in your step, deciding to hold your general to his kind offer. In a way, it has you feel guilty, considering you should feel safe with someone like him on board. And yet, the mind has its own opinion.

Even just walking down the corridor sets you with a sense of unease, that you wield your phone with flashlight on because you were too nervous to actually succeed in locating the light switch. You pad across the corridor quietly, your heart jolting at every cracking sound in the floor below your feet.

Well aware he favors sleep immensely, the idea of waking him up in the middle of the night causes you even more anxiety — regardless of his invitation standing still. The knock you give on his door is therefore subtle; you wish not to wake him up abruptly.

You hear nothing at first. For a good minute, you are forced to stand here and let fear slowly get ahold of you. But right as you’d decide to give up and walk away, your ears catch footsteps, and soon, the door slides open.

Struck with both relief and nervousness, you clutch your phone to your chest.

“Did something happen?” the general asks drowsily, in a middle of a yawn as he stands in the doorway. Wearing airily-woven dark pants and white shirt for sleep, additionally, his hair is an abundant mess, loose strands sticking in every direction as if they’re his whiskers.

You’d laugh at such sight befitting of his person if it weren’t for your mood; though with how sleep-ridden he tends to be, you’re still surprised he’s not a somnambulist on top of everything.

“I… I’m sorry for waking you up, General. I couldn’t sleep…” you mumble. “I’m just so alert… I can’t turn off my brain.”

“Hm.” He asses you shortly, head to toe, noticing your obvious tense posture. “Please come inside,” he swiftly decides. He steps aside for you.

“Thank you,” you say and hurry inside, what feels like the safest zone in the entire house and even Luofu as a whole.

Your general sits down on the edge of his spacious canopy bed now disheveled with beige covers. He pats the spot next to himself. “Tell me what troubles my dear assistant.”

From the sound of his voice, you can tell he is still half awake. You move to sit down next to him, keeping respectable distance, while your eyes quickly take in his room.

It’s a rather simple, yet elegant master bedroom, pretty similar to yours. There’s no much jumble a bunch of trinkets would give. It’s mostly laid out with well-crafted, heavy, traditional furniture made of likely varnished mahogany arranged in harmony. Along, there’s a dark screen in front of the lattice windows on the right side of the bed, shanshui landscape on the light walls above it, and a few decorative pieces around.

On his bed rests the white cat, that you start to stroke for the sake of getting hold of yourself. Even asleep, the sweet creature purrs, as if recognizing you — you’ve got the chance to take care of her in the past, when the general had no choice but to leave for a business trip.

“Um… it’s probably stupid, but… my room keeps making noise. And my mind plays tricks on me.” You smile, in a wry way directed at yourself. “I don’t think anything in actuality is happening.”

For a moment, he observes your hand gliding through the fur, white almost like the one resting on top of his head — seemingly lost in thought, even appearing a bit wistful.

“I see,” he says eventually, still glancing at the tiny creature. “That’s understandable. You must still be in a defensive mode.” His voice is raspier at this hour, nearly giving you chills.

He looks rather defenseless too, like he often does when conducting an unwarranted nap in the middle of his work. Despite all that, it’s as though he can command with his presence alone — his body never fully slackens, muscles on standby for a possible enemy.

A natural-born general. Luofu is alive for centuries during his leadership now, exceeding others, whether he had to cause some controversy along the way or not.

Or whether he even wanted to be a general in the first place. The highest throne faces the strongest winds, he has told you before. You often wonder what his real dreams consist of. But if he is where he is, you’ll continue to support him, in its right and in its wrong.

You nod, finally letting go of the cat. With that, his gaze moves to you. “It’s like… I feel sleepy, I can tell I’m exhausted, but every time I close my eyes, suddenly, I am forced to focus on every sound, and even feel a presence looming over me…”

He smiles encouragingly. “I assure you, there is nothing or no one else in your room. But,” he pauses, some bigger idea formulating behind his eyes, “I also understand that rationalization of the issue may still not be enough to soothe your mind. Therefore…”

“Yes?"

“Would you care for a cup of relaxing tea?”

“Tea?” you echo curiously.

“Mhm.” He nods, still drowsily, and ruffles his hair with his hand. “I have a special herbal mix that can help one sleep. Would you like to try it?” he asks gently.

“I thought these were… pretty overrated, no offense,” you say dryly. “As in, they can certainly help, but are not capable of making you sleep on their own. I don’t think it’s enough for how restless I am...”

His smile becomes a bit smug. “I can change your conviction about those.” He taps your forehead, having you reflexively close your eyes, much to his entertainment. “It’s true that what they typically sell is usually no more than leftovers wrapped in teabags. But I have my own special blend,” he informs confidently. “So?”

If he thinks so, you assume this must indeed be something of value.

“Yes. It doesn’t hurt to try, I suppose,” you acquiesce.

“That’s the spirit,” he praises and pats your head. “You can stay here, if you so wish. Or you can come with me. It’s your choice.”

You immediately decide to do the latter.

“I will come with you, General.”

Inside the kitchen full of cabinets matching the style of the rest of the house and celadon pottery, he nods at the table for you to sit down.

As you do, you gain the chance to observe the general’s routine as he moves around. Setting the kettle on the stove, he reaches to one of the cupboards, acutely remembering where he put that tea.

It makes you wonder if he struggles with sleep himself. Perhaps it’s easier to rest during the day and not so easy at night when the world falls quiet and cannot mute anything jarring. You suppose a man like him would have a lot to ponder about.

The thoughts in his head clinking against each other like a set of porcelain stacked tightly together in that cupboard, unsteady and threatening to fall out once he opens the door, therefore he stays silent.

A small can is opened before he offers you to peek inside. The strong aroma hits you immediately; more potent than the typical herbal scent, already promising.

“Hm. You’re right, General. I don’t think I’ve tried this mix before.”

“I worked carefully to obtain the best blend.” Smiling proudly, he explains this as he sets down the table with a tray and a tea set.

When water reaches the right temperature and you can hear loud whistling, he removes the kettle and pours into the pot.

“Here, try it,” he says encouragingly as he pours you some into your cup you hold up with your tired fingers. “I even added some dried fruits so it’s more easy to drink. Personally, I despise bitter medicine.” He frowns at the thought.

“I can imagine that.” You snicker, earning a dramatic look.

“So ungrateful.”

You shrug and take a sip after blowing at the liquid.

He inspects you as you do, eyes moving along the raises of the cup; this gauging for your reaction with keen attention nearly gives you chills in result.

“How is it?”

“Tolerable.”

“You wound me.”

“Well, it’s no crispy soda.” You smirk.

He shakes his head, heaving a sigh. “My dear assistant has gotten so spoiled.” He finally sits down, his gaze not straying from his focal point. “In any case… That tea is no panacea, therefore I will not make any promises, but it’s certainly a good starting point. I wouldn’t want you getting addicted to sleep pills.”

“I didn’t know you were so traditional, General.”

“A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows the corners,” he chuckles. “Sometimes, it’s the old remedies that work the best. Hopefully, this one will serve us well.”

“Us?” you repeat with confusion.

He blinks in small surprise, then quickly clarifies, calm, “Well, if you sleep well, so do I — there will be no need to wake me up.”

“Ah, you’re right, General…”

Over the time, as the conversation flows betwixt you two, you can feel heaviness biting at your eyelids.

“Wow, General…” You’re unable to stifle a yawn. “Those herbs might be doing wonders already… I feel like I could sleep even on this kitchen counter…”

He smiles, all satisfied. “I’m happy to hear that, though I would prefer if you allowed me to escort you back to your room first.”

You can only nod your head, recognizing that you may be too drowsy to go on your own.

With his arm around your shoulders, he leads you through the corridors. You find yourself leaning a bit into him, your head on his shoulders. He doesn’t comment on it, thankfully.

You don’t even register the moment you’re finally in bed with his help. You know he says something to you as he tucks you in, though it’s mostly distorted balderdash to you and you cherrypick individual words. “…is alright… you should be… see soon… Sleep well—”

The tea you drink ends up working as intended. You don’t remember the last time you slept so immersed. In the morning, you barely manage to gather yourself from the cozy bed and get ready. If it were up to you, you’d gladly sleep in for at least one more hour. You trample the floor in search for work-appropriate clothes, half coherent yet definitely grateful.

Your general probably struggles too, though he doesn’t really need any herb for that. His indolence has a tendency for making you think he’ll be late, even if he always appears punctually one last minute exact before his shift starts — smirking and poking at you for being such a worrywart.

You meet him at the gate of the estate, thankful that he is actually present. “Good morning, General,” you greet, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, only for him to grab it for you anyway.

“Good morning,” he greets back enthusiastically, ignoring your small pout. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well. I have to give it to you — you were right about those herbs doing wonders for insomnia.” You smile brightly at him — and he smiles as wide at that.

“I’m really glad. Let’s catch this day together.” With his hand on your upper back, he starts to guide you outside.

You fly a starskiff… together. Originally assuming you should take your own route to avoid any conspicuous behavior for people at the office, he instead seems casual enough about the matter. Perhaps his words about it being no more than helping you in rough situation were correct; however, you naturally anticipate uncomfortable rumors that might gather.

With one reason especially; he sinks into another wave of sleepiness, with his head lolling onto your shoulder. While you sit all uptight, both flustered and unwilling to wake him up, he appears awfully comfortable, tickling the skin of your neck with his thick hair and languish breathing. You get the chance to observe him in his most peaceful; you often do when he falls asleep standing at the desk, but you have a hunch he’s especially snug with you, his palm gently resting on your arm.

Life truly can be unfair; your general is not just a cunning man. The mole under his left eye is enough to make you think he’s well-favored by gods, bringing attention to the rest of the beautiful composition of his face. If those sharp features are of a sculpture to gawk in awe at, then you are his humble patron.

Before you’d hit the Seat of Divine Foresight, your general takes you to the breakfast establishment he’s a regular at — and where he has his own section.

“Eat to your heart’s content. My treat,” he says with another sip of warm puffergoat milk.

The setup on the table is marvelous, making your mouth water at the sight. All kinds of meals greet you: shrimp and soup dumplings, pork buns resting on the steamers, rice noodle rolls, lotus leaf-wrapped sticky rice, steamed fish, congee, and stir-fried vegetables. He does eat a lot, standing tall and wide as a man, who also regularly trains.

“Thank you. I don’t remember the last time I saw so many goods or even ate pro—” You halt your speech, realizing what you just reveled. You not eating enough is something you know he would take seriously.

“Oh? Finish your thought,” he challenges with a small smirk.

“It’s nothing,” you try to say casually.

“It clearly is not, if your first instinct was to state exactly those words,” he argues rather bluntly.

“It’s just that…” you start nervously, “I was so stressed, and… I might have been unable to digest food,” you say apologetically. “But I will eat now, I promise!”

He sets down chopsticks for a moment and leans back, looking at you thoughtfully. “Have I been making you work too much?”

“No, not at all!” you quickly reject, waving your hands and chopsticks in front of your face. “I was stressed about that…” you lower your voice as if they could hear, “stalker.”

He nods at that, acknowledging your explanation. “I should have guessed so. Still, if they bring you such burden, perhaps you should ease on your workload.”

With that said, he places even more food onto your plate — making it indisputable that you eat. You sigh pitifully.

“No, I… I should be able to manage, now that I can take that stalker concern off my shoulders for a bit.” You try to reassure him so he doesn’t dare to think of being willful and cutting your hours. Then you feel like being more petty for all these times that he teased you. “Besides, I doubt you’d be happy with a mountain of paperwork waiting at your desk.”

It works, in a way, as your General’s expression suddenly turns grumpy; just for a moment though, for he flashes you a blinding smile. “And I should be grateful for all that pesky paperwork you have been helping me with. My life has never been easier since.”

You feel your cheeks flush, overwhelmed by the intensity behind the praise. “No, it’s simply my duty…”

He is the sun, and you are the shadow that follows him, basking in his glory. You have made yourself comfortable here, needing nothing else. Or maybe you’re one of the thousands of other minute rays, each one insignificant alone, yet together they complete him. Sometimes, it’s easy to doubt yourself and think that you get to keep your spot by his side simply because the general either likes you or is too bothered to look for a new subordinate. And yet, you think you’d fight tooth and nail to keep yourself close to him, letting no one else be here — whether it makes you selfish or not.

“Duty or not, you do exceptionally well.”

Ah, your heart.

“Well, if you were to exclude my latest series of failures…” you mumble under your breath, incapable of looking him in the eye.

He softens his tone. “They’re… excused,” he reassures as he grabs his chopsticks again, seemingly trying to stop himself from gorging in front of you with his eyes greedily wandering over the table. “I won’t hold it against you, not knowing your current predicament. I would only be concerned if you were to purposely start neglecting your duties.”

“Thank you for your understanding, General.”

The rest of the meal proceeds smoothly, save for the moments where he insists that you eat a little bit more. Or when… you notice his appraising gaze. “What is it?” You can feel him staring intensely at your face, that you stop eating.

“You have some rice on your face,” he informs politely. “May I?”

“Oh.” You nod your head, despite small shyness the prospect of being touched by him there inspires.

And you find his hand to be very warm, the moment his fingers brush your skin. Carefully so. For a moment, you even think that his past lovers must have been very lucky, being offered such tenderness—

You quickly reject the thought, reminding yourself of that he’s your superior, therefore the reverie is not appropriate at all. But he is still almost beguiling, and you are easily distracted by his proximity; all the more when he chooses to concentrate his sharp gaze on yours for a modicum of second, your breath hitching, only to then look down at the rice grain.

“There you go. All clean,” he says, all amiable that it doesn’t help you to clear your mind at all.

You are chock-full of his warmth and it still is never enough; as if you await for it to reach your bone marrow one day.

“Thank you.” You clear your throat.

His lip curves knowingly, though he doesn’t make any quips. “Ready to go?”

“Naturally.”

At the office, you try your hardest not to mess up your work again. Try to is crucial wording here. Lines blurry together to make no sense, you fall out of concentration with the tiniest of snaps in the air, and things just evade your hands while you feel as though time is of essence.

Ironically, little of this happens due to the stalker lingering in the background like a ghost; you simply feel the pressure to make it up to your general and prove that you’re still competent, the same way providing contradictory results. Has he asked you to? No. But you losing his approval somehow feels imminent.

He stops you when you move to grab another file pile from the desk. This way frustrating you, as you were about to finish organizing them by their importance. “There’s no need to hurry,” he chides lightly. “This isn’t a race, and we don’t have any pressing deadlines at the current moment.”

“I know, but…”

His hand stops yours, covering it entirely. Your throat goes dry. “Sit down.”

“But—”

“Please, sit down for me.”

That for me always works on you. You have no choice but to listen, sinking into your seat. “I don’t want you being lenient with me, General,” you vocalize your dissatisfaction in a peeved manner.

His brows narrow down. He does not appear angry; if anything, he’s curious. “I’m not being lenient, if only understanding,” he corrects you.

“How much more understanding can you be?” These words leave your mouth bitterly, as you scowl. “I refuse to leave things to chance—” The moment you realize your waspishness, you quickly apologize.

You’ve become much more irritable ever since that stalker started bothering you; you don’t want to be taking it out on someone innocent, who, if anything, is helping you deal with them.

