one piece brain rot!!

LIVING IN HAWKINS was a nightmare for most residents long before anyone had the language to call it that. On the surface, it just seemed like a small town with bad luck—too many missing posters stapled to telephone poles, too many "tragic accidents" that didn't make sense, too many funerals where people whispered instead of cried. But if you lived there long enough, you started to notice patterns. The strange men in suits and ties who showed up after every "incident," the way the police reports never quite lined up, the way people were encouraged to move on, forget, stop asking questions. It was like the whole town was covered in a thin, suffocating blanket of denial.

You figured out pretty early that Hawkins wasn't just unlucky—it was hiding something. Something ugly. Something underneath. You didn't have proof at first, just instincts and a knot in your stomach that never fully went away. That changed the day you and your little sister, Erica, stumbled into the orbit of Steve Harrington. You'd seen him around school before—Mr. Big Hair himself, the ex–king of Hawkins High with the perfect smile and the kind of swagger that made half the school swoon. Lucas had mentioned him once or twice in that "he's annoying but kind of cool" way, but you never paid much attention.

Then there was Robin Buckley—your sarcastic, razor-tongued friend who could talk faster than most people could think. She worked with you at Scoops Ahoy, rolling her eyes at customers and making bad puns like it was a full-time personality trait. You always thought she just hated this town in the normal, bored-teenager way. You didn't realize at first that she, like you, could sense there was something fundamentally off about Hawkins... she just hadn't seen the full horror yet. And then there was Dustin Henderson. Dustin, with his curly hair, baseball cap, and that metal grin full of braces. Your little brother's best friend and self-proclaimed genius—constantly tossing out Dungeons & Dragons references like confetti. Half the time you only understood what he meant because you were a huge comic book nerd; you'd mentally translate his D&D metaphors into superhero logic so you could keep up.

So there you were: stuck in a ridiculous sailor uniform at Scoops Ahoy, smelling like sugar, artificial strawberry and stale popcorn, scooping ice cream for screaming kids and flirting parents. You'd been tasked with babysitting Erica at the same time—because apparently you were the only responsible one in the Sinclair household that day. Erica was making the most of it, strutting around the mall like she owned it, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a free sample like it was a trophy. You kept half an eye on her while joking with Robin behind the counter, occasionally trading jabs with Steve whenever he tried to act cool and failed in spectacular fashion.

You thought it would be just another weird, tiring, sugar-coated day at the mall. You weren't expecting Steve and Robin to suddenly take an interest in your little sister for anything other than her never-ending demand for free samples. But instead of trying to shoo her away from the counter, they exchanged a look—one of those silent, loaded looks that said they were hiding something big. The kind of look that made that knot in your stomach tighten.

Next thing you knew, they were pulling you and Erica aside, voices lower, eyes darting around like they were afraid someone might be listening. They started talking about a plan—their plan. Something about a series of air ducts running through the mall, connecting to a hidden storage room. Something about strange shipments. Something about Soviet equipment. And then Dustin's name came up—how he'd intercepted a Russian transmission coming from the mall itself.

You stared at them like they'd just handed you a crossover script between your favorite comic and a spy thriller. Russians. Secret transmissions. Hidden rooms. Air ducts. It sounded insane... except nothing about Hawkins felt impossible anymore. The worst part? You watched them turn to Erica—your baby sister—with that scheming glint in their eyes. They needed someone small enough to crawl through those vents.

And just like that, your weird little job at Scoops Ahoy, your sarcastic coworker, your ex–popular coworker, and your nerdy kid brother's best friend dragged you right into the underground nightmare you'd always suspected was there. Only this time, it wasn't just mysterious disappearances and strange men in suits. It was Russians, secret experiments, and your ten-year-old sister being pitched as the perfect candidate to break into the belly of the beast.

YOU SOON learned a lot of shit in a very short amount of time.

Russians. Actual Russians. Secret underground bunkers beneath the mall. Scientists in lab coats. Soldiers with guns. Blueprints and codes and encrypted transmissions. And that was just the human part of the nightmare.

Then came the Upside Down—a rotting, decaying mirror of Hawkins that smelled like damp earth and death, filled with things that didn't belong in any world you recognized. You saw vines that pulsed and breathed like they were alive, spores drifting through the air like ash, and creatures that looked like every monster from every comic book you'd ever read, stitched together and made worse. You learned words like Demogorgon and Mind Flayer and understood, on a gut level, that this town wasn't just weird—it was cursed.

And in the middle of all of it was Eleven.

You'd heard about her in fractured whispers at first—"that girl with the shaved head," "the one with the nosebleed," "the one who did... something at the school." But seeing her in person was different. Small, quiet, big dark eyes that had seen way too much, shoulders squared like she was ready to fight the world if she had to. She looked like any other kid from far away, but the closer you got, the more you realized there was something... electric about her. Like the air around her hummed.

You watched her toss a car with her mind like it was nothing. You saw her slam doors shut without touching them, saw her stand between the people you loved and things that should not exist and win. Superpowered, bleeding nose, jaw locked in stubborn determination—Eleven was a walking, breathing reminder that the rules of reality didn't apply in Hawkins anymore.

By then, you weren't just near the group—you were in it. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, Robin, Dustin, Lucas, Erica, and the rest of them. Running from monsters. Lying to adults. Keeping the kind of secrets that made you older than your age overnight. There was no going back to pretending Hawkins was normal after that. You were knee-deep in the madness, and somehow, these idiots had become your people.

BY 1986, life had shifted, but the weirdness never really left. The mall was gone, Starcourt a charred memory smoldering in the back of your mind, and Scoops Ahoy was nothing but a shitty sailor uniform you never wanted to see again. You, Steve, and Robin traded in ice cream scoops and ridiculous hats for dusty VHS tapes and squeaky rolling ladders at Family Video.

The store smelled like old carpet and plastic cases, the hum of the fluorescent lights mixing with whatever movie was playing on the small TV near the counter. Rows of tapes formed narrow aisles that felt like little corridors of escape—horror, romance, action, drama. Stories stacked on shelves for people who didn't know their town was already stranger than fiction.

Most days, you were parked behind the counter with Robin and Steve, sorting returns while arguing about which movies were underrated and which ones sucked. Steve liked to lean his elbows on the counter and launch into his usual rants, his hair perfectly fluffed, a pen twirling between his fingers.

"Okay, but listen," he'd start, eyes wide and earnest, "I don't understand women. I really don't. I do everything right—I compliment the hair, I ask about their day, I actually listen. And then? Poof. Gone. It's like I've got some kind of curse."

"You do," Robin would deadpan from the other side, smacking a tape down to be rewound. "It's called being Steve Harrington."

You'd snort, half-listening while you stuck labels onto returns. But when his voice softened, when the bravado faded and he really talked about it—about wanting something real, something that wasn't just making out in the back of a car—you'd find yourself looking up and meeting his eyes. And he'd look back at you, for just a second too long, before glancing away.

With Robin, things were different—quieter in some ways, louder in others. You noticed the way her eyes lingered on the girls who walked in, how she straightened up when a certain redhead with a shy smile came to the counter. You'd catch Robin staring, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the return cart until the girl left with her rentals.

"You should say something," you'd mutter under your breath, watching her fidget.

"To who?" she'd whisper back. "To the impossibly cute band girl who rents The Breakfast Club on a loop? Yeah, I'll just go tell her, 'Hey, you're hot, also I'm into girls, also our town is a portal to hell, want to go out sometime?'"

You'd bump her shoulder with yours. "Start with 'hi.' Maybe leave out the hellmouth stuff."

You were there for both of them—listening to Steve's never-ending saga of failed dates and almost-relationships while nudging Robin toward even thinking about the idea of flirting. Somewhere between the rewinds and the late returns and the quiet evenings when no one came in, the three of you became... something like a little misfit family.

And in the middle of all that—sometime between the Russians and the monsters and the endless stream of VHS tapes—you and Steve got closer.

It happened slowly at first. Late nights closing up the store together when Robin had gone home, the lights dimmed, the streets outside mostly empty. You'd be restocking the horror section while Steve climbed a ladder in the action aisle, humming off-key to whatever was playing on the radio. You'd tease him about his singing, he'd mock your taste in comics-turned-movies, and the air between you would spark with something unspoken.