The general stands in front of you, looking down at the product of your stress with nearly amusement — instilling irritation in you again, as you personally fail to see what’s so funny.

“Am I a joke to you?” you grumble petulantly as you cross your arms, earning a shake of head.

“No. My apologies if I gave the impression,” he laughs it off softly. And instead of further arguing with you, he reaches for a solution. “Would it help you if you worked on your own today?”

Your mind reads it wrong — as pretty much him kicking you out because you were too chafed in your attitude.

“Not because I suddenly resent your presence. I only want for you to be comfortable,” he clarifies before you could overthink it, knowing to anticipate this much.

“I…” Part of you still wants to insist on you staying. Another part knows better. Stop being so ungrateful and just accept his offer. He does so much for you, and you do what? Be snappy with him? Any other superior would have had your stuff out of this office already.

“You’re right,” you ultimately agree, albeit begrudgingly. “I think some space might help me work better. I apologize for attacking you, General.”

As you leave his office, in the corner of the eye, you see him scribbling down something in his pocket notebook — hoping it’s not some type of written warning for you.

Your general ends up staying behind at work, forecasting to be here for a while longer than you as he needs to take care of few things, urging you to go home first therefore — whether that’s regarding your stalker or his own business. Despite enjoying napping during office hours tremendously, he can be and especially has to no choice but to be industrious.

Perhaps the naps are the key to stalling the mara growth. Hopefully.

He still has someone transport you home. The knight responsible for your safe passage doesn’t inquire much, especially not about you and the general living together. You’re grateful, not needing small talk after the first day at the office since the revelation. His silence is also a relief. Your ears already have caught some rumors regarding your situation, but most could be narrowed down to either a scornful comment about the general babysitting someone scared to be on their own or word of concerns offered to you. Nothing unusual for the Seat of Divine Foresight.

You enter the house with a duplicate access card you were granted.

With you on your own, you sensed your anxiety about to strike miles ago. Therefore, you try to distract yourself by making dinner. Even if he keeps on insisting that you owe him nothing, you still wish to reward him somehow. Only for you to fail miserably.

You find yourself hoping he’d come back already, unable to gate your mind from imagining there is something waiting for you around the kitchen’s corner, every noise suspicious.

And then hours stretch. He’s taking even more time than usual, and you have to stop yourself from calling him multiple times. You burn something once so you try again. It doesn’t work out either so you grab another ingredient, only to cause even more food waste. You try one last time, sitting down by the table as you wait for the broth to gain flavor; intermittent with you looking out onto the corridor.

You freeze up hearing the door open; but with the familiar sound of him removing his equipment, your shoulders sag in relief. The moment you see him enter, you run to him and throw yourself at him. Your arms squeeze him viciously, palpating his tangible form for your comfort.

“Whoa there!” Your general laughs in surprise. “What happened to you? Did my dear assistant miss me this much?” While you’re all nerve-wracked, he sounds awfully amused by your actions. And still, his hand rubs at your shoulder. “I would certainly hope so.”

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you speak into his chest, “I’m sorry… I was scared to be alone… but I also wanted to make us dinner, General…”

“If burning my house down is the next step, then you are certainly succeeding.” As much as he’s nice to you, letting you ruin his kitchen is unacceptable.

“Oh no!” you exclaim with panic, tearing yourself apart from him. You haven’t noticed that the soup is burning at the bottom of the pot.

Before you could turn off the stove, his hand stops you. “I’ll take care of it,” he decides confidently.

“But—”

“No but. I need my kitchen in one piece,” he says with small disapproval.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Sitting down again, you look like a kicked puppy; although, you’re joyed he is finally back.

You watch him remove the pot from the stove, roll his sleeves and wash his hands, and then grab new ingredients from the fridge. It’s a relaxing sight to watch, slow life of it grounding you with his certain way around the kitchen, and the evening light makes him nearly incandescent, stealing your breath away.

“What were you doing out there for so long, General?” you ask curiously, playing with sprinkles of salt on the table. “If I may ask, of course.”

“You may,” he says over his shoulder as he chops tofu. “I was looking into your situation.”

You feel your guts churn, anticipating something bad to be revealed. “Yes? And did you find something?” Your voice trembles.

His head swivels, and he peeks at you with quite solemnity. “We had a look at your house.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Yes.”

Your heart stills; nonetheless, you push for answers. “What exactly?”It begins to frustrate you, the rate at which he reveals the information step by step.

“Wiretap. Whoever is harassing you, they ensured to further intrude your privacy. Other than that, there is no other evidence left. They do quite a clean job.”

Your mouth opens in silent shock. You weren’t simply paranoid. You weren’t dramatic. The situation, in fact, is far worse than you have been imagining. All of your conversations. Things you’ve said to yourself. Tears and other noises. You imagine that whoever is behind this, they enjoyed hearing you immensely.

“You had good instincts to tell me about your suspicions.” Your general stops the chopping and turns around to face you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“But…” Your voice is barely above a creak. What makes less sense to you is what is there supposed to be about you that got them so hooked on you, therefore, you consider another possibility. “Could it be… this person is less personal and more about reaching you through me?”

His brow raises, ever so subtly, and still, appearing somewhat condescending, as if you are saying a joke. “I rather find myself doubting that. There is not much about me to be found here, and as you have said before, they went through your personal belongings.”

“Yes, but… why would they even be that interested in me?” You frown. “I mostly just work…”

“You tend to underestimate yourself, a precious bird like you.” He huffs, full of humor. “I’d know something about this.”

The way he weaves his words like they’re made of silk is not good for your health. You’re far away from being conceited already, so hearing his words, they pierce through your heart with double strength. Flushed all over your body, words of protest die in your mouth.

“Not to say I justify their actions,” he adds more seriously. “If anything, people like them need little reason sometimes. Only they know the definition of what is special to them.” His gaze infiltrates through you, as though he expects you to agree.

And you do, considering him sensible. “Perhaps you are right, General…” You sigh, rubbing the side of your neck in thought. “You seem well experienced in those topics. Is that a common behavior you notice?”

He smiles at you, in a wry, knowing way. “An old horse knows the way. Over the centuries, I have had an unfortunate chance to see less favorable behavior in others. It also… gives you the opportunity to reflect on your own tendencies.” Then he adds, as if remembering the most crucial part, all stern, “Their behavior is certainly outrageous, and I’ll ensure that they face proper punishment.”

“That makes sense…” This burden of having knowledge — no wonder immortal kind loses their minds after reaching a certain age, having witnessed world in all colors possible.

He nods. “In any case… it is prudent for you to stay here until we can find the person responsible.”

“Yes…” you agree quietly. There is no protest from you, no concern about making yourself humble for once — you cannot imagine going back to your house where someone potentially willing to hurt you may be awaiting.

“Besides. I rather enjoy having you here,” he adds to lift up your spirits.

Smiling shyly, you mumble, “Thank you, General.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says softly. He then clasps his hands together. “Now. The dinner should be ready soon.”

But you don’t feel like you can stomach anything, not after what you found out about. “I’m… I’m really sorry, but I really don’t feel like eating?” you say apologetically, hopeful for his understanding.

“I see.” He looks genuinely disappointed at the idea of eating on his own, pulling strings of your heart. They always seem to rest in his fingers. “You’ll take your tea, then? Perhaps you should head to bed early today.”

You consider. “Can I have that tea on an empty stomach?”

“It’s probably not the wisest idea,” he mutters, lighting up as if just found a cheat code to have you here for a tad bit longer. “I’ll prepare you something lighter, at least. Would that be alright with you?”

And you know you can’t deny him. “…Yes, General.”

A few days pass, spent in you clinging to your general’s promise about looking into that stalker, their likely whereabouts and connections included. Apparently, they make circumstances more complicated, having exercised enough self-control after your sudden disappearance. No activity was registered near your house, painting a suspicion that they know well who you work for, and so the consequences for targeting you behind that fact.

You have managed to settle in rather nicely at the general’s house. For one, his presence is comforting and calming. For two, there’s all kinds of slow life luxuries to take from your surroundings. With the evening nearing, you decide to indulge yourself with a round of your favorite movie, well-earned after work. You’re lucky enough to have it playing on one of the channels today.

Heading inside the sitting room, you find it to be already occupied by your general. Taking a nap, he lies in a position of a man ready for departure into afterlife — on his back, his hands crossed at his chest. With his tall body, he takes up the entire space of the couch. It would be an adorable sight, seeing him all peaceful, if it weren’t also a good reminder of the often tedious work to keep him awake, only to fail at withholding sleep breaks. Nothing will make this man budge once he sets his mind on something, the rule so golden that he often presents you with another (particularly terrifying) idea.

But since he’s at home, his own home, waking up him up just so you can watch a movie would be plainly rude. Therefore, all you decide to do is get a blanket for him. With him all bundled up, you turn around to leave.

A sudden grip latched onto your wrist stops you. “What’s the hurry for?” he asks groggily before yawning.

“General—”

“You should stay,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sleeping… just meditating with my eyes close. Don’t mind me.” The same old excuse. If anyone, he was sleeping rather contentedly, and instead is still aware enough to know when someone’s approaching.

Your general slowly sits up and pushes you onto the seat next to him with remarkably little effort. “Indulge me, will you?” he says teasingly. “If we have more time to see each other outside of the office, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take advantage.”

That makes you nervous, if anything. You sometimes get to see him outside your work — business banquets, training fields, or you (not so) occasionally running into each other — but it’s different being on your own with him at his house. You’re certainly not supposed to be some type of best friends. And yet, he doesn’t seem to mind the whole stalker situation as much as you originally wished him to; perhaps there’s no point in panicking, so he at least tries to find silver lining in it. However, there is some part of you that has always wished to see him up close; in his natural habitat, you may say.

“That’s… I… actually have always wanted for us to be able to pass time like this,” you admit shyly. “But—”

There’s a genuine surprise painting itself on his face; it’s a momentary ripple in the water, as his expression turns rather content. He tilts his head, looking at you with curiosity. “Is that so?”

You nod your head, even if the proximity leaves little space for being confident. “I don’t mean anything inappropriate by this… I simply… “ you can feel your heart race, clutching your knees, “wish to understand you better. I feel like I don’t know you that well even years later.”

You have always admired him, your general who ensure that so much a single hair does not fall from your head, people’s general who leads others to greatness. The world shines brighter around him, but you still have no idea what exactly illuminates him. Maybe it’s some type of darkness reflecting the light and he wishes not to burden, or even scare. You want to believe you are ready to face the truth regardless.

“Do you want to know something, then?” he asks more quietly, leaning in closer to your face.

“Yes.” You nod your head rapidly, and as your eyes spark up with excitement, his only turn more joyous.

“Are you absolutely certain? It might overwhelm you at first.”

You look at him with question. Perhaps you were right about the truth dissonance. That makes you all more eager to hear him — not to be nosy, but to be of comfort.

“I am certain, General.”

“Good,” he says seriously. He even grabs your hand. You assume that he must be doing this to ground himself — so you let him.

“You have always been my favorite.” He must realize the impropriety of his words, considering previously given warning, yet his hand keeps stroking yours as if it’s the nature of thing. And when he sees your astounded look, he asks, “Is it really so wrong to say?”

Your breath hitches. What he said could easily leave anyone simultaneously stunned and flattered. You can only imagine how many people have dreamed of being referred as such by him, to earn his favor and trust. Yet you also completely comprehend that this isn’t in any shape or form appropriate. Not even because of the ranks between you, if only for the fact that leaders, at least the responsible ones, shouldn’t make their favorites.

“That’s… probably not professional,” you nearly squeak out these words, struggling to grapple him with any more potent argument against. You have absolutely no clue where did this come from. You don’t remember him ever saying anything like this, nor do you believe he has ever implied that beyond simple liking for you before.

“Unfortunately, treating things as strictly professional has never been enough to keep Luofu safe.” He laughs softly, as if undeterred by your reaction.

“But this isn’t about Luofu’s safety though?” This is purely personal. You’re not sure why he came up with this example.

The look he gives you in response nearly startles you. A bit on a sharper side, as if evaluating your counterargument as some form of insolence. Unheard to you, for he usually encourages you to debate your case when you find him questionable. You immediately wish to apologize, even if you’re not fully convinced you are in the wrong.

“No. It is not,” he says solemnly. “What I’m trying to convey is… not all matters can be treated as black and white.”

“But what about this one?” you dig for answers nervously, your sweaty hand trembling in his.

“I know the way you look at me sometimes,” he delivers remarkably bluntly, stealing your breath entirely.

“W-what?” you ask, incredulous, not sure if you caught his almost accusatory words right. Perhaps you find yourself gawking at him in awe quite often, daydreaming during your job when you shouldn’t, however… potentially suggestive or enamored with is not how you remember yourself acting. You admire him the way a soldier would admire their leader. Emanating something else has to be purely accidental.

“It’s alright. There’s no wrong answers. Not with me here.” Reassuring you, he even sounds affirmative.

“But General, I really didn’t—”

“Shh,” he shushes, placing a finger on your lips. “As I’ve said, it’s quite alright. It can stay a secret between us.”

Is he right? Seeing something you didn’t see yourself because you were too afraid to acknowledge it? You trust your general. You believe him to be wise, as well awfully keen on details. His conclusion wouldn’t come unprompted, no? All of this causes a disarray of thoughts going haywire, your brain unable to fully process the sheer possibility of you ever seeing him in a romantic light. You have worked hard to ensure that you adhere strictly to the protocol, the occasional exception being healthy dose of scolding.

He seems actually serious about it, gripping your hand like a steady current; he’s not pressuring you to answer, yet he’s not letting you debunk him either. Between you, his assistant of many years, and him, a general for centuries, you suppose he’d know better, even if you’re supposed to know yourself — he has a terrifying flair for reading people, occasionally scaring you with how well he has foreseen something about you.

And if he’s not mad at you for the prospect… this should be your chance to come clean about your supposed desire. Even if him being fine with it should be a cause of concern. You don’t believe he’d ever throw such words lightly. “I… I have always admired you, General. I’m sorry if my behavior seemed inappropriate.” You take the responsibility onto yourself.

He smiles at your confession, seemingly understanding. “Not at all. I’m glad you could finally say this aloud.”

You feel some weight off your shoulders, though there is still something that concerns you. “However… shouldn’t you be… discouraging this?” Yes, he’s said you are his favorite. But you assume the implication is no different than simple workplace favoritism. You’re an adorable assistant that works hard, listens to him, and is so easy to be teased at times. Perhaps you are closer to a pet he wants to spoil and fondle—

“What if I were to say that the feeling might be reciprocated? I do quite treasure you myself.”

You are dumbfounded for the second time in a row, now even worse; he’s involving feelings. Seeing how grave the situation is becoming, you stand up as if burned. You should be happy — it’s as good as it gets being his personal assistant It’s hard to be. Nothing makes sense to you. “Admiration?” you repeat incredulously.

He nods his head.

“In… what way, exactly? What is there to admire about me?” You begin to hate this. Those half-spoken answers of his. Vague enough to not let you on, not subtle enough to be disregarded.

“Why don’t I show you?”

“Show me?” You have a bad feeling about his motivated look.

“Yes.” He stands up too.

You gulp down nervously. “I don’t think—”

But his hands are already on you — one on your waist, the other on back of your head — locking you in place — and then he presses his chest flush to yours. You curse him for his agility, staring at him with a huge, red no plastered all over your body.

It’s a short-lived display. His lips end up on yours.

He moves all languid, in no hurry, not even worried about the possibility of you rejecting him —moving even as you stand in your stupor, his eyes slightly open to watch your contortions. Every move your general makes seems to be well-thought and likely to bear intended results at least half of the time; it’s the case this time as well. None of the divine foresight has anticipated this. This isn’t written in the stars, as though he’s making his own path, taking you as his victim along. Your fingers twitch, itching to push him away.

And yet, some part of you finds it hard to deny him. For you think you owe him, and for you’ve come to expect his presence. The feeling of his lips on yours, if you were to remove the part screaming about forbidden, is nice and fuzzy. He’s spreading poison all over your mouth, it still sugary enough to melt on your tongue.

Against your good conscience, you find yourself kissing him back, hesitant or not.

Seeing at least some enthusiasm returned, his fingers weave themselves through the lower portion of your hair, dragging your lips closer to his now devouring mouth. He acts in a way you’ve never seen in him before; repeatedly growing hungry in his movements, groaning into your mouth, digging further to see you breathless. It’s as if he can’t get enough of you, further solidifying his words about you being his favorite.

You whimper at the small pain at your scalp, so the one in your lungs, yet you dive for that goodness hidden below the taboo, focusing on the softness on his lips instead.

When he’s finally done, he yanks you close, letting your head land on his chest. You’re not allowed to regret much, with you still hazed and him immediately moving onto another topic. “Have I ever hurt you?” he asks, half-roughly from how breathless he is on his own.

“No…” You shake your head slowly, the dizziness worsening. “Why?”

“Then where are such concerns coming from?”

“I…” You’re not sure what he’s exactly referring to. Your surprise about his supposed affection? You finding this dynamic inappropriate? You’re not even wrong; at least, if anyone were to hear about a verbatim situation, they would disapprove. Your heart pounds as if this behavior of his is shameful, giving you the first taste of real disappointment for him.

“Has been someone giving you wrong ideas about me?” he asks with a rueful intonation.

“No! I’d not even listen to their travesty… I know the truth,” you quickly clarify, eyes wide. “I know you’re a good man.”

“Then why don’t you let the truth guide you this time as well?”

You cannot even define the truth, is the problem, throwing you off terribly.

It’s not that you’re totally oblivious to hidden, perhaps darker parts to your general. You’ve been there for him many times when he earned an earful from different generals, or you yourself heard rumors about less favorable actions of his only the tightest circles know about. You sometimes turn a blind eye to the documents that pass through the office. However, you believe most of them to be necessary evil. You know he is therefore a capable man, in a variety of that word’s meaning. You’ve learned how to ignore those, but also rationalized this as an inevitable part of leading, as well politics overall.

Eat or be eaten.

And yet, this sort of confession seems the most selfish, lacking the pragmatism behind the intention.

“You trust me, no?” he asks after noticing how silent you’ve become.

He allows for your head to surface, only to receive a worried look. “I do. I really do, General…” You try to convince both him and yourself. You do trust him: there’s simply an error in your system, a mismatch of information.

“Then what exactly are you fearing?” He strokes your cheek, speaking all softly again.

You lean into what now feels like a bear trap. “I really don’t think this is appropriate…” Your breathing grows shakier as you speak. “If anyone were to know…” There’s a lump in your throat at the thought. “I also… don’t want to ruin our relationship…” He’s ruining what you build about him in your mind, the structure falling apart.

“No one has to know for now.” He’s really doing this, willing to take such risks.

And you’ll follow him, because following him is what you have always done and know, starting freshly an adult. “I’m sorry for doubting you. It’s just that… I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, you kissed me, and…” You laugh nervously.

He smiles, running his finger across your trembling lips. “We don’t have to… make any decisions in haste. We can take it slowly and see where it leads us.”

Where he leads you, you think as somewhere in the back of your head, a heavy door shuts locked. You’re unable to wrap your mind around what it entails exactly. But confused and not wanting to disappoint him, you find yourself nodding like a good assistant that you are.

You dedicate another day to work, this time choosing to spend it in a separate office yourself — every time you look at your general, you feel his lips on yours. He doesn’t rush you or summon you to his side, as though believing you only need time to make peace with certain parts of yourself.

To sweeten the pill, you try to tell yourself that perhaps he is simply lonely, soon to remember himself and recognize his mistakes.

After the workday is over, you choose to relax in his garden, sunbathing one of of the wooden lounge chairs here. The sight brings smile to his lips the moment he spots you. “Ah, so that’s where you sneaked into. I will be starting dinner soon.”

Your eyes pry open in small terror, as you have not heard him coming at all. If anything, you’ve been more sensitive to unexpected noise these days. He stands there casually, holding a small tray full of fruits he then sets down next to you as though it’s some form of truce.

“Oh? I’m excited. Or I would be, if you didn’t decide to scare me like this!” you scold with a grumpy expression.

He shrugs at that like some rascal; as if you aren’t feeling small with him above you, chest puffed. “It’s nothing special. Just some stew,” he replies nonchalantly. “Regardless. How have you been liking the courtyard area?”

You want to be mad at him. You really do. But when you clearly see that childish excitement at the idea of sharing his pride with you, it’s hard for you to shoot it down. “Your garden is beautiful, General,” you praise with all earnestness.

You taste it more and more, the sense of zen the beautifully trimmed and lush garden inspires. It’s a quiet blend of disciplined beauty and cultivated calm — stone paths, refined evergreens, and soft blossoms arranged like brushstrokes. A red moon-gate frames the bamboo beyond, while a still pond reflects rock formations and drifting koi. Even the wind here feels measured. Nature here has been gently brought into harmony with order, inviting all kinds of life to enter.

“Thank you,” he gives you a small bow. “I put a lot of effort into managing it. Birds from every corner seems to enjoy the results.” As if to paint him just, some finch flies down and perches itself on his shoulder.

If animals like him, especially the ones so vulnerable, you suppose that your general truly must be worthy of your trust. He’s always been here for you, at least. And now, when you think about it, who is there for him these days? You try your best, but is it enough?

“Is something wrong?” He immediately notices your energy changing, letting that small bird fly away just like your mood does. “You look sad all of the sudden.”

“I wonder if it doesn’t… ” you choose your words carefully, not wanting to accidentally intrude, “get a bit too quiet, to live all alone, in a space as big as this one.”

His brows raise at such a question, though he doesn’t scold you. He assesses you and your empathy for him with something hard to describe for you. Wary, though not entirely displeased.

And the answer you receive is surprising; for one, it is honest, for two, there is no hesitation to make it your business. “I do get lonely sometimes.”

He gets lonely; him arranging the sentence to focus on his perspective perhaps surprises you the most. There is no passive “it does get lonely.” Usually, you don’t get to see this side of him. He keeps his deepest thoughts to himself, not going beyond mentions of pleasant memories that don’t require too much concealment for the sake of their privacy or even the risk of reanimating controversy. Therefore, it’s easy to prick up your ears and tune yourself to catch more. You definitely don’t want him to feel ever forlorn.

Sometimes, you even wonder what is it exactly that stopped him from settling down with someone — he’s married to his work at most. You can imagine his title plays a significant role here, but throughout history, that hasn’t stopped every of his predecessors. Grudges being at play wouldn’t surprise you.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you say a bit awkwardly in response as you fumble with your hands, not sure what else to add to make him happy enough. “You can always… count on me, General.”

After what you say, his look turns wistful. He gazes at the horizon for a moment with his hands behind his back. The layered garden stretches with no stopping point, as if it could endlessly conceal his loneliness by veiling him with its tree crowns. He sails away afar with his mind, waiting for the waters to take him again, glaive raised, in hopes for something else than boredom. And as he says something, for once, there is no crowd to scream in glory, and no friend to pour him wine.

“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’m merely an old man, with an old luggage,” he chuckles lightly, turning his head to face you again. “But. Seeing that my assistant is there for at least some time soothes my soul. Hopefully, she is enjoying her stay, in spite of everything.”

“I am!” you say immediately. You can even imagine that finally leaving will be bittersweet. The idea of you helping him makes you incredibly happy; you take it as him saying that he does consider you his companion. It shouldn’t be that surprising, considering that he kissed you and implied a start of something still undefined to you, yet you like hearing it from his lips. Unlike the kiss, it’s gentle and innocent.

“Then that makes me a very happy man.” He leans down close to you, stirring your heart, and picks up the tray.

“Would you care for a refreshment?” he offers cheerfully.

“Y-yes, General.”

From those a few fruits he brought you, he picks up your favorite, along with a knife. Instead of simply handing you the rejuvenating treat, he snicks a piece of it before putting it near your mouth. Covering the sunlight as he crouches down at your feet, you still feel very hot.

“General… I can eat on my own. I’m no child,” you say with embarrassment, eyes darting away from his satisfaction.

“No, you are not. But you do make an impressively grumpy face when I try to feed you.” That cursed lilt is at it again. He’s not even hiding it, that inclination to tease you all to his heart’s content.

You think that one day, you should try to pay him back tenfold. Even if you believe you’d have to possess a herculean strength of mind to be able to tackle a man like him. How does one even tease a man such as him, and actually succeed in making him budge? Maybe by… Licking his fingers as he feeds you that fruit, for starters, as a warmup for the future. Maybe you’ll learn more about him, exactly what makes him tick, and hit him with it.

You see his eyes widen for one, capturable moment, and his hand twitches in surprise, as a shiver goes through him like tiny thunders. Worse, that confused looks linger, as if he considers it to be a loss of control — you taking the initiative.

Then he laughs it off as if nothing, already scheming. “I see that you are adapting.”

“You’re forcing me to,” you reply with a proud huff. “Give me the fruit or I just might bite you next time.”

Reluctantly, he hands you the remaining fruit. But even then, you don’t feel freed of his grasp. He watches you eat, eating himself, but awfully slowly, more focused on you with something transfixed. He licks his lips, consuming you still.

He’s been odd since that kiss. No, he must have been off from the beginning of you ending up here, for the kiss to actually happen. You don’t know if it’s nerves or him deciding to be more open about something; you know that being inspected by him is as intense as always.

After you feel refreshed (and your heart troubled anew), you eventually find yourself yawning.

“You could take a little nap,” he proposes softly. “I’ll watch over you until you wake up.”

“What about the dinner?” It would be more optimal if he cooked meanwhile, though you don’t want to pressure him.

“It can wait. I myself…” he yawns, “feel a bit sleepy around this hour.” He sits down on the grass behind your chair, just to let his head fall onto your lap.

You tense up, flustered. “General… shouldn’t you just sit.”

“I find this much more comfortable.”

“How so. Your neck will hurt.”

“Then maybe you can massage it for me after—”

“No way!” You scoff. You’d probably massage him anyway.

“Fine. Then I guess I will have to simply deal with it…” The volume of his voice slowly dissipates.

“I feel like you’re just trying to take a nap yourself. So much for watching me.” You sigh.

“I’m sure I’ll sense when you wake up this way.” And so with that said, he dozes off. The rascal has enough indecency to fall asleep before you do, contradictory to his offer.

Your hand elevates itself and twitches right above his head. You stroke his hair so it doesn’t prickle his eyes, feeling weird about all that happened recently. A few weeks ago, you’d be worrying about a mountain of paperwork. Today, you are wondering just when will he kiss you again, and if the feeling will be so intrusive this time as well.

You let the sleep dissolve it like smoke.

Rinse and repeat, you and your general go to work together, work together, come back home together, and spend time and shop together. You almost forget that you even have a stalker, with the general taking care of it in the background and then you in person. Days blurs into one another, and you stay close to him especially as you traverse outside, unwilling for there to be blood in the water.

Currently busying yourself in the kitchen, you almost yelp, feeling a hand on you out of nowhere. “Your shoulders are finally not as tense. That makes me happy.”

“General!” you scold, turning around.

“Well, that is if not counting this moment,” he remarks humorously.

“Please don’t scare me like that,” you whine.

“Hm. I’ll consider that, but no promises.”

You give him an unimpressed look. However, you cling to his words with hope. “Am I really… appearing more relaxed now?”

“Yes. I suppose staying here with me has been treating you well.”

“I suppose that too.” You smile gently.

Maybe he’s been right. You had it relatively easy since coming here. If anything, it’s staring to make you feel greedy, since that one fateful kiss. You wonder what it’d be like to have more of him, clinging to the feeling of security he’s been harboring in you — overriding sense of rationality. Work finally progresses as it should as well.

“Good. You’ve been a loyal assistant for me for many years. It’s high time someone takes care of you as well.”

“Oh, um… you’ve been doing plenty for me over the years. And it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around…” You turn back around, hiding your face.

“I suppose this is your main duty. However, you are still my responsibility,” he says assuredly.

“But—”

“No. Just no, sweet thing.”

Your eyes widening at the new nickname, your heart stammers before a surge of warmth goes through you, effectively distracting you from making further complaints.

Choosing better over teasing you over that for once, only smirking, he leans over you to close the cupboard above you so you don’t hit your head by accident instead.

“Careful here.”

You freeze for a moment, feeling small in his shadow, his body brushing against yours. And right as you think he’s going to withdraw, his arms wrap themselves around you.

“So what are you making?”

“What?” you ask in stupor, your cheek against his chest.

“The food,” he says nonchalantly, perfectly comfortable — looking down at you intently.

He’s hugging you as if you two are some… lovers. You should push him away. You don’t want to. But you should remember how unprofessional it is—

“I thought I could get us dinner,” you finally answer, a bit stiff. Which probably sounds romantic without you meaning to because all you’ve wanted is some way to repay him, at least somewhat. “I don’t know what yet.”

“Us, huh? I ought to be grateful. I’m sure it will be lovely to try your cooking for the first time.” He’s full of energy again. “Well, second time, but that first attempt doesn’t count.”

As you glare up at him a little, only then does he let you go; the ghost of his warmth does not.

Yanqing visits the house same day, taking advantage of the fact the general has some extra time off today. Or rather, he made sure he does.

He flies into the kitchen like a lost bee in flurry through the garden door, stopping in tracks as he spots you are here as well.. “Oh, I’m sorry, General. I didn’t know you had a guest.” The boy nods at you. “Hello, miss,” he says respectfully. “It’s good to see you again.” Then he turns to the general. “Can I ask, what is miss doing here?” He doesn’t want to be nosy but curiosity ultimately wins.

You suddenly feel nervous, taking a subtle step away from the general. You definitely don’t want the boy to start suspecting something; he’s already been taking in his image, wielding the instinct for noticing many details, just not as much patience.

“My assistant will be living with me for a while,” his mentor informs calmly.

Yanqing’s expression bears struggle with understanding, though there is no suspicious frown to suggest he finds the idea unusual. Perhaps to others, being hosted by the general truly is nothing inappropriate — thankfully to you.

“Did something happen?” he asks with worry.

“Well, that depends on whether you’re capable of keeping your mouth sealed, young man?” the general inquiries playfully.