One night, you caught him staring. You were leaning over the counter, scribbling something on a scrap of paper, and when you looked up, his eyes were already on you—lingering, a little softer than usual, a little less joking. The moment stretched, your heartbeat suddenly too loud in your ears.

"What?" you asked, trying to play it off with a crooked smile.

Steve shrugged, but his voice dropped a little. "Nothing. Just... you're kinda distracting, you know that?"

It started with touches that lasted longer than they needed to. His hand on your back when he slipped past you behind the counter. Your knees brushing when you both crowded around the same tape. Fingers grazing when he handed you a pen. Little things that shouldn't have mattered, but did.

Then one evening, the store was empty, rain drumming against the windows, a storm making the world outside look blurred and far away. You were both behind the counter, going through inventory. The music from the radio was low, something slow and soft crackling through the static.

You made a joke—something about his hair being a living creature with its own agenda—and he laughed, that real one, the one that crinkled his eyes. He stepped closer to flick your forehead in retaliation, but his hand hovered there for a second, fingers skimming your temple instead.

You looked up. He didn't move away.

There it was again—that charge in the air, like standing too close to a TV screen. Your breath caught. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second, and that was all it took.

The first time you kissed him, it was awkward and perfect and absolutely inevitable. A soft, hesitant press of mouths that turned hungry in a heartbeat, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, your fingers curling into his shirt. You tasted coffee and mint and the faintest hint of something sweet he'd stolen from the snacks by the register. When you pulled back, both of you were breathing like you'd just outrun another monster.

"Uh," Steve exhaled, a crooked grin slowly tugging at his lips. "So... that happened."

"Yeah," you managed, your cheeks warm. "It did."

After that, "fooling around" became its own secret orbit you and Steve moved in. Stolen kisses in the back room while Robin yelled from the front, "If I don't hear rewinding, I'm telling your mom!"; making out in his car after dropping Robin off, the stereo low and the windows fogged; his hand finding yours under the counter when a quiet moment stretched too long and the space between you felt like it might swallow you whole.

You didn't have a label for whatever you and Steve were—not yet. But between Russians and monsters and the Upside Down, between Family Video and Robin's chaotic commentary, you'd somehow found yourself tangled up with the former king of Hawkins High.

And for the first time in a long time, the future felt terrifying... but it also felt a little bit exciting.

ONE NIGHT, one slow night at Family Video.

The store hummed under the tired buzz of fluorescent lights, the only sound aside from the soft whirring of the VCR and the occasional clack of plastic cases being shifted on the shelves. Outside, the parking lot was mostly empty, the glow from the sign bleeding onto the pavement in a sickly halo. Inside, you were leaned against the back counter, one hip propped there comfortably, a comic book held open in your hands.

You'd picked up the latest Amazing Spider-Man issue earlier that week—the one with Black Cat sprawled across the cover in that tight black suit, smirking like she knew every secret in the city. You were halfway through it now, the world of Hawkins fading out as you sank into the panels. The rich inked shadows, the snappy dialogue, the dramatic rooftop scenes—this was the kind of drama you preferred: fictional, colorful, and safely contained in twenty-something pages.

You could hear Robin somewhere in the aisles, humming tunelessly to herself as she reshelved returns, muttering commentary under her breath about movie titles. Steve, on the other hand, was handling the front of the store—sort of. You'd watched him turn on that classic Harrington charm when a pretty girl walked in earlier. He'd leaned on the counter just a little too casually, smile just a little too bright, trying to slide into small talk about movies and music.

It had gone badly.

Very badly.

You'd caught bits and pieces as you read: the girl politely laughing, then glancing at the door; Steve fumbling a joke; Robin clocking the whole thing from the comedy section and trying not to laugh. Eventually, the girl had rented two movies, thanked him with the kind of smile people gave to friendly strangers, and left without a second glance.

Now, Steve was sulking.

You saw him out of the corner of your eye as he shuffled away from the front window and drifted toward you like a kicked puppy. His shoulders were slumped, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his Family Video vest. His hair was still annoyingly perfect, but his ego? Very much not.

He came around the side of the counter and slipped in beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm when it brushed yours. He planted his elbows on the surface and leaned forward, glancing over at you.

You didn't look up right away. You turned the page of your comic, eyes tracking Spider-Man mid-swing between skyscrapers as Black Cat flirted with him from a rooftop ledge.

Only when Steve let out a dramatic, put-upon sigh did you shift your attention, raising a brow without fully lowering the book.

"Okay," he started, voice low and slightly wounded, "question."

You hummed in acknowledgment, not quite committing to eye contact yet.

"How," he continued, turning so his side pressed a little more against yours, "are you not freaking out like me and Buckley?" His tone was somewhere between curious and offended. "Like, you're just back here reading that—" he squinted at the cover "—cat burglar comic book like your life isn't an emotional disaster zone."

You snorted, finally dropping the comic a bit so you could look at him properly. His lips were twisted into a crooked frown, the kind he got when he felt both embarrassed and defensive.

"First of all," you said, tapping the page, "it's not 'that cat burglar comic', it's Spider-Man and Black Cat. Respect the classics."

"Yeah, yeah, web guy and leather cat woman, I got it," he muttered, waving a hand. "Second of all, you didn't answer the question."

You tilted your head, really taking him in: the faint flush on his cheeks from the failed attempt at flirting, the way his eyes kept darting toward the door like he half expected that girl to walk back in and suddenly change her mind. Behind him, Robin turned the corner with a stack of tapes in her arms, clocked the scene, and slowed just enough to eavesdrop while pretending to study the horror section.

"What question?" you asked, playing dumb.

"How are you not in a love dilemma like us?" he clarified, gesturing between himself and where Robin lurked. "You're never out here panicking about a crush or obsessing over mixed signals. You just..." He gestured to you vaguely. "Read your comics and... exist."

You let the silence hang for a moment, eyes dropping back to the panel where Black Cat was smirking at Spider-Man like she knew he was tied in knots over her.

"I don't do relationships," you said finally, your voice even, matter-of-fact.

That made him blink. "What? At all?"

You shrugged one shoulder. "Not here. Not in Hawkins."

Robin's head popped up from behind a shelf like a suspicious meerkat. "I'm listening," she announced.

"Of course you are," you muttered, but you didn't tell her to leave.

You closed the comic around your thumb, using it as a makeshift bookmark while you leaned your weight back fully against the counter. "Look, I'm a gay man in a tiny, nosey, occasionally monster-infested town. I have standards, okay? And no offense, but most of the guys around here?" You grimaced. "They can't live up to them."

Steve's brows creased, curiosity overtaking his self-pity. "Standards like... what? Being hot? Because, I mean—" he gestured at himself with a half-smirk, half-joke "—I feel like I'd at least qualify there”

You gave him a look. "You're a disaster, Harrington."

He pressed a hand over his heart. "Ow. Brutal."

You rolled your eyes but continued. "I mean guys who don't freak out at the word 'gay.' Guys who aren't secretly using me to figure themselves out and then running back to whatever girl they actually plan to marry. Guys who don't see being into men as some kind of temporary phase or rebellion."

Robin had sidled closer now, setting her stack of tapes on the edge of the counter and leaning in, eyes focused on you. There was a softness there, an understanding that went deeper than words.

"It's not just about liking someone," you went on. "It's about... knowing they'll actually see you and not just the idea of you. And in Hawkins?" You snorted quietly. "Most of the men here are either painfully straight, deeply in denial, or terrified of what it means if they look twice."

Robin scoffed. "Tell me about it. Try being into girls in this town. You think guys are confusing? At least if a dude stares at your ass, you know what's up. I have to figure out if a girl is staring because she likes my hair, my shirt, my face, or because she wants to borrow my notes."

"Or because you're talking too loud," Steve added.

"Shut up, dingus," she shot back automatically, then turned to you again. "But yeah. The whole 'does she play for my team or will she set me on fire if I say something' thing? Very relatable."

Steve frowned, glancing between the two of you like he was missing a piece of the puzzle. "So what, you just... opted out?" he asked you. "Like, completely?"

You let out a slow breath, eyes tracing the edge of your comic as you thought about it.

"Kind of," you admitted. "I've seen what it looks like when people have the luxury of fumbling around with their love lives—breaking up, making up, jumping from one relationship to the next. You and your whole ex-king-of-Hawkins thing? That's cute for you. But for me? One wrong person finds out, one wrong guy flips out, one wrong rumor spreads... and suddenly it's not just heartbreak I have to worry about."