“I can! I will! I promise!” Yanqing exclaims with a hand on his chest.

Both of them look at you expectantly.

“You can speak. Unless you find it uncomfortable to,” your general assures you.

You could simply lie to avoid making Yanqing worry:, however, you suspect he’d try to investigate on his own if you did, or that he would even conjure up a wrong idea. Besides, you know how important it is for him to become a maven of a soldier, and learning about uncomfortable topics is one of the avenues.

“No, its okay…” You take a sharp inhale. “Yanqing… me and General Jing Yuan were made to believe that… someone has been following me and entering my apartment. Stalking, in other words.”

Yanqing clenches his fists, his face turning sour immediately. Your general watches the sight with mild interest.

“For the time being of the investigation, we’ve decided that it’ll be safer for me to stay with General,” you add.

“That scoundrel…!” The boy fumes. “You’ve made a good decision, miss! I’m sure that General will keep you safe! But I also wouldn’t mind helping myself—”

His general’s hand stops him, landing on his shoulder. “Now, now, Yanqing. Don’t get ahead of yourself. But you are right about one thing,” he says softly as he ruffles the blond hair, making his apprentice scowl. “I will watch over my assistant.”

“You better do, General! This isn’t a joke.”

“Don’t I know that.” He sighs. Then measures him with something more serious. “But why are you here?”

With the talk about you, Yanqing got sidetracked. “Oh, right! I wanted to train with you, General,” he says, full of energy. “Everyone at the headquarters is busy lately… I don't even have many people to spar with, hmph.”

Your general looks at you, as if he’s asking you if it’s okay for him to step away. You nod. “Fine. But we’ll play a round of starchess first.”

“Huh?” the blond whines. “That’s not fighting.”

“A battle of mind and body are not so different, young man.”

“You’re just making excuses to beat me again,” he grumbles, but ultimately runs outside to where the board waits.

As you and the general stay alone for a brief moment, you ask, “Can I… at least prepare you two something to drink?”

“Oh?” He seems rather joyful at the offer. If anything, you don’t remember the last time you have seen truly lively like he is these days. “How domestic of you.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Thank you. We will have it,” he interrupts, then kisses your cheek and runs off himself before you could scold him.

There’s something wrong with you lately; a change happening, seeping into your pores and threatening to kill you from the inside if you don’t let it take a root.

You’ve always been eager to cater to the general’s needs, but now, more than ever. It’s undeniable that you feel indebted to him, despite his assurance that keeping one of the citizens safe is simply his duty. It’s also… having the chance and even pleasure to stay near him, as confusing as it sometimes is, allowed you to become even more intimate with each other — and inspire you to need to get to know your general even better, now that you got a taste of him.

Anytime you close your eyes, all you see is that smile of his, hear his voice, feeling disappointed he’s not here that your feet make a beeline for him on their own. “You can always count on me,” he repeats over and over in your mind until some amorphous figure having your voice skitters towards him.

Tonight, before you could ask him for your tea remedy as always, you set on to take a walk first. You’re not sure if you’re ready to see him again, even if he was with you just a few hours ago. With a robe thrown over your nightly attire, you take a stroll through his garden. It’s dark by now, the Luofu ship’s artificial light deciding to end the day a bit earlier today, simulating seasons of the year. Every step is illuminated with the garden’s lights awakening sensors, keeping your vision in tact.

You suddenly stop, hearing a noise in the distance. A few more careful steps, and you can see it’s your general… currently in the middle of his weekly training. Sporadically lazy or not, he still has to maintain his shape, as well the skill. You’d simply let him be, if it weren’t for the sight that is what truly stops you; half-naked, chest glistening with sweat, and that steel focus, that your eyes gain their own autonomy.

Only after brief stupor, you decide to withdraw; making a mistake, as your footwear scratches across the stone path with too much noise. The speed in which he turns his head around is commendable, though your heart rate already escalates. “Oh. Good evening.” He greets you from the distance, wiping his forehead as he beams you a smile.

“G-good evening, General. I’m sorry for the interruption…” You quickly avert your gaze in respect for him — even if he isn’t particularly bothering to hide himself.

Unfortunately for you, you can hear his quick steps approaching you right as you show that weakness. He crosses the space between you two in no time. “Is there something wrong?” he asks when in front of you, placing his hand on your shoulder.

You flinch, feeling the hotness, the sudden proximity rendering you with barrage of emotion. “No… I just…”

“You’ve seen such sights before, I’m sure.” So he noticed what troubles you.

Only then do you look at him, with a question in your trembling eyes. Does he mean him, in a state of training like this, or does he mean… seeing nude men? “Umm… what sights?” Whether you have some experience or not much of it, it is him who’s the man you spend most time with. When your gaze inadvertently falls onto his broad chest, you look again away.

“Me training, that is. You’ve been here before, to… urge me to wake up, to put it mildly.”

You nod your head, gladly going along this version of things. “Yes, of course…” You did run into him like this in the past. But mostly, your thoughts were overridden with pressure to have him moving, you too passionate to ponder over nudity.

“Why? Were you think of some other man?” he sounds playful, yet his eyes sharpen for a moment as though he envisions you like that.

The question takes you by surprise. It feels unusual, coming from his lips; your personal affairs are usually yours. Although, the line between personal and professional gradually gets tarnished, until you will become inextricable like a raindrop merging into another. You shake your head, finding yourself increasingly flustered, and perhaps frustrated. You can face more and less pleasant guests that the Seat of Divine Foresight takes. You can negotiate and deny someone of entrance. You can comprehend military jargon. But when it comes to your General, he has a relatively high skill in leaving you unsettled.

“Are you sure?” he drags on, leaning in closer.

“Why does that matter anyway?” you ask boldly, gulping when you feel his breath fan your face. That golden gaze, usually droopy, now vivacious for you, is nerve-wracking.

“Would it be wrong of me to say I cannot ignore the thought as much as I should?” he drawls.

“Huh?”

“I’m rather accustomed to having your eyes on me. The idea of them wandering elsewhere stirs me restless.” His hand ends up on your cheek, as he meets you with a mischievous though honed stare.

This admission throws you for a loop. You never assumed your General could be jealous; especially about you. But with a what a tease he tends to be… Maybe you’ve been getting it all wrong, all along. It’s easy to doubt yourself when he almost never says things as they are. Maybe, perhaps, what if I, almost — hearing all that repeatedly only muddies the water and baffles you.

“What are you even doing, General?” you ask, taking on a sudden bitter tone.

Though appearing to be slightly surprised by your reluctance, his hand doesn’t leave your face, stroking it to soothe. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep. Will you forgive me?” He seems regretful enough as if it’s a simple matter of modesty, further amplifying your perplexity.

“I’m so confused. I don’t know what you want from me. It’s as if…” you trail off.

“As if?” he probes.

“As if you’re playing with me. You do as you please and then you barely explain anything to me. While you act like this is normal!”

Maybe that’s it, a hoax. Maybe your general is toying with you; like a cat would by pawing at their smaller prey that is too scared to move away. He can have anyone, there’s many willing to jump and dance as he pleases, so why wouldn’t you be a passing fancy at most? Why is he suddenly all over you, just because there is no one to bother or see you? You doubt he’s ready to start a controversy just because of one, pretty to him, assistant.

“Do you really believe your words to be true?” The explosive sternness in his voice nearly scares you, so does the scornful look directed at your accusation.

He corners you, stalking towards you as you step back, your heart pounding. It’s a futile attempt to run, as he pins you to the stone wall of his house, holding your wrists at your sides with your arms spread like wings. So crude, you would say he’s angry with you.

“General…?” you ask with panic.

“We can joke about many things, but as for me taking you seriously, it should never be questioned. Never.” He accentuates each word with hot iron.

The grip turning bruising and there being no angle to run toward scares you. You get the gist of what his enemies who faced him must have felt like; the man who tends to be lackadaisical is easy to underestimate, so the moment this lion rises with fierceness, only then do you comprehend what trouble you actually are in. You even feel guilty again — for doubting him. “I’m sorry…” you say with a quiver.

You’re a mess at this point. You’re well-aware that you shouldn’t be getting this close to him, or rather, allowing him to; but it’s so difficult to deny him, and above everything… You feel on top of the world with him. Appreciated, taken care of. Who else would look after you so much? Who else would ensure that you lack nothing, and that you are safe, and that you are even loved?

Yet is still intimidates you, the suddenness of his impropriety and the aggression, as if all he needed was to have you alone to finally act on his desires. You’re not sure why didn’t do so before, if he apparently is not as scared of repercussions as much as you are. Or maybe he needed that final push himself. To have you in his enclosure and see what it’s like to have you at his fingertips. You probably don’t know anything, you can only assume. After so many years spent together, you don’t know him well at all — you know what’s on the surface, and sometimes you do manage to read what’s below, you anticipate his needs, you see what others would miss… and yet, he’s the vast ocean you have merely explored, currently drowning in it.

Tears well up in your eyes, and you look at him with pain. “I feel so ungrateful sometimes. I know you did a lot for me. But I also… don’t know what to expect from you.”

This time, there is no verbal reassurance. His eyes don’t soften. There is no seductive craft about how everything is alright and that he understands. He kisses you. Madly, still locking you in place, swallowing your mouth with his. It quickly becomes heated, as if he’s pouring his thoughts about you — and as you wonder about their depravity, you quickly become breathless and cry into his lips. Just how much did he hide? Speaking must be difficult for him, or just inconvenient, so for once, he lets the actions speak.

You find yourself being lifted and pressed against the wall, any ability to think brutally ripped away from you. A gasp leaves your mouth, and you suddenly feel overwhelmed. Your legs wrap around him preemptively. You can feel his still flush chest crushing you against the surface, and the unexpected hardness building up and pressing between your thighs, driving you insane.

He’s extra greedy for you both, fondling your bottom as he licks the stream of your tears from your lips and pushes his tongue in, letting you taste your own sorrow. Your stomach tickles as you try to keep up with him, not having it in you to push him away. He appreciates that, rewarding you with some quick praise thrown between the kisses.

The moment he lets you breathe again, or rather, lets you breathe a bit more, he immediately attacks your neck. “You asked me that question, and I don’t know if you truly want to know,” he says between hard suckles that have you gasping and gripping onto his shoulders, “You might think of me as a brute…”

You think you could never believe him to be that: and yet, he seems to be proving you otherwise. This paralogism to your deification of him brings a question of how much longer can you survive him.

“That’s… for me to decide…” you argue back with a moan. “I’m tired of you speaking for me…”

He glares at you, panting. “You meddle with my sense rationality. Is that what you want to hear?”

Probably the closest thing to him being forward about how he feels about you. In a way, you like the idea of him being affected by you so much, nearly fragile; but above all, it still should scare you. “Yes,” you say boldly. “You finally are not a coward.”

At those scalding words, he suddenly lifts you up and starts carrying you inside, still catching a few kisses on your mouth along the way. As if you only encouraged him.

“General…?” you ask nervously between the blur of lips, your heart pounding at the what he’s trying to initiate.

“I know what you need,” he says so confidently it’s as if it’s not about his desires but yours.

Do you really need this? You can feel first waves of arousal, wrung out of him even when he’s all messy, as if he’s still being deliberate with you. He has corrupted you, perhaps.

Eyes darting around, you fight between pushing him away and drawing him closer.

You never get enough time to, for he brings you into his house as if returning from a successful hunt. Inside his room, he swiftly removes your robe he throws somewhere, one-handed, and places you at the edge of the bed. Before you could catch up with reality, he drags you by your legs to lie down flat. He sinks to the floor be between your thighs.

“What are you…”

“Let me make you feel better.” And so he parts your thighs, staring at you with some sort of malaise.

Your ears are ringing, your body pulsing all over at his words. About what? You wish to ask. But instead of that, you worry if you’re being too greedy again. After all that he’s done for you, it’s him taking care of you first — again?

“Wait, please, I want to…” You push at his shoulder, trying to stop him from removing your shorts.

“You don’t need to,” he growls, salivating like a borisin over your legs.

“But I really want to, General,” you nearly beg. If you don’t have him in your mouth within next five minutes, you might cry. “Wait, please, I want to…” you try to interrupt him again as he lays a bite to your thigh, trying to shut you up.

He reluctantly obliges, looking up at you with heavy breaths. “What is it?”

“Let me take care of you instead.”

You slowly stand up, him moving back in response, taken aback by your offer. And as he fully stands up, you sink down to your knees on the floor, validating your decision.

You look up at him with desperation. “Please, will you let me?” You squirm over your feet you sit on, itching with the need.

“You…”

“I want to make you feel good. And no, it’s not because I feel like I owe you.” At least, not entirely; there’s a storm of desire brewing in you, one you didn’t think was possible with him in the center of it. But he is finally there, sitting like a king inside your head, waving his hand for you to obey.

“It’s hard to deny you,” he ultimately acquiesces, a shudder of satisfaction passing through his voice.

All grateful, you tug at the button of his linen pants; he aids you, slightly lowering them down.

The size of what graces your eyes should have deterred you — slapping his abdomen once freed, nearly reaching his bellybutton, and decorated with white curls going up his stomach. Should have, as you are too far in your need to stop now.

You grab his cock carefully, reverent, sighing at the thick, warm, and throbbing weight in your palm. You stroke your general a few times, gauging how good it makes him feel. Then you rub translucent pearls that gathered at the tip.

You hear him take a hissy inhale at the touch, all wound up with you. Glancing up at him, it’s his mouth parted and eyes staring at you with heat.

It satisfies you. So you lean forward to wrap your lips around his tip needily, softly groaning at his taste. You withdraw to kiss and lick at it a few times before taking him in again.

His palm rests on top of your head, with sequence of gasps every time your lip or hot tongue comes in contact. You rendered him rather speechless. The way you look up at him surely could be considered one of the most remarkable sights, worship contemporary with need.

You slowly push your head lower, feeling as he stretches the corners of your lips with his wide girth.

“Mhm… take it slow… no need to rush…” he assures, stroking your head.

You swallow a bit more of him, reaching just a half of his length when you gag, tears prickling at the corners.

“Careful… it won’t go anywhere…” he jokes, and laughs even more when you give him a tiny scolding look. Then moans as you suck harder, biting his lip.

He’s a gentleman, not pushing your head down. He doesn’t need to, as you please him willingly — nodding your head up and down, spreading your saliva and warmth. What you cannot reach yet, you handle with your hand, even if you barely manage to close it around.

“You… truly… are wonderful.” You feel his hand stroke your hair as you take him down till his tip brushes the back of your throat, a praise on its own.

You moan around him, sending vibrations down. His stomach clenches in front of your vision, and he groans gutturally.

He makes a bold inquiry, regardless of how awry his voice is becoming, “Does it feel good, pleasing me?”

You moan again, as if confirming, closing your eyes for a moment to focus on the weight in your mouth, as well as the scent. You shuffle on your calves, feeling aches building up between your thighs. You think you’re right where you should be, for once in many weeks.

Focusing on where he needs you the most — withdrawing to suck on his sensitive tip — your hand works to stroke him. And finally, you push your head downward to meet at least some of him through your tight throat, in one fell swoop.

Your general lets out a low moan, stuttering his hips at the sudden tightness around his cockhead, barely stopping himself from gripping your hair.

There’s wet noises as you bop your head down, with you catching breath through your nose those moments where he’s not nestled inside your throat.

He must be able to tell you’re struggling a bit, huffing hard and trying to relax your throat, but seeing your hard effort in order to pleasure him, he allows himself this selfishness. He only wipes the excess slobber that begins to drip out of your mouth for you.

Your jaw aches, impossible not to with the size stretching your mouth wide, yet you push through and force your muscles to slacken, staring up at him with longing. You’re doing so good for him. You’re giving him something. He allows you to touch him, to watch him unravel. It’s you and him here and no one else— You get dizzy, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth in your mouth, that your teary eyes turn hazy and heavy. You could live here, in this memoria, offering him requisite bliss so he can rest those old and tired bones and think of you as his own saving.

As if to help you, he pushes his hips forward, burying himself a bit deeper in your throat.

You gag, yet you don’t swat him away, holding him onto his thighs until your nose brushes against his abdomen. Then you pull back, inhaling raggedly, and push your soaked mouth onto his length again.

“You’re doing good.” He pats your head, speaking like he’s proud of you. “Worry not, I’ll take care of you afterward as well.”

You feel your stomach elate at the thought.

Eventually, it doesn’t take you that much to draw him close to the edge, not too many more gags and shallow thrusts, and you can feel him twitching, threatening to spill into your tight cavern.

“I’m about to…” he warns, throwing his head back slightly and closing his eyes.

But you don’t stop, only look more desperate. You take him even deeper, forcing him to choke even more than you are choking.

You cough up as his slightly salty load sticks up to your throat, clamming it and removing your ability to breathe. He gets lost for a moment, pressing his hips close to your nose. It’s only when he comes down a little that he suddenly starts to pull you off of him, realizing that your sounds are a bit too muffled.

“Are you—”

You swallow it all before he could unplug your mouth, even if it comes with difficulty from how thick his spurt is. Maybe it’s been a while for him, or maybe he’s naturally so potent. With how his load clings up your throat before your saliva could water it down properly, you cough few times.

A string of saliva connects between your lips and his tip as he pulls out fully with a soft sigh, appearing content at your act of altruism.

You open your mouth, showing him how free it is of any leftovers. His gaze darkens at the sight, and his throat apple shifts as he gulps.

He chuckles softly, pulling his lower clothes up. “Unbelievable. I must have underestimated your willfulness.”

You nod quietly and rest your forehead against his thigh for a moment, catching your breath.

“You did well. You always do,” Jing Yuan murmurs, rubbing your swollen lower lip with his finger.

The praise goes straight to your stomach.

“Now, come here.” Offering you his hand, he helps you stand up.

Tons of thoughts mantle your head at this time, but you find yourself susceptible, heeding until you get back on his bed.

Instead of moving to be somewhere above you, your general sits on the edge of the bed, next to you — being closer to someone in charge of you rather than bedding with you. He’s not where he was at first, kneeling between your legs, so you wonder if he changed his mind about the course of action.

His fingers trail over your thigh, watching the neverending squirms as they start.

“General…” you whimper breathlessly, your chest still rising irregularly. You have a bad feeling, wondering if he took to your subservience so much he’s now dragging this scene out, like he often does with many things.

“Jing Yuan,” he corrects you, finally permitting himself true selfishness.

“Huh?”

“When we are together, you should be able to drop the formalities.” He sounds resolute. “Can you repeat it after me?”

You’ve said his name many times before. When introducing him, when reprimanding him, when talking affairs. Yet it always happen with a prefix of his title. There’s alarms ringing, telling you that this is the end — once you comply to this, you can never truly retreat to your old relationship; or rather, what remains of it.

You concede anyway. He had you wishing you could say it many times lately, handing you the forbidden fruit and telling you to take the bite if you wish to be his completely — subtly so, yet as effectively.

“Jing… Yuan.” Flicker by flicker, your heart feels nearly as loud as your trembling voice.

“Very good.”

Serving you a smile not so pretty, Jing Yuan leans down for one more kiss with his hand on the other side of your body, not caring about the taste of himself still lingering on your tongue. His fingers keep brushing your thigh, way too gently for you all tense at this point. Even the way his hair falls over your face has you sensitive, demanding more.

It’s driving you crazy, how slow he’s taking this, building up your heat and not relieving it. When he withdraws, you look at him with a plea in yours.

“Will you…” Your lips quivers. “You mumble you’ll take care of me after…” you say with tears in your eyes.

“You’re right, I did. I almost forgot,” he says apologetically. He definitely didn’t forget. “Then allow me.”

Your sleep shorts are gently slid down, with him grazing his fingers on your skin along the way.

There’s an embarrassing wet patch on your underwear that gets revealed. Jing Yuan sighs, something sharper brewing in his golden gaze.

You feel naked before you actually are.

“It seems I was right.”

Your stomach twists at his words. “About…?”

“Our desires going both ways.”

You suddenly remember that one conversation. But before you could ponder on it for too long, spiral even, his fingers touch your clothed cunt and your hips rise on their own.

“Look at you,” he mocks gently.

You squirm under his gaze, trying to shut your thighs. He keeps them open with his palms on the insides of your thighs.

“Such eagerness from a simple act of service,” he teases.

Hot with shame, there is still something about his jab that gets you needy. Perhaps you’ve grown so accustomed to being relentlessly poked at, that now, you begin to desire more.

“I assume you want even more. Need, perhaps.”

You nod your head despite your dignity.

“Say it, or I won’t be able to do it properly…” he taunts, bordering on condescending.

And you still indulge him. “Please… I need you to touch me more,” you beg, all whiny. “Make me feel good.”

“Hm. I do owe you something.”

One finger, at last, slips underneath the band of your panties. Jing Yuan straight up groans at the feeling of your wetness meeting him immediately.

“So wet…”

“I-I’m sorry…”

“What for?” He cocks a brow. “This is a good thing. It means even your body recognizes me.” He just keeps saying things that only embarrass you further; and yet, your body wants more.“Just like…” His finger lifts to flick at your clit, knuckle stretching the fabric above as he does that. “This, for example.”

Finally, a real moan escapes you. You’re even more sensitive than you remember yourself to be.

He rubs on your bud slowly, spreading pleasure across your groin.

“Jing Yuan…” You look up at him hovering over you, feeling small underneath his ministrations. The way he gazes at you, as though he’s restraining himself from pouncing on you and still so patient, makes you realize he could do everything to you if he only so wished to.

Hearing you use his name unprompted, he rewards you with even more pressure, smiling benevolently. Every tiny reaction of pleasure as he massages your clit, he observes carefully, pushing your chin back at him every time you dare to look away. “Eyes on me.”

He eventually removes your panties, keeping you only in your shirt.

“Pretty…” he mutters, staring at your naked cunt fluttering around nothing.

“Don’t stare like that…” you mutter. The room gets even hotter for you, twisting and spinning.

His finger glides through your slit, spreading your wetness all around; even inspecting every bit of you as he slightly parts your sensitive entrance too. You moan, shuffling your head around the pillow below you.

“How can I not, when you’re being all precious for me?” He chuckles.

You wiggle your hips around as his finger finally slips inside, not sure what he means. You grab his hand, not sure whether to push him away or any closer; in any case, he doesn’t stop. Thrusting in properly, he directs his fingertip at the back wall of your pussy.

A gasp leaves your mouth. He is even here, inside of you, asserting your belonging to hin. You hear the wetness stir as he moves his finger around, in and out.

“Did you think about this before?” he inquires like some deviant.

“What?”

“Me doing this to you.” He clarifies rather eagerly.

“I have never—”

“Yet your body is taking me so willingly. Are you perhaps lying to me?”

Him assuming you repressed something in yourself, you wonder if he’s right, even if part of you starts getting tired of him speaking for you, targeting your ambition about how much you know yourself. It is that you were made for him rather than yourself, from the look of it.

Just one finger spreading you feels a lot; all the more after you didn’t let anyone touch you in a while — and he most likely knows that as well, treating you with care yet slowly pushing past your limits.

So when he adds a second into play, you cannot control the small spasms in your legs. His digits are thick on their own, knocking breath out of your lungs.

“You’re so sensitive…” he marvels, especially seeing your tears.

You bunch up sheets into your hands, feeling your shirt start to cling to your back. And yet, you start to move your hips along his fingers, feeling something nice building up—

And so he stops.

“Huh?”

“I said I’ll take care of you. Let me handle the process,” he scolds, startling you.

He’s so mean, you begin to believe. Just a devil underneath that soft smile. Another layer. Put them all together and you’ll be hit with something completely different every day.

“O-okay,” you mumble, feeling few tears slip down your hot cheeks.

He resumes; it’s even worse, his long and thick fingers leaving you little mercy, now moving in and out fast. You’re so full already, width and length-wise. Worse, his thumb meanwhile plays with your clit as if it’s a tiny button to manipulate.

But every time you feel closer to something good, he slows down, having you shed all the more tears. “Please, stop teasing…” you whine after he does it again.

You know him well for this one to be understood. How can he not bide his time, seeing your expression unravel, you clinging to him for all your worth?

“General…” you plead out of force of habit.

“That’s not the name,” he says sternly, and pinches your clit, having you shriek.

“J-Jing Yuan…” you rectify your mistake.

“Yes?” he asks more kindly, playing with your addled mind.

“Please… let me finish…”

“I will.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, filling you with relief that he must have changed his mind at your pitifulness. Relief being momentary, as he suddenly pulls out his fingers.

“But you said—”

“And I meant it. However, I haven’t said it’ll happen using my fingers.”

Oh no. Feeling small terror, you immediately picture yourself unable to handle the real thing. You assumed all you will do is get each other off; at least, today.

“I can’t… I—”

“I’ll make it work, don’t worry. You don’t think of leaving me hanging, do you?”

You want to say that you already made him feel good. But he’s hard again, as if it’s your fault for being so enticing. And you can’t disappoint him.

“I only wish to make this an even better experience for you,” he adds softly, further pulling you into his plans. “Will you let me?”

“…Okay.”

“Good.”

He stands up, grabbing the band of his pants to remove them, while not looking away from you — teasing you with the slowness and openness of his action.

Despite what you said, you nearly topple off the bed, feeling instinctual need to get away once you see what’s hanging between his legs again. With your ankle in his hold, he drags you back to the center.

Jing Yuan climbs to be above you; forces your legs ajar using his knee and slides in between them. You gulp.

“Lift your arms for me,” he instructs rather roughly, desire chewing through his tone.

As you comply, hesitantly so, he removes your shirt over your head. He observes your body with great hunger, not so subtly licking his lips, as his hands trail all over your torso, ending with a squeeze at your breasts until you whimper.

“Such beautiful sight and you act all shy with me…” He huffs with amusement, watching you tear up even more.

“Now…” Grabbing his hard length with a hiss, he places it over your mound, checking for something.

“Jing Yuan?” You wriggle your hips, feeling a few drops trail down.

“I just don’t know if you can handle it easily,” he says with pity. “What if you break like a poor thing under me?” Those words do nothing to comfort you.

And when he lies down on you more comfortably, he lets his length fall down to rest at your entrance, then drags it across your clit and folds by steering his hips, he has to grab you tight by your hips. Because just the tip has you trying to scramble away in small panic.

“No, no, no — it’s all right, I’ve got this. I’ll take care of everything,” he says as if he didn’t purposely provoke you.

You still brace your hands against his stomach, no matter how pent up your body is to get to finish, but he pushes forward, managing to get the tip hook at your entrance.

“Jing Yuan—”

“You’ll see soon,” is all he offers you before he thrusts in, getting at least one third of himself coated in your slick.

There is some discomfort, no matter how well he stretched you out on his fingers. You let out a small sob, writhing your head back, muffling his content gasp.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he coos, lifting one hand off your hips to stroke your face. “What is a moment of discomfort to something much greater? You’ll feel really good soon, I promise.”

You soon get a sense he enjoys you struggling like this — probably the clinging part, your hands on his biceps, with the way his eyes zero in on your trembling lips every time they open to whine about him — but it’s hard to tell if you aren’t simply sweating your brain instead.

“Just a little bit more, sweet thing.” His thumb wipes at your clit in slow circles, helping your body to accept him with less tension squeezing his cock.

With that, he soon thrusts in more deeply, grabbing your hand that flies at his chest to push him away again. “We’re almost there. You don’t want to take this process for granted, do you?” Instead, he presses a side kiss into your palm.

Then he licks it, and with you squirming in jolt, he takes advantage of your distraction to snap his hips forwards and sink into you fully, groaning as you envelop him entirely.

Suddenly, your legs flail around him, and a yelp follows, your eyes tearing open. “Jing Yuan!”

“You’re fine,” he says a bit dismissively. “So tight…”

He pulls out tentatively before thrusting in again, having you cry out and scratch at him. Seeing not that much hesitation from your body — at least, not enough to worry about injuring you — he begins to move, the pace slowly increasing. His hands slide to rest under your back. He glides them through as it keeps arching, unable to handle the fullness ruling the bottom regions of your body, or even the way his muscular body crushes you.

He’s nearly tormenting you, having you heave from how difficult it is to take him, the pressure unbearable. Despite the difficulty, you feel as though you might finish soon, for what was taken from you halfway through rapidly builds up again.

He croons at you, seeing you take him anyway — he can tell your body is slowly accepting the intrusion — and offers you a brief warm gaze at your tears. The stretch he’s knocking into you has you crying still, but the friction feels so good, you have little strength to be mad at him.

“It’s too much…” you whine this. “I’m so full of you…”

“I know, I know. Part of me wonders…” he says before he moans, while adjusting his grip on you as your poor legs flail around his hips and try to push away with their feet, “… if you can even move after I’m done with you.”

Hopefully not, he must think as he fucks you deeper. He’d probably like to tend to you while your limbs refuse to cooperate for an unforeseeable future — at this point, you begin to suspect he takes simple pleasure from tending to you, looking back at the past weeks. Never a burden, if something to make his lonely life meaningful. Yet he’s so selfish too.

You mewl at his words.

“D-don't worry,” he utters through his teeth, eyelids heavy from the pleasure you’re bringing him. “I’ll take great care of you.” He kisses you to reiterate his point, rolling his tongue around yours, biting your whining lips too.

His forehead then rests on your shoulder as he suckles below, oscillating between biting here too, as if to purposely drive you mad.

You have never thought you could be so sensitive. You roll your head to the side and back, in some protest against something so vivid. In his hands, your body is merely an instrument, attacked from both ends. So dizzy too, as if your mind is being severed, the physical rest sinking into the mattress below you.

It just goes like this; your walls trying to push him out, clamping on him, then forced and stretched open again. It’s maddening. It’s way too intense — his skin on yours so loud in the room, scent of sweat, his hair grazing your skin, his teeth stinging you. You feel pressure on your abdomen and you wonder if you’d feel him moving underneath if you placed your hand over there. You decide not to check, too scared of the truth.

He still overwhelms you even more; his hands grab onto your waist before he starts pushing you down onto his dick properly, still attached to now your neck like a vampire, as though he needs soothing himself. You get to hear his own moans and grunts falling into your ear.

“I know what you need. I always do.” This conviction scares you more and more every time he somehow seems to prove you right.