His expression shifted—something like guilt flickering across his face. You could tell he'd never had to think about it like that. Not really.

"So yeah," you finished, lifting the comic again, "I don't do relationships. Not in a town like this. Not unless someone proves they're worth the risk."

Robin nodded slowly, chewing on her bottom lip like she was turning that over in her mind. "Same," she said quietly. "Except with extra confusion because, again, no one comes with a 'Team Lesbian' sticker on their forehead."

Steve was quiet for a beat, his gaze lingering on you a little longer than it used to. There was something in his eyes you hadn't seen before—not pity, but awareness. A new understanding of what it meant for you and Robin to exist the way you did in a place like Hawkins.

He huffed out a breath, trying to lighten the mood but not quite shaking the seriousness of it. "Man," he said softly, "and I thought my love life sucked."

"It does," Robin replied. "Just in a way that's... less life-threatening."

You snorted, flipping to the next page. "Welcome to our world, dingus. Yours just has more hairspray."

Steve bumped his shoulder against yours gently. "Yeah, well... for what it's worth," he said, voice dipping a fraction quieter, "if anyone ever gives you shit for your standards or... y'know, who you like? They can go through me."

You didn't look up immediately, but you felt the warmth of his words settle somewhere in your chest, unexpected and steady.

"Good to know," you said, letting the corner of your mouth curl up. "But I'll probably hit them first."

Robin grinned. "That's why we like you."

And there you were: three idiots in a video store in a cursed town—one straight guy with bad luck, one lesbian with a radar still in beta mode, and one gay man with standards too high for Hawkins—trying to make sense of love, or the lack of it, between aisles of dusty VHS tapes and the echo of things you'd survived together.

For the rest of the night, you noticed how Steve was moving. He wasn't pacing around the front of the store anymore, throwing himself dramatically over the counter about his latest romantic failure. He hovered near you instead, lingering at the register even when there were no customers, pretending to straighten the same stack of membership forms three separate times just so he could stay in your orbit.

At first, you didn't think much of it. You went back to your comic, flipping through more panels of Spider-Man swinging across the city, Black Cat smirking in moonlight, the whole exaggerated, ink-filled drama of it all. But you could feel his eyes every so often—little glances stolen between rewinding tapes and punching buttons on the register.

It wasn't until a lull in the evening, when Robin had disappeared into the back to do inventory (aka complain loudly at the boxes), that Steve finally spoke up.

"So..." he started, leaning his hip against the counter beside you, fingers drumming lightly on the laminate. "These... standards of yours."

You didn't look up right away. "What about them?"

He shrugged, trying to sound casual, though there was that focused edge in his voice now—the same one he got when he was really listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk. "You kind of dropped all that and then just went back to reading." He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I told you, like, my entire pathetic romantic history more times than I can count—"

"Tragic," you muttered, turning a page. "Truly."

He shot you a flat look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "And you always roll your eyes and say it's obviously Nancy."

You smirked. "Well. Sometimes it is obviously Nancy."

He ignored that, but his ears went a little pink. "Point is," he continued, "I've bored you to death with every detail about my ideal relationship. What I did wrong, what I want now, how I don't just want some half-assed fling anymore. But you?" He tilted his head, studying you. "You never really say what you want. Just what you're not settling for."

That made you pause.

Your eyes stayed on the panel in front of you—Black Cat perched on a rooftop ledge, city lights blazing behind her, Spider-Man hanging upside down in front of her like a devoted idiot. A slow, complicated kind of affection radiated from the image. Not simple, not easy, but undeniable.

You closed the comic gently, laying it on the counter with your thumb marking the page.

Steve took that as an invitation to keep going. "I mean," he said softly, "you said you don't do relationships here. I get why. But that doesn't mean you don't... want one. Right?" He shifted his weight, facing you more fully now. "So what does it look like—the one that's worth the risk?"

For a second, you considered brushing it off with a joke, deflecting like you usually did. You could already hear Robin's loud, mocking commentary if she were standing here: "Ooh, Sinclair's getting emotionally naked in public, everybody shut up and listen."

But Steve wasn't teasing. His eyes were clear, open, genuinely curious. Like your answer mattered.

You blew out a quiet breath, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on the comic.

"Okay," you said, more to yourself than to him. "You want the full thing? No take-backs?”

"That's kind of what I'm asking, yeah," he replied, voice softer now. "No take-backs."

You leaned back against the counter, letting your shoulders relax a bit. The store felt oddly small in that moment, the aisles fading into soft blur at the edges of your vision. Just you, Steve, the faint hum of the lights, and some cheesy synth soundtrack playing low from the TV.

"Alright," you said quietly. "My heart's desire. Don't laugh."

"Promise," he murmured.

You thought for a second, organizing the mess of images and feelings in your chest into something like words.

"I want..." you started slowly, "someone who makes me feel like I'm not... a gamble."

Steve frowned slightly, but didn't interrupt.

"Someone who doesn't look at me and see a phase. Or a risk. Or something they're going to outgrow when it's time to get serious and be 'normal.'" Your voice dipped on that word. "I want a guy who already knows who he is—not someone who's going to use me as a crash test dummy for his identity and then throw me away when he panics."

You swallowed, staring down at the cover of your comic, tracing the printed curve of Black Cat's glove with your thumb.

"I want someone who chooses me out loud," you continued. "Not just in secret—when the doors are locked and the lights are off—but in the daylight, too. Maybe not screaming it from the rooftops right away, but... at least not ashamed of it. Of me."

Steve's expression softened, his brows knitting together slightly as he listened.

"And yeah," you added, the faintest hint of a smile forming, "I want the cheesy shit, too. The comic book stuff."

"That tracks," he said quietly. "You are a nerd."

You huffed out a laugh. "Shut up.”

He held up his hands in surrender, giving you a little nod to keep going.

"I want... the best-friend kind of love," you said, eyes unfocusing slightly as you leaned into the idea. "The kind where you actually like being around each other. Where you can spend a whole day together doing nothing—watching movies, talking, arguing about stupid things—and it doesn't feel like a chore. Just... easy."

Your voice took on a distant softness, like you were narrating your own daydream.

"I want late-night talks on the phone or in person, where it's two in the morning and you're both exhausted, but neither of you wants to hang up yet. I want someone who knows my favorite comic arcs, who remembers that I hate pickles but love extra onions, who notices when I'm quiet and doesn't just assume I'm fine."

You shifted your gaze, eyes flickering toward the front window and the dark beyond it.

"I want someone who's not scared to be soft with me," you admitted. "Not just macho or performative or trying to be the 'cool guy' all the time. Someone who can hold my hand or kiss me and not feel like they're losing some part of themselves. Someone who's not afraid to say 'I love you' first and mean it."

You hesitated, then let the last part slip out, because once you'd started, it felt wrong to stop halfway.

"And yeah," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, "I want the superhero-cinematic romance, too. The dramatic declarations. The 'I thought I lost you' hugs after a big fight—or, you know, after almost dying in a Russian lab or being chased by a monster from another dimension." You chuckled softly. "I want the moment where everyone else fades out and it's just us, like the panel closes in around our faces and all the background noise becomes color."

You looked down, feeling your throat tighten a bit. "But I also want the regular stuff. Grocery shopping together. Falling asleep on the couch. Him stealing my socks. Arguing over which movie to rent and then falling asleep halfway through it anyway. Knowing that when I wake up from a nightmare, someone's there to shove my shoulder and tell me I snore."

When you finally lifted your eyes to Steve, he was staring at you with a strange intensity—like he was memorizing everything you'd just said.

"Damn," he breathed quietly.

You felt your face heat up. "I told you not to laugh."

"I'm not laughing," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I'm, like... the opposite of laughing. I'm..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "...impressed," he settled on. "That was... really specific."

You shrugged, glancing away again, suddenly shy. "I've had a lot of time to think about it."

"And you really don't think anyone in Hawkins could live up to that?" he asked, but there was something different in his tone now. Less teasing, more... cautious. Testing.

You let out a small, humorless chuckle. "Let's just say the track record's not great."

Steve fell quiet for a moment. The air between you felt thicker, full of all the things you'd just laid bare and all the things you hadn't.

Then, softly, almost to himself, he said, "It doesn't sound impossible."

You glanced at him, brows raised. "Yeah? Got a guy in mind?"

He met your gaze, and for the briefest second—before his usual mask slipped back into place—you swore there was something raw and honest in his eyes. Something that made your stomach flip.

He swallowed. "Maybe," he said lightly, and you couldn't quite tell if he was joking.

Before you could push him on it, Robin's voice came crashing back into the moment as she kicked the back room door open with her foot, arms overloaded with tapes.

"Okay, dumbasses," she announced. "I've done my time in the storage dungeon. What profound emotional revelations did I miss? Did Steve figure out what feelings are yet?"

You rolled your eyes, grateful and annoyed all at once by the interruption.

"Nothing you need to know," you said quickly, flipping your comic back open.

Steve lingered beside you for just one second longer, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm—so faintly you could almost pretend it hadn't happened—before he pushed off the counter and went to help Robin.

But the rest of the night, every time he laughed at one of her jokes, every time he walked past you to grab a tape, every time your eyes accidentally met, you felt it:

Something had shifted.

You'd opened your chest and scattered your heart's desires on the counter between the two of you like panels from a comic. And whether you meant to or not, you'd given Steve Harrington a new story to imagine himself inside of.

FROM THAT day on, something in Steve shifted—and Robin was the first person to clock it.

At first, it was small things. The kind of stuff only someone who worked with him every day would notice. Like how, instead of wandering the aisles pretending to straighten tapes while he people-watched, Steve started orbiting you. If you were at the register, he somehow always needed to “check something” behind the counter. If you were shelving returns in drama, he suddenly remembered that he had to reorganize romance. If you moved to the horror section, he’d mysteriously appear two shelves over in sci-fi, very obviously not paying attention to anything on the cases he was holding.

And the staring.

God, the staring.

You’d be focused on the computer, punching in a membership number, and somewhere in your peripheral you could feel it—his gaze, lingering just a little too long. You’d glance up and catch him halfway between “totally subtle” and “caught like a deer in headlights,” his eyes wide before he pretended he’d been looking at the clock or the candy rack the whole time.

Robin, of course, noticed almost immediately.

One slow afternoon, you were restocking behind the counter, flipping through a stack of overdue slips, while a couple wandered the aisles. Robin leaned against the end of the counter, lazily chewing on a red licorice, watching Steve as he hovered a few feet away. He’d just finished helping a customer and instead of going anywhere else in the store, he did what he’d been doing a lot lately—drifted until he was standing close enough to you that his arm almost brushed yours.

You didn’t look up, but your presence pulled him like gravity. He turned his body toward you, eyes soft, that stupid little half-smile tugging at his lips as he just… watched you, like you were more interesting than anything in the store.

Robin squinted.

She’d seen Steve stare before—at girls, mostly. But this… this was different. There was no slick, flirty performance. No leaning on the counter, no raised eyebrows, no rehearsed charm. He looked almost… shy. Hiding in plain sight.

“Okay, that’s it,” Robin blurted under her breath.

She turned, jabbing the licorice at him. “Stop it.”

Steve blinked, snapped out of whatever daze he’d put himself in. “What? Stop what?”

“That.” She circled the candy in the air between him and you. “The longing golden retriever eyes. You’re practically heart-eyes emoji-ing all over the place.”

You looked up just long enough to give them a side-eye, then went back to your stack, ears pricking but not intervening.

Steve sputtered. “I am not—”

“You so are,” she cut in. “You keep bringing him up when he’s not here, you hover around him when he is here, and I’m pretty sure you just spaced out staring at his face for, like, thirty seconds while he wrote down a late fee.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed faintly. He glanced at you, then leaned closer to Robin, lowering his voice. “Could you not say that so loud?”

Robin’s eyes went wide, a slow grin stretching across her face. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You have a crush on him.”

Normally, this is where Steve would launch into some dramatic denial. He’d throw his hands up, make a joke, blame it on the lighting or boredom or anything else. But this time, he didn’t.

He hesitated. Swallowed. And instead of saying no, he… didn’t say anything at all.

Which, to Robin, was louder than any confession.

Her jaw dropped. “You—wait. Wait.” She straightened up so fast she almost dropped the licorice. “Are you serious right now? Steve ‘I’ve-made-out-with-half-of-Hawkins’ Harrington is over here actually pining over a guy? Like—like, full-on crush? Like crush-crush?”

He grimaced, staring daggers at her. “Could you not announce my emotional development to the entire store?”

She slapped a hand over her mouth for a second, like she was physically restraining herself from squealing. Her eyes were bright, bouncing between him and you with barely contained chaos.

“I just—” she said through her fingers, voice muffled but excited, “I never thought I’d live to see the day. The ladies’ man. The former king of Hawkins High. Steven. Harrington. Gushing over a dude.”

She dropped her hand, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. “Hold on. Is this, like, a new thing? Or have you been weird longer than I realized?”

Steve shifted his weight, gaze darting toward the front door as if an escape might suddenly materialize. “Depends on what you mean by ‘new,’” he muttered.

Robin’s brows shot up. “Explain.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping, knowing she wouldn’t let it go. He flicked a nervous glance toward you—you were still at the counter, checking in a tape for the customer that had just approached, but you were close enough to hear if he was careless.

So he leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “We’ve, uh… we’ve been… fooling around. For a while now.”

Robin’s brain visibly short-circuited.

Her mouth fell open once, closed, then opened wider. She made a sound that was dangerously close to a squeal—a high, breathy little noise that she immediately smothered by biting down on her licorice.

“What?!” she hissed, eyes the size of dinner plates. “When?! How?! Where?! How did I miss this? I have eyes! I live here! I monitor you two!”

Steve panicked, eyes widening as her voice pitched up. “Shh!” He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, gently but firmly turning her so her back was facing you and the rest of the store. “Do you want him to hear you and then murder both of us, or…?”

At the sound of your names in quick succession, you instinctively glanced over. From your spot at the register, you saw Steve and Robin standing oddly close together, Steve gripping her shoulders, both of them wearing expressions that screamed we-are-totally-not-talking-about-something-important. They froze for a split second when you looked their way.

Robin, ever the actress, broke into an overly cheerful wave, wiggling her fingers like a maniac.

Steve, a beat behind, lifted his hand in a much more subdued, awkward little wave, trying to look casual and failing miserably.

You squinted at them, suspicion prickling at the back of your neck for a moment, but the customer in front of you cleared their throat, drawing your attention back to the tape in your hand and the cash they were offering.

As you rang them up, you could still hear faint, frantic whispering behind you.

Robin leaned in, eyes wild, voice a sharp whisper. “You and him? Like, actually you and him? For how long? Why didn’t you tell me? How—”

Steve clapped a hand gently over her mouth this time. “I will tell you,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “later. When he’s not right there and we’re not on the clock and you’re not making dolphin noises.”

She batted his hand away, but the excited grin didn’t leave her face. “This is huge,” she whispered. “Like, historically huge. I have so many questions.”

“Yeah, well, keep them in your head,” he shot back softly, “because I’d like to live long enough to answer them.”

Behind the counter, you handed the customer their receipt with a practiced smile, but part of your attention stayed tuned to the warm, buzzing awareness that, whatever they were whispering about, you were at the center of it.

You felt it in the way Steve’s gaze drifted back to you the second the customer left, something soft and unguarded flickering in his eyes.

And on the other side of him, Robin Buckley—sarcastic, sharp, perpetually unimpressed Robin—was looking between the two of you like she’d just discovered her new favorite show.

One she did not let it go.

The moment there was even a sliver of downtime and you weren’t within earshot, she pounced on Steve like a hawk that had been circling its prey for weeks without realizing it was actually a soap opera.

She spun on Steve the second the back door swung shut behind you, eyes blazing with the kind of manic curiosity that meant she would not rest until fully satisfied.

“Okay,” she hissed, slamming her hands down on the counter, leaning across it so she was right in his face. “Talk.”

Steve flinched. “Jesus, Buckley—”

“No, no, no,” she cut him off, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to just casually say, ‘Oh yeah, we’ve been fooling around for a while’ and then not give me details. I’m your best friend. I am owed details. Emotionally. Legally. Cosmically.”