Suddenly, he maneuvers you around — hands on your hips, hoisting and flipping you. You find yourself on top of him.

“Jing Yuan?”

“That’s a much better view.” He chuckles, even if you tremble so terribly, unable to sit down fully on what you’re still sheathed on. With strain in your legs, you do your hardest to keep yourself upright.

“Come on. Show me yourself properly.” He encourages, stretching his arm to squeeze at your breast lazily.

You don’t know if you can do this. You don’t think you can. Being fucked and fucking yourself on it are completely different things. This position is even worse. With gravity at play, you are meant to take him inside your cunt even deeper, feeling his tip easily rest at your cervix as though it’s capable of opening even impossible. And yet, when it comes to helping you, he does nothing — knowing you have no choice if you even want to cum. When you do gather enough courage to start to move up and down, it is with difficulty, you not stopping just because you really need to finish. You’ve been wound up for too long.

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to please me.” He teases, fondling your nipples in away that still makes you think how good he’s to you. He is nonetheless taking care of you, making you feel good, isn’t he?

“I am, but… it’s just so much—”

“I’d say that’s a good thing… feeling this intense.” He helps you grind your hips around by motioning his from below, hissing as you tighten around him. “I-it means that you are focused on me.”

“You’re so mean, General…” you whimper.

He is, not because you called him mean, especially if rightfully, but just because you used the title again, suddenly snapping your body down onto his cock. “You were saying?”

“What—” You cry out, digging your heels into the mattress to force yourself away.

“You need to remember to use my name,” he says suddenly roughly, pushing your body down by your hips till your hole takes him to the hilt and his balls slap you that your skin stings.

“I’m sorry, Jing Yuan…!”

But even if you are — he can see it clearly, you always worry so much about his feelings —feeling your tight heat around him suddenly reminds him of what he’s been stalling, so he simply goes for it.

“Mhm. You better be. I’m not just a stranger,” it slips out of his mouth without realizing. “I’m the one who takes care of you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid, who sees it to it you don’t know want—”

You’re too fucked out to question why does it matter to him this much anyway, or why does he sound so condescending. His hips move with all the greater vigor, only forcing you onto his length, to be frictioned to no end. His pubes grind against your throbbing clit, making your blood rush all over your thighs.

“Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan—” you keep crying, feeling too much for a brain to safely process. It almost hurts and yet it feels so good. He’s breaking you. He’s breaking you apart, fixing fragments of you to be with his influence, arranging his own composition. You’re just a rag doll in his big arms, hoisted and fucked like you weight nothing. He leaves no space inside your pussy untouched, nearly unbearable, that you can barely feel your legs that are uselessly kicking the bed every time he half-lifts you.

Among the cloud on your mind, you still remember one thing. “At least… please, pull out…”

“I will. I promise,” he says hastily.

“Okay… please, I wanna cum now…”

And he obliges, maintaining this pace for you. You scratch at his chest again, feeling this bundle of warmth in your belly kindle, about to burst completely. You allow him to keep fucking you like this, so fast now, holding onto his chest, his arms, his hair even, not knowing what to do with yourself and this destruction. It doesn’t take you much longer to finish with a scream of his name, your hole pulsing before clamping down and locking on him. Coming untouched, in a way you didn’t anticipate.

“You vicious…!” he curses through clenched teeth, especially that he’s already not far behind you.

Now gripping your forearms instead, nearly instilling fear in you that he’ll break them, no matter that he still maintains some control, he keeps fucking you through your climax with little mercy.

Your tears roll down freely, stinging your face the same the brutal overstimulation does. “No, it’s too much—” Your body tries to slope down from how lightweight it suddenly feels, but he keeps using you.

“Hush, just a bit longer…!” Unwilling to let go of his bliss, feeling his own orgasm biting at his loins terribly, he pushes you down for the last time with a loud but muffled grunt, clinging to those last bits of control.

You don’t even realize he does what he was not supposed to do anyway, fucked out; not until you feel a shoot of warmth within you. “Jing Yuan…?” you ask with alarm.

“I apologize,” he says with strain as he thrusts in the cum into you regardless, “I… failed to time it right.” A heavy pant follows. “Will you forgive me?”

In your state, it feels hard to see why it’s a bad thing he didn’t listen. And you don’t want to be mad at him either. So you nod your head, even if that seed of doubt lingers deep in your stomach.

“That makes me happy.” He draws you down for a kiss, laughing prettily at how you barely can follow him. And if he is happy, so are you. It’s always like this. “Will you give me one more?” he asks into your lips.

Before you could even say anything, he flips you around onto your belly.

“No, I can’t…!” Gripping the pillow, you squirm underneath his heavy body suddenly crushing you again, his legs at your sides. “I’m still sensitive…”

“Shh,” he coos as he rubs his tip between your swollen folds, having you shiver from the overt sensitivity. He fucks some of his cum inside, while his hand holds your nape. “It’ll feel good, I promise. I know what you need.”

With that said, he thrusts inside your sore hole again, wasting no time with building up the pace this time. The mess around your thighs is made to be even worse as he pushes it in and out in slight splatters. When your arm tries to push at him from behind, overwhelmed from the overstimulation, he simply laces his fingers with yours, holding your hand down to the mattress.

You are therefore forced to take him as he pleases; a brutal drop of his body that brackets your hips, his balls constantly slapping at your clit, him slipping inside fully and pulling at your walls that you think he’ll break you. He’s not even moving that fast, but all that Jing Yuan needs is to keep using his strength. The buildup of your pleasure is no longer incremental, if akin to being thrown into deep waters. You drool into the pillow, far away with your static head and succumbing to mostly sensations as your eyes roll back. And yet, you still wait for him to make you feel ecstatic all over.

Both the bed and your body shake, moving forward with every powerful thrust of his. Your legs flail, as you feel yourself hastily being thrown back onto his length.

With one more time that you try to push him away, even if it’s done weaker and in some mock attempt of control, he rests his body harder on yours. His arms slip under you, hands going to grab your breasts and give your nipples attention again. He buries his face in your nape, kissing and biting here, veiling you with his thick hair, until your toes curl.

You’re worn down by him; Jing Yuan has you seeing stars again very quickly, but now it’s working with nerves already frayed. Judging by the stutter in his hips, there’s no much latency between you two. You imagine someone like him would have an extraordinary stamina, so for him to lose his mind as quickly as you do, you believe he must have been hiding his desire for you for so long. It’s terrifying, how long you went as oblivious.

“You better remember this night…” He huffs between the thrusts.“You certainly can’t take it back.” You writhe underneath him at the words, clawing at the bed sheets. You whine, warbling sound in your throat as he hits another good spot with his blunt tip. “It’s alright—” he says as he delivers another merciless thrust, your pussy squelching with your own wetness and his previous load, “It’s for the better.”

You don’t know what he means by that; he’s probably slipping a few real thoughts because he cannot help himself, inhibitions lost from the feeling of your wet heat around him. And yet, you yourself are too rendered stupid to even have the ability to analyze his words.

Especially when your next orgasm takes you with all its savagery, warmth exploding up your stomach and forcing you to suddenly go limp. Your ears ring as he keeps chasing his own, and the room spins terribly. It’s only when he bites down a particularly harsh mark, painful, that you are animated again. You also realize he broke his promise for the second time.

You feel him spill in you. “Y-you—”

“If it happened once already… there’s no need to keep it in,” he excuses, rubbing your poor breasts as he does few more shallow thrusts to ride out the last of bliss. Breathing heavily, he pulls out, his hand carefully placed on your back, before he’s sitting up on his knees.

Gaining your bearings, you become acutely aware of the soreness, sweatiness, and exhaustion sticking to you. Slowly craning your head towards him, your face covered in your tears, it’s him transfixed — observing the mess drip out of your quivering hole, down the valley of your trembling thighs, as if it’s some grounds waiting to grow flowers. He pushes two fingers in, not allowing it to leave just yet.

“No, stop…” you whine at the feeling of sensitivity remade.

“Shh.” He keeps going a few more times like this, even running his other hand along the welted bite with something content in his eyes. Only when his spent begins to dry, he leaves the bed for a moment.

You don’t even bother to move; you can’t. With eyes closed, you tune your ears to listen to his steps around, a bit anxious without him here.

He returns with a wet cloth a few moments later, as well a glass of water. It scares you he can still move easily — if you weren’t so tired, would he have you impossibly longer? To be expected of a man of his strength, and yet… it’s easy to underestimate him sometimes. Jing Yuan must paint himself as weaker deliberately, just to corner his opponent last second. He smiles when propping the glass against your lips with a brush of your hair; you drink eagerly. After wiping you clean too, he draws you close into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.

“I feel weird,” you mumble into his chest, as though expecting for him to fix it. It already is unusual, being naked and chest to chest with your general. But that’s not even the main issue.

“I understand. It was a lot to take, wasn’t it?” He laughs softly, churning your guts who don’t know if they’re happy or humiliated. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

You nod. He’s here, you tell yourself too. He’s here, and maybe he took a piece of you, but he is here nonetheless.

“There you are,” he praises as if nothing. “See? Nothing is wrong. You’re just a little bit tired, so am I.”

Your trembling limbs, he moves to rest across his lap sideways before he starts to massage them gently with one hand. You cling to him harder, cheek pressed against translucent chest hair. In return, he rubs your back up and down with his other hand, allowing you to come down on your own terms. Although, he accidentally rubs across your tender spots as well, chuckling when you squirm.

“Jing Yuan…” you scold drowsily.

“Mhm. My apologies. I just quite enjoy the sight of my markings on you.” He certainly doesn’t sound sorry.

“What are you? You grew fangs without me knowing?” you grumble, frowning even with your eyes closed.

“You would not be entirely mistaken.” Despite him sounding as though he’s joking, you choose not to check his expression. You try to fall asleep instead, determined to let dreamland wash it all away.

“What would you do without me?” he asks eventually, warm. He smooths down your hair with his big palm, occasionally humming some notes.

The question nearly scaring you, despite how playful his tone is. Maybe it’s not. Half of the time he says something playful it only ends up being truth in the end. He appears to be particularly happy to have you in this position and you feel like you are yet to fully understand why, something going beyond simple adoration. Because that’s a good question. It seems he became an integrated part of you, as if half of your meaning and value was replaced with him.

You wouldn’t be yourself therefore, you think right as you begin to succumb to slumber. You’ve been moving within the space he has already defined, rather than against it, after all.

“They stopped bothering me quite some time ago, didn’t they?” you note that with a tiny yawn after Jing Yuan has exhausted you again; a few nights later. You’re resting on top of him, naked chest to chest until your hearts sync. A bed sheet wrapped around you is like a safety cocoon, but you’re still not sure what to make of this relationship. That stalker has stopped bothering you after you moved in with Jing Yuan. Seeing and hearing no suspicious activity for weeks now, it’s as though they have simply given up.

“Hm, seeing that you have the general on your side must have been deterring enough.” He chuckles, rubbing circles into your lower back.

What he says sounds plausible, if not infallible because it’s him who said it. Of course, anyone who knows better wouldn’t think of targeting someone aquatinted with him. But the more you think about, the more ironic it becomes how well you’re falling into his hands at the same time. You must be overwhelmed. So perhaps… a break would do you good.

“I should probably come back to my house then. I had better go before I grow roots here,” you say wryly.

“So soon?” he asks with surprise.

“Sorry?”

Clearing his throat, he restates, “I mean to say, you cannot tell whether they won’t be pestering you the moment they see you’re on your own again. That’s been the crucial point from the start, to protect you until we catch them. No sooner, no later.”

“Yes, but still…” You lift your head from his chest to look at Jing Yuan. He immediately strokes your face, unable to deny himself to touch you any moment these days. “Am I then supposed to live in fear forever? Forever on your behalf?” It’s been weeks turning into couple of months.

He looks you deep in the eye, evaluating your restlessness to go. “Just until we catch them,” he decides, serious enough to let you think he ruminated it thoroughly.

“How do you even catch them if we just let them be?” you still question.

“That’s a good question,” he sighs softly, “However, I have my own ways, so do my subordinates. You needn’t worry.”

Yet again, he’s not giving you details. In the past, they were redundant to you, for you truly didn’t want to have to think about the unpleasantries. Now, you itch to be involved, unable to rest until the case is resolved. “Hm… it’s taking quite some time, however.”

“It is, unfortunately,” he murmurs apologetically, as though he’s sad on your behalf. “Not to endorse them, but they seem to have exceptional patience,” he jokes lightly.

A patient stalker is the worst stalker. Biding their time, prowling silently, as they triturate your sense of safety meanwhile and force you cling to someone else. If they were to simply attack or try to abduct you, that’d make things easier. Jing Yuan is remarkably patient on his own, so you get a front row seat to see the patience’s immutable ability to slowly drive one insane. Still, knowing you might be a target again once you leave his nest, it’s easy to let him be that dominant side.

You try to dispel your tension. “You know, Jing Yuan, maybe we should pull off some movie trick… If they see me again, we can set a trap on them.”

“How cunning my darling has become. Should I be worried?” he teases, rolling a strand of your hair between his fingers before he presses a tiny kiss here.

Your heart flutters at the sight, though you make sure to answer wittily. “Yes. Watch me expose every of your secrets.”

His eyes narrows a little at that, though his smile widens in amusement. “So the worm has turned. Then I shall stay cautious. Perhaps you will become the next general, preceding me in paperwork.”

“Oh, so I am just paperwork to you?” You pout.

“Oh, no, no. Not just paperwork: it’s paperwork and phenomenal affinity for expressing disapproval towards me.” He grins lazily.

“Wow. How tragically was I reduced.” You look grumpy.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, there is much more to you,” he claims with absolute certainty. “I have never neither doubted that nor you.”

“Thought so. And there’s only a handful of people that can handle you, Jing Yuan,” you say knowingly, a bit cocky.

“Yes, it seems abundantly clear that you can handle me, dearest.”

The double entendre is not lost on you. Especially when you’re still sore. You feel that furious heat on your cheeks again. “That’s just foul.”

“Really? And what do you think I was referring to? Care to show me?” he taunts — right before you find yourself on your back again.

With another evening, your routine ends with a kitchen run where Jing Yuan hands you your tea — you still don’t trust yourself to go without it. But after the warm kiss goodnight, the route to your bed from the kitchen is interrupted the moment you feel your stomach squeezing with something edgy. A tickling sensation overtakes your throat as well, and you can tell this is a harbinger of your body rejecting what you just consumed.

You quickly run to the nearest restroom. You vomit; with that, the contents of your stomach flush out the tea you have just consumed.

Deciding you don’t want to bother Jing Yuan with it again, you settle on the idea it being a sign to try to finally sleep on your own. It’s high time you become independent again. You don’t bother to dim the lights once you eventually reach your room — you’ve been keeping on one lamp like one eye open ever since you ended up here, too anxious to sleep in total darkness.

The results are far worse than you anticipated. You roll in your bed, all antsy. You check on your phone but everything online lacks loudness enough to distract you. You conclude you must be that used to the sudden blacking out or falling asleep by his side the nights you visit his room. But right as you’re about to get up and seek his room, you suddenly freeze, hearing the door open. You’re pretty sure it’s not something you imagined, the sound being clear enough.