Steve glanced over her shoulder, checking to make sure the customers were far enough away to not overhear. Satisfied that the old couple was consumed by their debate over St. Elmo’s Fire versus Pretty in Pink, he groaned quietly and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not even a little bit,” Robin said, eyes alight. “Start from the top. How did Steve Harrington—Mr. Six-Foot-Tall-Hair, Reformed King of Hawkins High, Patron Saint of Bad Decisions—fall for him?”

She jerked her thumb toward the back room where you were. “And when? And how? And why did I not know? Am I losing my touch?”

Steve leaned back against the counter, his shoulders slumping as he stared at some invisible point on the wall behind her. There was a faint, embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he was replaying something he didn’t quite know how to talk about without sounding ridiculous.

“You’re really gonna make me say it out loud, huh?” he mumbled.

Robin widened her eyes dramatically. “Yes, dingus, that’s called communication. You should try it sometime.”

He exhaled slowly, dropping his hand from his face. “Fine,” he muttered. “You just… can’t make it weird.”

Robin blinked once. Twice. “We passed weird ten minutes ago. Continue.”

He hesitated, then started slowly, like he was easing himself into cold water.

“It wasn’t, like… a lightning bolt or whatever,” he said. “It wasn’t one of those ‘I saw him across the room and time slowed down’ things. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s—” he broke off, ears tinting pink, “—he looks good. Obviously. I’m not blind. But that’s not… what did it.”

Robin’s brows arched higher. “Oh my God, this is already better than a movie.”

He shot her a look, but the smile flickered again.

“It was more like… creep-up-on-me slow,” he admitted. “We were working together, hanging out with you, dealing with the kids, the Upside Down, all that… stuff.” His expression grew distant for a second. “And somewhere in the middle of all of that, he just… stopped being background scenery.”

Robin tilted her head. “When did you notice?”

Steve exhaled, thinking. “I think the first time I really noticed him was at Scoops. Like, really noticed. Before, he was just Lucas’ older brother, the cool older sibling. The one who always had a comeback. The comic nerd who rolled his eyes at me like I was the dumbest person alive.”

“Accurate,” Robin muttered.

“But then one night,” Steve continued, ignoring her, “we were all in the back room—me, you, him, Dustin, and Erica. Everybody was yelling over each other about Russians and stupid air ducts and that damn code. And he…” Steve’s mouth curved, soft and fond. “He just cut through all of it. Took Dustin’s nonsense D&D metaphor, your sarcasm, Erica’s attitude, my confusion—and turned it into this really clear plan. Calm. Sharp. Like he’d been doing this his whole life. He made it all make sense.”

Robin blinked slowly. “You fell for him because he’s… good at translating nerd?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “No. I fell for him because I realized he was smart. Not just school smart. Like… battlefield smart. The kind of person who keeps their head on straight when everything’s going to shit. And he did it while babysitting his little sister and watching my dumb ass not figure out a single part of the code.”

Robin’s expression softened, her teasing easing into something more curious, more serious. “Okay,” she said quietly. “What else?”

Steve shifted uncomfortably, but kept going.

“And then there were all these little things,” he said. “The way he’d always stand a little in front of Erica when things got freaky. The way he’d watch Dustin and Lucas like he was counting their breaths, making sure they were both still okay. The way he’d make jokes when everyone was scared, just to get them to stop shaking.” He huffed out a small laugh. “He called me an idiot like, every day, but then he’d pat my shoulder or whatever like he actually believed I could get it together.”

Robin stared at him, something dawning in her eyes. “You like that he takes care of people,” she said. “The way you do.”

Steve swallowed, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess I do.”

She let that sit for a beat, then nudged him. “That’s when it started. When did you realize it was… more?”

He laughed under his breath, sheepish. “Honestly? Family Video.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “My god. Our crappy little tape prison birthed a love story.”

“Don’t call it that,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely opposed. “It was just—he was there all the time. Leaning over the counter, reading those comics. Smirking at my dumb jokes. Arguing with me about movies. Helping customers I was trying to flirt with—” he frowned, remembering “—and somehow making me want him to laugh more than I wanted to impress anyone else.”

Robin’s grin spread slowly. “Oh, that’s bad,” she said. “That’s real bad.”

He smiled helplessly. “And then, that night we were talking about relationships—about the whole Hawkins thing, being gay here, how he doesn’t do relationships because it’s not safe? He started describing what he actually wants.”

Robin straightened. “The ‘heart’s desire’ speech?”

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “The one with the best-friend stuff. The late-night talks. The superhero romance. The grocery shopping and the falling asleep during movies.” His voice grew softer, more distant, like he was replaying it. “He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t performing. It was just… him. Honest. And I realized—halfway through listening to him—that he was describing something that sounded… really familiar.”

Robin narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Familiar how?”

“Because it sounded like us,” Steve said, almost whispering. “Not just me and him—us. The nights we’ve already had. The way we already talk. The way I already look for him in every room. The way it feels… easy. Even when everything else is insane.”

Robin stared at him for a long moment. The noise of a tape clattering somewhere in the aisles pulled them back to the present, but neither of them looked away.

“And the physical stuff?” she asked quietly, all teasing stripped from her voice now. “The fooling around?”

His cheeks went pink again, but he didn’t dodge the question this time. He nodded, eyes softening. “That… just kind of happened,” he admitted. “But when it did? It didn’t feel like some random hookup. It didn’t feel like all those other times. It felt like—” he paused, searching “—like something I’d been walking toward without realizing it. Like turning a corner and finding a door that’s been there the whole time.”

Robin drew in a slow breath, processing that.

“So…” she said finally, voice gentle, “you’re not just messing around with him.”

Steve looked at her like the very suggestion offended him. “No,” he said firmly. “God, no. I mean, yeah, we joke about it. And we haven’t… talked labels or anything. But it’s not just… whatever.” He shook his head, jaw tightening a little. “He’s not a ‘whatever.’ Not to me.”

Something in Robin’s expression melted. The sarcasm, the relentless teasing—it all softened into something warm and fiercely protective.

“You know,” she said, folding her arms and leaning her hip against the counter, “if you hurt him, I will kill you. Slowly. With a VHS tape. Probably something from the horror section, for thematic accuracy.”

Steve snorted. “Good to know. I’ll add that to the list of things to be terrified of.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “I mean it, dingus.”

He nodded, meeting her eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. “I… don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to screw this up.”

A beat passed.

Robin let out a long exhale and then, finally, let herself grin again—big and wide and entirely too delighted.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “Former lady-killer, is out here soft-launching his crush on a guy through workplace pining and secret making out.”

Steve groaned. “Can you not phrase it like that?”

She smirked. “Oh, I absolutely can. And will. Forever.”

Just then, the back door creaked open and you stepped out, balancing a crate of tapes against your hip. You glanced over, catching sight of them standing a little too close together, matching guilty expressions on their faces.

“What are you two whispering about?” you asked, narrowing your eyes playfully.

Robin didn’t miss a beat. “We’re planning Steve’s emotional growth chart,” she said breezily. “It’s a very short document.”

Steve made a strangled sound.

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you set the crate down on the counter. “Sounds about right.”

But as you leaned in next to Steve and started unloading tapes, Robin watched him watch you—watched the way his shoulders relaxed just because you were standing there, the way his hand accidentally brushed yours and stayed there a half-second longer than necessary.

Yeah. She thought, with a strange little swell of pride.

She wanted details, and now she had them.

Steve had fallen for you slowly, clumsily, unexpectedly—

And from the look on his face, he wasn’t planning on getting back up.

THE THING about Steve was that even when he didn't have his feelings fully sorted, they were all over his face. After that talk at Family Video, he'd been different—warmer, softer, hovering a little closer—but he still seemed like he was walking around with a question mark over his head. start to say something sometimes, take a breath like he was about to jump... and then chicken out at the last second.

But the Vecna situation shook all of you in a way nothing else had.

Max being Venca’s next victim—made everything feel sharper, more fragile. It wasn't just monsters in the shadows or some invisible threat anymore; it was a clock nobody could see, counting down over one of your own.

That's how you all ended up camped out at Nancy's house like it was a makeshift war bunker.

Sleeping arrangements were chaos. Blankets, pillows, and half-folded quilts were scattered everywhere. The house smelled faintly like coffee, old wood, and the sweet-salty combo of whatever snacks had been raided from the kitchen. The Wheeler parents were either blissfully unaware or pretending to be, which honestly tracked.