Your shoulders relax a bit as you realize it must be Jing Yuan checking up on you, especially when you recognize the silhouette of his messy hair. How kind of him. Not wanting to start a discussion about the perished tea and be a nuisance, you close your eyes, pretending to be sleeping as he plods to you.

He stops at your bed, you hear. Must be watching your breathing.

But when a good minute passes and he still doesn’t move, you find your pulse spiking, cold sweat of dread covering you. What is he doing, staring at you like a creep? You definitely are alright, physically speaking. Then you hear him sigh, and he speaks. “Just a little longer.” You’re not sure what he means by that. Another thing you note, he’s not sounding sleepy at all. He’s usually asleep at this hour too.

His hand moves to rest on your cheek, in a familiar to you motion. It’s nice as it often is; until his fingers squeeze it, rather roughly, as if assessing something.

You squirm at that; mentally cursing yourself. You feel his hand muscles freeze, as if unsuspecting you to sense anything tangible. That has you wonder if he’s been here before — since the tea would probably have you less receptive. Was he? Dread overcoming you, you try to steel yourself, pretending you just murmured something in your sleep rather than was awaken. You even turn to your side…

But who are you fooling. He probably recognizes your unusual stiffness, as he suddenly whispers your name. That finally forces you to drop your act. Still, you move as though you just woke up, stirring slowly before you open your eyes. “What are you doing here, General?” you ask sleepily.

The use of the title disappoints him, and you can see it in a sudden frown that passes through. As for whether he believes your act, it’s hard to tell. “I was checking your temperature,” he informs calmly, not removing his hand. “You seemed wearier than usual. Did something happen?”

That sounds plausible as always, if you were to consider him squeezing your face in a possessive grip as something merely to indulge him. And yet, the unpleasant feeling in your stomach has you thinking otherwise. For a moment, you felt like a real prey, in a way you imagine you’d feel facing your stalker at night. And you trust your instincts enough not to ignore the somatic effect.

“But… why are you in my room?” you ask warily.

He’s still unshaken. “I was checking up on you. Even if the tea helps, it doesn’t mean nightmares cannot take over as a side effect. But it seems the tea has failed you tonight?” You nod, so he sits down next to you.

“I… I felt sick and ended up throwing up your tea.”

“Oh.” He hums with understanding. “Is there the chance that you ate something unfresh today?”

“I don’t recall anything like that.” You really don’t. “Could it be… the tea? Having other side effects?”

Come to think about it, that tea has been keeping you knocked out rather well. Although some herbs are more potent, and the entire galaxy has plethora of weird plants, can a simple tea really work so well, on equal with a sedative chemical compound?

“It shouldn’t, unless you’re allergic or have sensitive stomach.” He sounds sure of himself.

“What herbs are in it, then? Maybe I’ll be able to pinpoint which one isn’t for me from memory.”

His eyebrows furrow for a moment, a bit bothered by you posing unnecessary questions. “You probably wouldn’t recognize half of the terms in it,” he chuckles, now grasping your hand to stroke over the duvet. Normally the gesture would have you lean into it, yet you find your body to be on guard. “You don’t need to worry about it. They’re harmless.”

“I want to know. Please,” you say, adamantly.

Jing Yuan looks at you intensely for a second before he sighs, as if you are inconveniencing him. “Hm. Very well.” He recites the herbs’ names, half of them being common sleep helpers, such as valerian root, chamomile, lavender, passionflower, and lemon balm. The other half, they do not ring the bell, though at the very least, you don’t recognize anything commonly known as harmful.

“I see. I’m guessing that I’m just sensitive to one of them…” You decide to let it go, for now.

“It would seem so.” He offers you a comforting smile, as well a kiss to your forehead before tucking you. “Will you be fine on your own, or do you require anything?”

Originally ready to sleep in his room; now, you feel in need of space. “No. I’m already much better,” you attempt to reassure.

But after he leaves, fortunately not pressuring you to have another cup, you find yourself using a search engine to check the ingredients you have memorized. Frustratingly, nothing online suggests toxicity, not beyond a caution warning for pregnant and breastfeeding women, and people with high blood pressure for some of these. Maybe you have imagined it, the darker possibility that Jing Yuan has been sedating you. The thought that he lied about the components omits you too — whether he is or not, it’s hard to verify it on your own.

Unless… You decide to send it for testing; in secret.

You barely sleep that night, mind plotting, but when you do, it comes with a great price in a size of a nightmare.

As it turns out, testing unknown substances is far more perfidious than you’d imagine — you realize Jing Yuan’s kitchen might contain something illegal, especially in case it’s one of those outdated ingredients.

You didn’t know who else would be eager to help you with something potentially illegal, other than this infamous Bailu of the Alchemy Commission you set up a meeting with next day. She herself is known for unconventional methods, so you have come to her for help. You see her regardless of the fact that you are worried about Jing Yuan finding out. For the past few weeks, you’ve been going home together, not going out much on your own in concern of being attacked; besides, everything you needed was at his house. Therefore, you had to stage an excuse about your friend needing to see you in emergency.

If anything, your actual friends have been complaining about not seeing you these days, and you had to tell them it’s for the sake of your safety. At this point, it feels as though you have the cheek to feed them such lies. Deeply immersed in Jing Yuan’s life, or rather, he in yours, you exempted yourself from the social scene.

Thankfully, he allowed you to leave work early, urging you to stay safe. And taking the herbs from his kitchen, you found out that he never bothered to hide them. Perhaps it’s worth staying optimistic…

Or not, because Bailu’s answer worries you. “This… how did you even get this?” The small girl frowns, scrunching her nose in displeasure. She slams the can on the small table in front of her, shaking her head.

“I… bought this concoction to help me with sleep.” You lie, not wanting to get Jing Yuan in trouble. This tiny and obscure room in which she takes patients already suffocates you enough. “But it made me sick, so I was wondering if there’s something wrong with it…” You sit tight in the chair she gave you. “…Is there?”

“And who sold it to you?” she asks fiercely, tugging on her blue braid in thought.

“I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. I might have ordered it online. Please, can you just tell me what’s in it?”

She shakes her head again. “Ignoring regular stuff, there is also Ashen-Heart Blossom! It slows down a racing heart and lowers blood pressure to force into immediate sleep. But it is highly cardiotoxic and gastrotoxic in incorrect proportions!” She fumes, clenching her small fists. “It’s not just something to help you sleep. It works like a sedative in bigger doses. No wonder your stomach is irritated,” she grumbles. “This is why you people should never order shady stuff online!”

“Oh my…” you gasp, covering your mouth at her earful. Why would Jing Yuan have and use something like this? Why even blend this into the rest, if this is enough on its own? “Can this… poison me? I drank it for multiple times in a row.” In deep concern, your hand drops to your chest as you try to still your heart.

“Hm…” she assesses you. “You look stable enough. No pallor or incoherent nonsense or bleeding from your eyes.” She mumbles to herself. “Of course, it depends on the dose. I’d say, any is a bad idea, but lower amounts can still be expelled from your body without a bigger risk. How much did you have of it?”

You remember Jing Yuan pouring… “Two small scoops.”

“Hm. If you don’t experience more than vomiting once, you should be okay, so long as you don’t try drinking it again.” She points her finger at you, expecting you to listen.

“Of course. I won’t drink it again.” You stand up promptly, ready to get home and confront Jing Yuan about that ingredient. “Thank you for your help—”

Before you could get away, she stops you. “Wait a minute.”

You turn around, gripping a handle, a bit frustrated. “Yes?”

“Was it the General who gave it to you?”

You’re flabbergasted. “W-why do you think so?”

“I remember giving him that tea!”

If he got the tea knowingly, does it mean he deliberately drug you? “You know him?” you ask warily.

“Of course I do! He visits me regularly! He asks me how I am and brings me food,” she says as if griping about it. “But he also struggles to sleep and this tea was to help him sleep!”

Or at least, Bailu believes so. You don’t, not anymore. You didn’t know that he knows her, nor did you know that he’s been medicating himself. Just concealing everything as always.

“Um… I couldn’t sleep myself, so he offered me some of that tea…” you admit bitterly.

“Of course he did.” She sighs, before she decides, “Whatever. Just tell him to throw the rest away instead of giving it to you! Yours and his body are very different.”

The walk back to the station is awful, full of disconcert about the meaning behind the tea situation. And there’s this one particularly jarring thought making its appearance in that grotto of your growing distrust… could he be responsible for your stalker situation? It comes out of nowhere, like a hunch attached to your unpleasant feelings.

No. Jing Yuan wouldn’t hurt you. There must be some logical explanation, and it’s the credence you cling to. Perhaps even he is not aware of the effects of this plants, or that is it there, or how bad it is at least — as long as Bailu’s remedy works for him. If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done so already. He only took care of you.

You want to trust him. Especially that, you don’t know what you would do with yourself if everything turned out to be a lie. But… can you really just approach him and tell him that you didn’t trust him enough to perform a background check? You suppose voicing your concerns about vomiting is a safer option. If anything, it is truly high time that you start to sleep on your own.

Returning to his place, you find him only in the garden: playing the chess game on his own — on account of the two sides, and for a moment, you imagine yourself being one of the pieces he twirls between his fingers.

“Ah, there you are,” he greets, amiable as always, and stands up to approach you. Doing little to convince you that you are wrong about him. His happiness seems to be full of candor. Then he finally notices that dilemma etched all over your face. “Did something happen? You look troubled.” He places his hand on your shoulder after reaching you. “Is your friend alright?”

“Y-yes, she’s fine. I’m just…”

“Yes?”

He places his other hand on your forehead. “Hm. No fever.”

“I still feel a bit under the weather,” you lie, not telling him about the meeting. “I’m assuming that it’s the tea from yesterday, and so I was thinking that…”

“Yes?” His eyes narrow down a bit, as though he doesn’t fully believe you.

“Ge—” You quickly fix your mistake, seeing his expectant look, “Jing Yuan. I think… it’s time that I let go of those evening brews. I don’t want to be dependent on sleep helpers for too long.” You decide to lay it bluntly. “Or get sick again…”

You expect some aggression, at least on a micro level. Some advice against. Instead, he smiles in understanding, and nods his head. “I see. There’s no pressure to keep going. Especially if you feel sick afterwards. It seems to be my fault.”

Seeing him agree easily, you wonder if you were right about the more positive outcome — if he wanted to drug you, wouldn’t he be more ardent to keep you hooked? He would try to convince you somehow.

“I also would like to apologize,” he adds, taking full responsibility. “I should have known the herbs might be too strong for you. I seem to metabolize at a different rate. You see, these were originally meant for me. I sometimes struggle with sleep.”

That checks with what Bailu said. You’re also poignant by his admission, wondering just how troubled his sleep must be for him to have to sedate himself.

“Will you forgive me for this inconvenience?”

“Of course. You couldn’t have known.” You agree rather easily therefore. To you, it seems clear that it was all a big accident, not an egregious act of malice.

He draws you close to his side, arm around your waist, happy that there’s no bad blood between you. “How about a round of starchess?” He asks as he sits you two down onto the cushion.

“You’re going to win anyway,” you say, pouty, crawling onto his lap anyway. “I’m not racking my brain just for a predictable loss.”

“It’s not about winning or losing, but a battle of wits, and learning from the mistakes along the way,” he says theatrically, placing his head on your shoulders with ease. “Let me teach you everything you need to strive in life, will you?” he purrs, giving you shivers.

Sleep comes to you with difficulty the first night you try; well, second, if not including the first attempt. Your feet lead you back to Jing Yuan therefore; naturally. To your surprise, he’s up, sliding the door open in a matter of few seconds after you knock on it.

“I had a feeling you would be still awake. I don’t expect you to be able to sleep immediately.” He’s soft as ever, already opening his arms you fit right into before he’s guiding you to the familiar bed.

It’s both reassuring and rewarding, having someone to come to at the end of the day.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me… that stalker hasn’t bothered me in a few weeks. So why can’t I sleep?” You weave yourself into his limbs, face into the crook of his neck, like an animal burrowing itself for winter.

“They might be gone at the moment, but the feelings related to the event… they linger like a burden. It can take significant amount of time for a body to catch up with the feeling of safety. Let me be that still pond for you.”

You sigh wistfully. “It’s incredible, Jing Yuan,” you remark softly. “You seem to have a reassuring answer for everything. I’d probably keep beating myself over it if it weren’t for you…”

He just smiles into the top of your head. “Mhm. Allow me hold you until you fall asleep...” He yawns. “If anything, it’s perfectly reasonable for you to sleep here every night.”

“Huh?” Lifting your head slightly, you look at him with small fluster.

“You seem in need of someone,” he says knowingly. “And there’s certainly no reason for you to torment yourself with sleepless nights.”

Perhaps the issue lies in you growing accustomed to sleeping next at his side. Leaving this house, each day, becomes more and more impossible to play out in your head. This slice of haven keeps making you greedy. If anything, you wish to say Jing Yuan is yours. In a way, he is already. And you’ve been his for a long time.

For once, you allow yourself to rest in his arms easily, after a brief round of shooting the breeze. Easily, as you shut off any narrative, making space for his words solely. He tells you stories of the past. The wonders of other Xianzhou ships, or when he had rarer chances to see different planets. He has a knack for storytelling, drawing you into the vivid images with no trouble, as if you yourself were there with him. Every few sentences, he has himself asking you if mind his ramblings, nearly shy, asking you if you will forgive him for continuing. You tell him you don’t mind, naturally.

You only feel too cowardly to tell him about your nightmare from the the night ago. You’re very glad that mara hasn’t taken him away from you yet. You’d probably lose mind on your own — or maybe even go after him. Still, you end up voicing another concern, interrupting one of the retellings.

“Jing Yuan… I feel scared. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and...”

“What are you scared of, treasure?”

You swallow, your throat going dry. There’s always this conundrum: to say what you mean because what he does bothers you, and to not say anything because you don’t want to be ungrateful. “That I… I might have come to depend on you too much. I don’t want to be a burden, but also… I don’t want to be so needy.”

“Do you enjoy the life of struggle?” he asks straightforwardly, instead of acknowledging your worry.

“No, that’s not it…” you say with frustration. “Shouldn’t I be more resilient?”

“You are plenty of resilient already, managing to survive this thorny situation with honorable amount of mettle. You still pushed forward,” he praises, running his fingers across your arm. “You didn’t lock yourself up, but kept going and appearing at work. That counts for something, no?”

Looking to the side, at the windows veiled in night, you ponder over his grandiose words. “You must be right,” you ultimately agree, not wanting to be fastidious with him, regardless of your guts screaming at you. What would you even know? “You’re just taking care of me, right?”

“Of course,” he says with no hesitation. “As always.”

“We have to talk.”

Multiple days later, Jing Yuan interrupts one of your sunbathing sessions in the garden.

“Yes?” The seriousness in his voice has you sitting upright.

“We finally caught the culprit responsible for breaking into your house.”

Bewildered, you stare at him, not expecting for there to finally be some progress to your stalker predicament, let alone the end of it. Stalker you were starting to believe might as well be a ghost.

“Really?”

He nods.