Down in the basement, where the air ran cooler and shadows clung to the corners, the kids were scattered across the floor in uneven piles of limbs and blankets. Lucas lay on one side of Max, still halfway sitting upright like he'd fallen asleep trying to stay on guard. Dustin snored softly from a sleeping bag nearby, one sneaker still on for some reason.

Max, red hair fanned out on the pillow, looked... small. Too small. Worn out from the weight of the curse, from pretending she wasn't as scared as she actually was. Her Walkman was clutched in her hand even in sleep, the tape that could literally save her life tucked inside.

You and Steve were the only ones still awake.

You sat on the old basement couch, elbows on your knees, eyes flicking between the kids and the ceiling, like you expected Max to suddenly lift off the floor at any second. Steve sat beside you, slouched back, his shoulder a solid line of warmth against yours.

The TV was off. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner and the faint spill of a streetlight through the slit of the basement window. It painted everything in quiet, tired orange.

"You ever notice how we never get any normal sleepovers?" Steve muttered after a while, voice low so he didn't wake anyone. "Like, it's never 'let's eat pizza, fall asleep to a movie, and prank call people.' It's always 'let's guard our friend from supernatural serial killer brain demon guy.'"

You huffed out a humorless laugh, eyes still on Max's chest, watching the rise and fall. "Yeah, I feel like we got robbed of the regular teenage trauma package."

Steve was silent for a moment, rubbing his palms on his jeans. You could tell he was restless—his leg bounced a little, his gaze roaming from Max to Lucas to Dustin and back again.

"I hate this," he said finally, voice tight. "Just... sitting and waiting. Knowing something might happen, and we're just... hoping it doesn't. That she doesn't just—" He cut himself off, jaw working.

"Die," you finished quietly for him.

The word settled heavy in the space between you.

You leaned back, head resting against the couch, eyes tracing the exposed pipes on the basement ceiling. "Yeah," you admitted. "I keep thinking about it too. Not just Max. Any of us. Vecna doesn't exactly send a courtesy note first."

You paused, throat tightening. "I keep replaying it. What if I'm walking home and suddenly my nose is bleeding and I'm floating in the air? What if it's you? Or Dustin? Or Lucas? Or..." Your eyes dropped back to Max. "Or her."

Steve let out a slow, shaky breath. "Feels like any second, one of us could just... be next on the list."

The quiet settled again, this time dense and suffocating. You could hear the creak of the house settling above you, the faint rhythm of Dustin's snoring, the soft rustle of Max shifting in her sleep.

Steve's voice broke through it again, softer now, like he was talking more to himself than to you.

"You ever think about... what you'd regret?" he asked. "If it happened to you."

You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, but his hands were twisting together in his lap, fingers anxiously picking at the skin around his thumb.

"Regret?" you echoed.

"Yeah." He swallowed. "Like... stuff you'd wish you'd said. Or done. Before..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to.

You stared at him for a beat, then looked down at your own hands. "Sure," you answered honestly. "I'd regret a lot of things. Not seeing more of the world. Not leaving Hawkins. Not... letting people in more. Letting fear make decisions for me."

You tried to chuckle. "Probably regret not kissing at least a few more cute guys, too."

That made the corner of his mouth twitch, but his eyes were still distant. "Yeah," he murmured. "Same. I mean, not the guys part, or—well—actually..." He trailed off, catching himself, and your brows flicked in curiosity.

He sucked in a little breath, as if bracing against something. "I've been thinking about that a lot, actually," he went on, voice strained. "About... dying. About everything that could happen with Vecna. And it's just—" He suddenly leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, fingers threading through his hair. "It's messed up how much it makes you realize how much you've never said."

Your stomach did a weird flip.

"Like what?" you asked, keeping your tone light. "One more love monologue about Nancy Wheeler before the end?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "It's not Nancy this time."

That made your mind stutter.

It was like a record in your head scratched sharply, skipping whatever track it had been on. You blinked at him, fully turning to face him now. "Okay," you said slowly. "Then... who is it?"

He didn't look at you at first. His gaze stayed locked on Max, then drifted across the kids, then to the basement floor. His chest rose and fell with another breath that sounded a little too deliberate.

"I just..." he started, voice barely above a whisper. "I keep thinking—I can't imagine..."

He finally turned, eyes locking with yours.

"I can't imagine dying without being able to say what I feel about you."

Silence.

That was the moment where, in your head, everything stopped. The imaginary record you'd been mentally spinning? Scratched. Skipped. Yanked off the turntable. You just... froze, staring at him.

Your brain scrambled to catch up. What I feel about you. Not what I feel about life. Not what I feel about everything. You.

"Steve..." you began, but your voice came out tight.

He saw the shock on your face and immediately panicked. You watched it hit him like a wave—eyes widening, shoulders tensing, words tripping over each other as he rushed to backtrack.

"I mean—not like, you you, just—okay, no, that sounds stupid—" he stammered, hands lifting uselessly in front of him. "I just—there's a lot going on, and I'm tired, and we could all die, and my brain's not working right, and—"

Then, right there in the middle of his spiral, something in him seemed to snap into place.

He shut his mouth. Took a breath. You could see the moment he decided to stop running from his own feelings.

His eyes softened. His shoulders dropped, some of the tension bleeding away as he let out a shaky exhale.

"Actually," he said quietly, more steady now. "No. I'm done pretending I didn't mean that."

You just stared at him, heart pounding.

He shifted closer to you, slow, like he was worried you might bolt. His hand hovered near yours for a moment, knuckles almost brushing your fingers before he finally committed and slid his palm into your open hand, his fingers threading with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You felt a jolt at the contact—warm, solid, grounding.

"I like you," he said, voice firm even though his eyes were shining with nerves. "More than I've been willing to admit. To you, to myself, to anyone. I—" he swallowed, glancing briefly at the kids, then back to you. "I don't know exactly what this is yet. I don't have all the right words. But I know that every time I think about something happening... to me, to you, to any of us... the thing that scares me the most is the thought of you not knowing that."

You could barely breathe.

"Steve," you whispered. That was all you managed. His name, packed with everything swirling inside you.

He squeezed your hand, like he could feel you might drift away otherwise. His voice dropped even lower.

"Come with me," he murmured. "Please."

You blinked. "Where?"

"Just... upstairs. Outside. For a minute." He shot a quick glance back at the kids, making sure none of them were stirring. "They're safe for now. We're not far. I just—" He shook his head, a small, helpless smile touching his lips. "I can't say the rest of this in a basement while Max might start levitating in front of us."

You stared at him, at his earnest eyes, at his hand wrapped around yours, and something in your chest loosened. Without fully thinking, you nodded.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah."

You both stood, moving carefully so you wouldn't step on any stray arms or legs. You nudged Lucas's blanket a little closer around him. Steve made sure Max's headphones were still secure in her hand. Then, fingers still intertwined, you climbed the basement stairs together.

The house above was dim and quiet, dipped in that strange stillness that only exists in the deep hours of the night. The soft overhead light in the kitchen was on, casting a warm glow over the table where Nancy and Robin were sitting.

Nancy was hunched over a notebook, scribbling something that was probably half-plan, half-obsessive chart. Robin sat across from her, chin in one hand, flipping a pen between her fingers as she muttered commentary now and then.

They both looked up as you and Steve emerged from the stairwell.

The sight you made—Steve's hand wrapped securely around yours, the two of you standing close together in the kitchen doorway—hit them at the same time, but the reactions could not have been more different.

Robin's eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open. And then, very quietly but unmistakably, she let out a tiny, strangled squeal that sounded like she was trying to contain a firework inside her chest.

Nancy, on the other hand, just frowned slightly, confused. Her gaze flicked from your joined hands to Steve's face to yours and back again, like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn't realized existed.

Steve, to his credit, didn't drop your hand.

"We're, uh," he said, clearing his throat, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he couldn't stop touching you even if he tried, "we're gonna go... talk outside. For a second."

Nancy blinked, glanced at the door, then back at you two. "Now?" she asked, brow creasing. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," you answered quickly, heart still thudding against your ribs. "Just... need some air. We'll be right out front."

Robin was still staring, practically vibrating. She looked like she wanted to leap across the table and interrogate both of you on the spot, but she bit her tongue—barely. Her eyes met yours for a single second, and in that look was a whole conversation: Finally. Don't you dare run. I want every detail later.

Steve gave them both a small nod, then gently tugged your hand, leading you toward the front door.

As you stepped outside into the cool night air, hand still wrapped in his, your head was still spinning with his words from the basement:

I can't imagine dying without being able to say what I feel about you.

And for the first time, you were ready to hear the rest.

The night air outside the house was cool enough to raise goosebumps on your arms, but the heat from Steve's hand wrapped around yours kept you warm. He didn't let go as he led you down the driveway, away from porch light and windows and the watchful eyes of your friends.

His BMW sat at the curb, a familiar silhouette against the dark street. He opened the passenger door for you without thinking, like it was instinct, and you lowered yourself into the seat. The cracked leather creaked under your weight, still smelling faintly like old cologne, fast food, and the lingering ghost of too many late-night drives.

Steve rounded the front of the car, the headlights catching on his profile for a second before he slid into the driver's seat. He shut the door, and suddenly the outside world muffled—no creak of Nancy's house, no distant hum of the neighborhood, just the quiet enclosed space of his car and the low sound of both your breathing.

He didn't start the engine. Instead, he reached out and turned the key just enough to bring the dashboard lights to life. Soft green and orange glowed across his face, picking out the lines of his jaw, the nervous tightness in his mouth, the way his hands flexed once on the steering wheel before he dropped them into his lap.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you felt thick, charged.

Steve exhaled slowly, then turned in his seat so he was facing you more fully, one knee angling toward you. The dashboard light caught in his eyes, making them look softer, warmer, and just a little glassy with nerves.

"Okay," he said, trying for a smile and only half managing it. "So... this is me, elaborating. Like you're always telling me to do."

You huffed out a small laugh despite the knots in your stomach. "Yeah," you muttered. "You do have a bad habit of half-explaining things and then running away."

He grimaced, but there was fondness in it. "I know. I'm trying to be less of a coward. So, uh..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. "I'm just gonna start from the beginning, alright? No take-backs."

"You said that last time too," you pointed out, but you nodded. "Go on."

He took another breath, like he was psyching himself up, then let the words come.

"I told Robin a lot of this already," he admitted. "She... squeezed it out of me. Like some kind of emotionally invasive raccoon." His mouth twitched. "And I want you to know what I told her. Because... it's yours. It's about you."

Your chest tightened, but you kept your eyes on him, letting him see you were listening.

"At first," he said slowly, "I didn't... get it. What I was feeling. For a long time, you were just... there. Part of the chaos. Lucas' brother. The sarcastic guy at Scoops who made fun of my hair and translated Dustin's bullshit D&D metaphors into English." He blew out a small, helpless laugh. "You were... background noise. But, like, the kind that makes everything feel calmer. Steady."

You swallowed, a little thrown by the softness in his voice.

"Then it changed," he went on. "And it didn't happen all dramatic. No 'love at first sight,' no music swelling, no spotlight or anything. It was annoying, honestly." He winced. "It crept up on me."

He glanced at you, making sure you were still with him. You nodded once. He continued.

"I started noticing things," he said. "How you always put yourself between the kids and danger without even thinking. How you talk about stuff—about the Upside Down, about the town, about... us—in this way that made it feel like there was a plan. Like we weren't just running around in circles." His jaw flexed. "I've spent so much of my life pretending I have everything under control. But you... you actually do think like that. You see the danger and you still stay. It made me feel like I wasn't the only one trying to hold everything together."

Your throat went tight. You shifted slightly in the seat, fingers curling on your knees.

"So I kept watching you," he admitted, voice dropping. "More than I realized. The way you listen when people talk. The way you catch the little things—when Dustin's pretending he's okay, when Lucas is about to snap, when Max is quieter than usual." He shook his head, a rueful smile ghosting over his lips. "You'd crack a joke and roll your eyes like you didn't care, but you did. You always did."

He looked down at his hands, rotating his thumb over his palm like he was trying to soothe himself.

"And then," he said quietly, "there was that day at Family Video. When I asked why you weren't freaking out about love crap like me and Robin."

You remembered it immediately—the comic in your hands, Black Cat on the cover, his frustrated sigh. The way you'd finally told the truth instead of sidestepping it.

"You told me you don't do relationships," he said, glancing up. "Not here. Not in Hawkins. You talked about how dangerous it is for you. How you're not going to be someone's experiment or secret shame. How you refuse to lower your standards just because people around here are scared."

You shifted, feeling that conversation reverberate through you again.

"And then you told me what you do want," he continued, voice going softer, more reverent. "That... heart's desire speech? The best-friend love. The late-night talks. Someone who chooses you out loud. Superhero-level drama mixed with grocery shopping and falling asleep during movies. All of it."

He laughed under his breath, a little breathless. "You laid it all out. No masks. No jokes. Just... you. And it was so—" He broke off, searching for a word. "Honest. It wasn't some fantasy list. It was... your heart, right there in front of me."

He paused, letting that sit between you.

"I told Robin," he said slowly, "that listening to you that day messed me up. In a good way, but still. Because I realized...I'd been selling myself short. Wanting the wrong thing. Or, like... wanting the half-version of the thing you described."

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

He wet his lips, dropping his gaze for a moment. "For years," he admitted, "I thought my big dream was that... stupid house and six kids thing. You know, the one I told Nancy about?" He grimaced. "I genuinely believed that was it. The endgame. White picket fence, perfect wife, perfect little Harringtons running around."

You watched him carefully, but there was no bitterness when he said Nancy's name—just a faint nostalgia, like a photo he'd put back in a box.

"But when you talked," he said, looking at you again, "I realized there was always something missing from that picture. It was there in the background and I just... never looked at it directly. I wanted someone who actually knew me. Who saw me when I wasn't being cool or charming or whatever version of 'Steve Harrington' people expected. Someone who could call me on my bullshit and still... stay. Someone I'd want to stay for."

He gave you a small, almost disbelieving smile.

"And suddenly, when you were describing your ideal relationship, I kept recognizing... us. Pieces of us. Like, the nights we've already had. The way it already feels when we're just... together. Arguing over movies. Babysitting the kids. Sitting on the floor in the back room eating melted ice cream out of the tub." His eyes softened even more. "I realized I was already living parts of that 'heart's desire' with you. Just without the name for it."

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You swallowed hard.

"That freaked me out," he admitted. "Because I always thought... guys weren't an option. Not really. Maybe in some... half-formed thought that I never looked at straight on. I mean, I'd notice when a guy looked good. I'd think stuff. But I shoved it down and told myself it wasn't real. That if I ignored it, it'd just... evaporate."

He let out a humorless little huff. "And then there you were. Not evaporating."

Your chest ached in a way that was both terrifying and warm.

"So I told Robin," he went on, "that I think I started falling for you when I saw how you take care of people. When I realized you think like me in some ways, and completely different in others. When I realized that every time something goes wrong, my head does this stupid thing where it goes, 'Okay, where is he? Is he safe? What does he think we should do?'"

He shook his head at himself, a little embarrassed.

"And I told her," he added, quieter now, "that the physical stuff—us fooling around—didn't feel like every other time I've messed around with someone. It didn't feel like killing time or filling a space. It felt like something I'd been walking toward without having the guts to admit it."

Your lungs felt tight. You realized you were holding your breath and forced yourself to let it out slowly.

He watched you carefully, trying to read your face in the half-light. Then, with a deep breath, he reached out and slid his hand over yours again where it rested on your thigh, his thumb brushing the ridge of your knuckles.

"You changed the way I think about... all of this," he said, squeezing gently. "About what I want. About who I'm allowed to want. You made me raise my standards without even trying. I used to just... want someone to not leave. Now I want someone who chooses me the way you described. And I want to be the kind of person who can meet your standards. Who isn't scared of saying it out loud."

He swallowed, his voice going a little hoarse.

"So that's where I am," he finished softly. "Still figuring myself out, yeah. Still scared, definitely. But I know this much: I like you. A lot. More than I've liked anyone in a long time. I think about you. I worry about you. When Vecna came into the picture, it just... ripped the bandage off. Made me realize that if anything happens and you never knew that? I'd regret it more than almost anything."

He drew in a breath and let it out slow, forcing himself to meet your eyes.