“And who is…”

“A man, slightly older than you. One of your past neighbors.” Jing Yuan quickly fills you in, sitting himself on the stone bench next to you. His hand moves to rest on top of yours like it’s an innate thing.

You can’t believe this is finally over. And yet, there’s no immediate relief that you anticipated for weeks; instead, something still feels unwritten and unresolved. “Can I… see him? What is his name again?” There’s been many people who rotated your apartment complex over the years, each unique on their own.

Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. “Does it even matter?” he asks bluntly.

“Come again?”

“Why would you feel a need to know who he is?”

His question confuses you. Of course anyone would want to know, as well to work on organizing unwrought parts in their minds. “I just… want to ask him something.”

“Ask him what?” You feel his hand tighten on yours.

“Why… he did this,” you mutter, staring at Jing Yuan with irritation inflowing.

“Whatever reasoning he has, it cannot be anything good,” Jing Yuan still speaks calmly, as though your anger is a momentary disturbance. “You don’t have to try to comprehend malicious intentions he wanted to inflict on you. There’s no excuse. What matters is that he will be dealt with.”

“But I want to,” you say sternly. “It’s my choice—”

“A stalker doesn’t need any deeper reason.” Now it just feels as if he’s patronizing you, lecturing you as if he knows what stalkers think. “Just one thing about you, or, catching a whiff of your fear is enough to keep them going.”

“But… won’t there be some trial where I’ll meet him anyway?” You look for some clincher to finally convince him. It’s not even his choice to make. You fail to understand why Jing Yuan makes it such a big deal about something so salient, openly glaring at him.

“There will be. But I can ensure it happens quietly and swiftly, without the further need to stress you.”

You grimace. He’s been kind to you, but just how far can that kindness be given? This is one matter you wish to be the part of.

“Is there something bothering you? You can tell me.” Sliding a strand of your hair behind your ear, he awaits your answer.

You close your eyes, not even leaning into his touch for once, only heaving a tired sigh. When you open them, your lip starts trembling in prelude. “I told you, I just need to arrange everything in my head. Why are you being so difficult?” You rebuke him at this point, tears gathering or not. “We can rescind that protection mission you have made your priority so much.”

“I understand that much. And yet...” He looks at you pitifully. “I feel like you wound me.”

“Huh?” you exclaim with surprise. Despite not understanding his last words, feeling their connotation and seeing his downcast expression, sudden panic arises in you. “What am I even doing wrong?”

“I worked hard to make sure that fear for your safety is eradicated. What you want is certainly not for me to question, but I would feel disappointed for that help to be taken granted of.”

“Jing Yuan—”

“But I’ll arrange the meeting if you must. I don’t intent to impose.” Letting go of your hand, he stretches his legs as if to stand up and set his decision in motion, spiraling your panic.

“No, I—” You freeze, hand hanging in the air before you’d reach him.

You really want to talk to this person. But you really don’t want to hurt Jing Yuan either. Not to mention — what if he’s right? What if you do devolve in your peace, hearing that stalker tell you all his disturbing thoughts about you once he sees you? The grass is always greener on the other side, and perhaps he sees it better, your possible relapse at the cost of your curiosity.

“Forget it. You must be right,” you admit with reluctance, even if these words nearly suffocate you, stuck in your throat for a second. You put your head on his shoulder, soon to sniffle into it.

“Are you certain? We don’t have to make a decision in haste.”

You just nod.

“I see,” he says quietly, audibly relieved. “It’s all alright now. I am here for you. Always.” His hand strokes the back of your head, while the other one keeps you safely tucked against him by your back.

He carries you through this crying passage, safely, allowing you to leave everything that had bothered you in the last weeks behind. Your tears soil his shirt, and as always, he takes you and your woes with courage.

“You will always have a place here,” he eventually says when your hiccups become none.

“Thank you,” you mumble, regardless of your chest still feeling tight.

You start to think you should be leaving soon. The crisis is over, apparently — while there is still trial to come, you imagine Jing Yuan will ensure that stalker won’t roam the streets freely. Despite something reluctant in you refusing to budge from this place just yet, and perhaps you’ve become so used to Jing Yuan’s care so much it’s hard to imagine your life in a different way, you believe it’s about time that you fly away from this nest.

“It makes it… really difficult to depart from you,” you admit with small nostalgia, looking at him softly. “But I think I finally should, with that stalker arrested.”

“Perhaps there’s no need to.”

“Huh?”

“You seem to be doing well here. Not to mention, the house is bigger than yours, with that garden you enjoy so much, and it’s also closer to our office.”

“Do you mean…?” He makes your relationship sound official, you assume. With him, you have to read between the lines; at this point and since the day one. “But… what will people say?” you ask, torn.

You’re pretty sure that if you overstay your welcome, people will eventually catch up and start looking at your situation with suspicion. How do you even explain it? You’re no longer in need of his help.

“Close relations between people of the same office are more common than you think.” He chuckles lightly.

“What?”

“There is one way to make it official without instigating a dispute.”

You know what he means. Exalting your position through marriage. So long you make it official, no fooling around in form of an amour, the conservative rule allows such union even between the same party. You simply never anticipated something so nimble, like he has given it thought for a while now. Do you even want to marry him, no matter how much you might like or even love him? You weren’t meant to be his wife, if only a speck to make him shine. It would be easy to miss the old days where you could be of support to both him and Luofu.

“I don’t think… it’s a good idea at all. I’m sorry.”

There is no hurt of rejection, alluding you to believe he doesn’t consider your choice final.

“Of course, I am not officially proposing just yet.” He chuckles. “We don’t have to make this decision immediately, if you need more time,” he says rationally.

He’s been here for centuries. Whether it takes weeks, months, or even years for you to make up your mind probably doesn’t matter that much to him.

“No. Not now, not ever.” You indulged him in this affair. You enjoyed it even. But the idea of making it something of utmost value scares you. “I don’t know what are you doing.”You stand up, taking a few steps back with wide eyes. “This isn’t funny, Jing Yuan. All I did was spent a few weeks with you alone,” you continue your lament.

You know he doesn’t make big decisions suddenly, therefore, the seed of his supposed infatuation with you must have been planted a long time ago. The fact you went aware for so long is unsettling on its own somehow.

He stands up too, approaching you with certainty in his step, eyes sharply set on you.

“Are you even listening to me?” you snarl. “I am leaving this place.”

“But I love you.”

You stop at the edge of the path separating bushes behind you. You are frozen, unbelieving what your ears just caught. “Y-you don’t, why are you even—”

“But I am. Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”

Perhaps not. Yet to you, these words lack the warm cadence in which they should be uttered. He is warm in his speech, he gazes you at you as though there is no one else, but you just can’t taste it in the words that are always so carefully spoken, that sweetness of the dog days.

You don’t watch where you go and scrape your shoes against, your only objective to get away from him as you retreat. “No, but I really need you to retract these words, Jing Yuan!” you say with desperation amping up, stepping along the angle he corners you through. “Please.”

“I can’t,” he replies apologetically, moving forward. “The heart wants what it wants.”

Before you can even process his apology, you reel backwards. Your foot snags in a gap of the where the cobbles are missing in the path, and a sharp yelp rips from your throat. You manage to catch your balance in time, but panic sets in as your ankle throbs with white-hot pain. You scramble frantically to free your foot, but your desperate movements only wedge it tighter.

“Goodness. Are you alright?” Eyes open with alarm, he quickly grabs you, helping you to free yourself.

“It hurts so bad.” You moan from the pain continuously smiting you.

Jing Yuan kneels down, grasping your leg carefully to inspect it. “It seems just sprained, but rather seriously at that…”

Yet you barely care about your state as you look down at him, fearing the worst.

“Did you just…”

“Did I what?”

“I…” You can’t even form a coherent sentence, especially when he stares back at you in total innocence.

There seems to be genuine worry written all over his face. No sign of enjoyment to suggest he might have orchestrated your accident. You must be really tired, to have these thoughts to infer about him instead of remembering how clumsy you get when stressed.

“Nothing… it just really hurts.”

“I can imagine that.” He looks around, already envisioning what he’ll do to in order to tend to this injury. “Perhaps you should stay here for a little longer. Someone needs to help you move around.”

You’re not sure if you want to stay. You definitely don’t want to pay for it. But, Jing Yuan knows the best.

“Alright. But just for a few days, until I can move around on my own. No more.” You make a attempt to sound strict, as feeble as it is by now.

You don’t even know why you bother to make any ultimatums at this point. Fate seems to have its own conscience, favoring him for centuries too.

“Of course. I wouldn’t hold you here against your will.” He smiles with reassurance, all steady for you. Gathering himself up, he gently grabs you under your knees and shoulders, lifting you off the ground.

“As for my confession, you don’t need to answer it immediately.” The gaze he offers you is simultaneously as cherishing as it is poised, you finally notice. “We can save this conversation for once you have recovered. I’m sure that by then, you’ll make the right decision — and perhaps even see my point. You’ll have enough time to mull over all that.”

For once, you feel unable to speak.

“Perhaps… you will reach the same conclusion as I did,” he adds as he heads inside, looking ahead in search for something auspicious in his bright future.

After all, shaping circumstances to keep your paths intersecting has always been easy for him to finesse, Jing Yuan thinks.

It allows one to survive necessity without admitting enjoyment… and indulge in enjoyment without admitting necessity.

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

patient yanderes>>>>>

[ewnamored]

· · · A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING (SLIPPING) | STALKER!ASHVEIL X FEM!READER

Ashveil's curiosity about you tends to bring out the worst in him—enough for him to regularly trail you like a shadow while you remain blissfully unaware of his influence over your surroundings. But once mere whiffs of you are no longer enough, he finds himself inserting his way into your life instead, hoping to receive more of the goodness that is you. Now he's no longer sure if he can handle the consequences. His mouth opens far too easily, spilling compromising words before he can stop them, which raises the question of how much time he has left before you finally figure him out. | word count: 17,7k.

⟢ CONTENTS: not suitable for minors, yandere themes, plot & some smut, spoilers for ashveil’s lore and the quests up till version 4.1, sex that turns dub-con, stalking & breaking in, a bit of dark comedy, reader has a dog named princess, heavily focused on ashveil's perspective, angst (mostly regarding ashveil who struggles with self-worth and dehumanizes himself), suicidal thoughts, masochism, manipulation, slapping, threatening, intrusion of privacy, masturbation, unprotected & rough sex, come eating.

⟢ A/N: This story is loosely inspired by the TV show "You" (or at least what I remember of it from watching it years ago); though here, Ashveil is far different from Joe Goldberg. This is my first time writing for Ash, so I hope you enjoy the results. I also made a playlist that reminds me of Ashveil that might fit the story as well ♡(ᵔᴥᵔ). Divider source.

There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

.

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—” 

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely. 

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary. 

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!” 

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

If you’re still here, thank you for reading! <3 Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

THIS IS FUCKING PEAK I LOVE HOW ASHVEIL IS A LOSER YANDERE

[ewnamored]

· · · A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING (SLIPPING) | STALKER!ASHVEIL X FEM!READER

Ashveil's curiosity about you tends to bring out the worst in him—enough for him to regularly trail you like a shadow while you remain blissfully unaware of his influence over your surroundings. But once mere whiffs of you are no longer enough, he finds himself inserting his way into your life instead, hoping to receive more of the goodness that is you. Now he's no longer sure if he can handle the consequences. His mouth opens far too easily, spilling compromising words before he can stop them, which raises the question of how much time he has left before you finally figure him out. | word count: 17,7k.

⟢ CONTENTS: not suitable for minors, yandere themes, plot & some smut, spoilers for ashveil’s lore and the quests up till version 4.1, sex that turns dub-con, stalking & breaking in, a bit of dark comedy, reader has a dog named princess, heavily focused on ashveil's perspective, angst (mostly regarding ashveil who struggles with self-worth and dehumanizes himself), suicidal thoughts, masochism, manipulation, slapping, threatening, intrusion of privacy, masturbation, unprotected & rough sex, come eating.

⟢ A/N: This story is loosely inspired by the TV show "You" (or at least what I remember of it from watching it years ago); though here, Ashveil is far different from Joe Goldberg. This is my first time writing for Ash, so I hope you enjoy the results. I also made a playlist that reminds me of Ashveil that might fit the story as well ♡(ᵔᴥᵔ). Divider source.

There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

.

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—” 

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely. 

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary. 

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!” 

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

If you’re still here, thank you for reading! <3 Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

FUCKING FOUND GOLD

[gracerockyyes]

Think fast, you magnificent dumb-dumb

[soarien]

khasphaireaver

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

woah woah wOAH WOAH

[lavandulawrites]

girl (sigh)... we NEED more of this yandere hsr meme!!! (drop on knees and screaming!) It's so f#cking good!!!😭

Yandere HSR Men Memes Part 6

Yandere memes masterlist

Your prayers have been heard! Thank you🩷 They’re honestly so fun to make haha

Yandere HSR men memes part 1

Yandere HSR men memes part 2

Yandere HSR men memes part 3

Yandere HSR men memes part 4

Yandere HSR men memes part 5

Yandere HSR memes compilation part 1

Yandere HSR memes compilation part 2

Yandere HSR memes compilation part 3

Yandere Memes: Darling Version Normalised Yandere AU (both Honkai: Star Rail and Genshin Impact)

Taglist:

@t0r4s @chiara-hotel @violetisreadinghush @dimestrella @justboredforreal @berry3334 @hoo-hoo @1mlilith @pinkvoidfishcash @yae-yu127 @dyingsweetmackerel @anervouswolf-blog @akkahelenaa @tamashithe2nd @violetvase @eminicookie @ballhair @alexitacool @sashakittycloude @swagbucksjester @mythicaloutlier @cakechase @seikouryuu @mr-crawlings-wife @thatkawaiidesubitch @what-is-wrong-with-everyone @whyhellotheresir @leviackermansw1fe @blakeillust @chocoismasochist @loriannbowman @ilovegenshinhsrandmore @cherriiirose

Please don’t make these memes into fanfics without asking me. Thank you!

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

I know yandere hsr memes got my back for LIFE

[jinjoohaaa]

JJK MEN X READER !!!

Four roommates. One girl. Zero self-control.

art by @ thatsallitchief ✧⁠*⁠。

Room for One more ?

pairing : jjk men x reader

synopsis : you moved in for cheap rent, not to get passed around. but with four insanely hot men under same roof, it didn’t take long before things got messy. now you're cockwarming nanami at midnight, riding gojo in the shower, bent over for geto before dinner, and getting your throat fucked by toji. college? peace? who needs it when you’re getting dicked down for good?

one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen

eighteen

chapter nineteen coming soon...

Side stories are here

A/N : this fic is very smut-heavy and most chapters contain multiple smut scenes. if that’s not something you’re comfortable reading, please feel free to skip this one *⁠.⁠✧

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[thatkawaiidesubitch]

👀🤤

[danijaci]

my husband suddenly became love"sick"?! ft. phainon

got the collective ideas from my post! ty yall <333 basically regressor au bc he lowkey fumbled in the past lifetime (and you died) so he pulled the uno reverse card and highkey turned back the time (pt1)

part 1

part 2

part 3

WARNING/S: yandere, obsessive behavior, implied drugging at the end

[thatkawaiidesubitch]

hnnngggg yandere phainon