"I don't know exactly what label you want to put on this. I don't know if I'm ready for the full six-kids-house-and-dog dream with anyone right now. But I know I want... you in my future. In whatever version we survive long enough to have." His thumb stroked your hand once more, steady, intentional. "And if you'll let me... I want to try being the guy who actually lives up to your standards. Not just the guy who flirts with you behind the counter."

The car was quiet.

Outside, a breeze swept through the trees, making the leaves whisper. Inside, the dash lights hummed softly, painting your linked hands in a pool of warm color.

You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips where his skin touched yours.

He watched you carefully, eyes wide and open, no walls left—just that vulnerable, terrified, hopeful look you'd never seen on Steve before.

"So," he said, voice barely above a whisper now, "that's... everything. That's what I told Robin. That's what I've been too chicken to tell you. And I know it's a lot, and I know you have every reason to be careful, and if you tell me you don't want this, I'll deal. But I couldn't keep pretending it was just... nothing."

He paused, breath catching.

"What do you want me to do with this?" he asked quietly. "With... us?"

You just stared at him.

For a second, it felt like the whole car stopped existing—just Steve’s face in the dash light, his fingers still wrapped carefully around your hand, and the words he’d just dropped between you like a live wire.

I like you. I want you in my future. I want to live up to your standards.

Your brain, very helpfully, did absolutely nothing. No witty comeback, no sarcastic deflection, no smooth line. Just static.

You leaned back against the seat a little, spine hitting the cool leather, eyes searching his. He looked… terrified, honestly. Brave, but terrified—like he’d just stepped out in front of a moving car and was waiting to see if it would stop or run him over. There was no usual Harrington swagger, no rehearsed charm. Just open vulnerability, like he’d taken his chest plate off and handed it to you.

You swallowed, hard.

Because the truth was—you’d never even let yourself daydream about this. Not properly.

From the beginning, whatever was between you and Steve Harrington was its own weird little category. You’d filed it under Complicated Shit and tried very hard never to look too closely.

You liked him early on, sure. You’d thought he was annoying, then surprisingly kind. You’d watched him throw himself between kids and monsters over and over again, watched him get his ass beat and still come back swinging, watched him crack jokes while bleeding. You’d noticed the way he grew out of the shallow, preening Hawkins High king and into someone… real. Solid. Protective. Soft in all the places he’d once tried to armor over.

And yeah, you’d noticed he was hot. Obviously. You weren’t blind.

But you also weren’t stupid.

He was Steve Harrington. The guy whose name was practically carved into half the lockers in Hawkins High. Boyfriend of Nancy Wheeler. Reformed ladies’ man. The one everyone assumed would settle down with some pretty girl, have those six kids he’d once talked about, pose for cheerful family photos in a backyard somewhere.

You? You were the gay guy in Hawkins with very clear standards and an even clearer understanding of how badly it could go if you caught feelings for the wrong person.

So you built yourself rules.

Rule one: Steve is your friend.

Rule two: Steve is your coworker.

Rule three: okay, sometimes Steve is your coworker you make out with in the back room, but that’s it.

Rule four: absolutely do not—under any circumstances—let your brain wander into what if territory, because that is a straight shot to Delusional Land, population: you.

You’d clung to those rules like life jackets while your arrangement slowly morphed into… whatever it was. Late-night drives. Inside jokes. Shared babysitting shifts. Moments where his hand found yours and lingered just long enough to make your heart stutter before you shoved the feeling back down.

You told yourself it was physical. Convenient. Familiar. You told yourself he flirted with everyone. You told yourself not to read into the way his eyes always found you first when you all walked into a room.

And now he’d just calmly—well, not calmly, but openly—taken those rules, lit them on fire, and tossed the ashes out the window.

You dragged in a slow breath, your chest feeling too tight.

“I…” you started, then stopped, because the words jammed in your throat.

You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb was still stroking lightly over your knuckles, barely there, like he half-expected you to pull away and he was trying not to spook you.

This was real.

This wasn’t some fantasy you’d spun up at three in the morning. This wasn’t you misreading things and then crying about it later. He was sitting right here, in his stupid car, with his stupid perfect hair, telling you, point blank, that he liked you. That he’d thought about your standards and wanted to meet them. That when he thought about dying, his biggest regret would be not telling you how he felt.

You forced yourself to really absorb that.

Steve. Liking you. Not as a joke, not as an experiment, not as something to do while monsters tried to kill you—but as a choice he’d actually mulled over. A feeling he’d repeated to Robin. A feeling he’d dragged you out here in the middle of the night to confess.

You felt something warm and painful and terrifying swell in your chest.

You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head slightly.

“Do you have any idea,” you said quietly, eyes still on your hands, “how many times I told myself I’d be insane to fall for you?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch, just a little. “That… sounds bad,” he said weakly.

You huffed. “It’s not an insult. It’s self-preservation.” You finally lifted your gaze to his, letting him see the raw edges of the truth. “You’re… you, Steve. You’re Hawkins’ reformed golden boy with the hair and the charm and the tragic ex-girlfriend and the hero complex. And I’m…” you gestured vaguely at yourself, “…the guy in the background. The one who’s usually there, but not exactly the main event.”

His eyes flashed. “That’s not how I—”

“Let me finish,” you said gently.

He shut his mouth, but his hand tightened around yours.

You swallowed, letting the words come slowly. “I like you,” you admitted. Saying it out loud felt like stepping off a cliff. “I have liked you. For a while. I like the way you are with the kids. I like the way you try to pretend you’re dumber than you are so people underestimate you. I like that you’re actually… kind. Under all the sarcasm. And yeah, I like… this.” You lifted your joined hands for emphasis before letting them drop again. “Whatever this has been.”

You paused, feeling your pulse racing.

“But every time my brain tried to take it further than that,” you said honestly, “I shut it down. Because falling for you felt like signing up for heartbreak. You don’t do guys. You want the big Harrington Family Dream. People like me don’t usually make it into that picture. Not alive, anyway.”

His expression was so pained you had to look away for a second.

“So I told myself,” you continued, voice softer now, “that this was just… fun. A secret, no-pressure thing. Friends with benefits. I let myself keep all the good parts—the kissing, the jokes, the late-night talks—but I put a wall right here—” you tapped your chest “—because letting myself really want you felt like stepping into traffic.”

You laughed once, shaky. “And now you’re over here, telling me you like me, that you’ve thought about my stupid dramatic standards, that you want to live up to them, and… Steve, do you know how hard it is for me not to assume I’m hallucinating right now?”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re not hallucinating,” he said softly. “I promise. If you were, your brain would probably give me better hair.”

You snorted despite yourself. “My brain likes your hair.”

“Good,” he said, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Because it’s working very hard right now.”

You went quiet again, letting the weight of it all settle.

You thought about all the nights at Family Video. About the way he always drifted to stand near you. The way his face softened when you weren’t looking. The way he had looked at you downstairs, in that basement, when he said he couldn’t imagine dying without telling you the truth.

You realized—as much as you’d been protecting yourself—you’d also been underestimating him. Like everyone else used to.

And if there was one thing you’d always hated, it was when people underestimated you.

You turned a little more in your seat, angling your body toward him. Your knee brushed his. His breath hitched.

“You’re right,” you said quietly. “This is a lot. And I’m still… cautious. Because the idea of someone deciding they like guys now and then deciding they don’t in six months?” You shook your head. “That terrifies me more than Vecna.”

He winced, nodding. “Fair.”

“But,” you continued, and his head snapped up at the word, “I’d be an idiot to pretend I don’t want this. Want you.”

His eyes widened. “Yeah?”

You let yourself really look at him: the nervous crease in his brow, the way his thumb hadn’t stopped rubbing circles over your skin, the naked hope in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. “You’re literally sitting here telling me everything I’ve ever told myself I’d never get in Hawkins. That you see me, that you’ve thought about what I want, that you want to try. I’d have to be out of my mind to just… walk away from that because I’m scared.”

You leaned in a little, your voice dropping. “So, no. I’m not going to turn it away. I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel anything. I’m not going to stay in ‘friends with benefits’ land and act like that basement didn’t happen.”

His shoulders slumped in visible relief, a smile breaking over his face so bright it made your chest ache.

You squeezed his hand, grounding both of you. “But, Steve?”

“Yeah?” he said quickly.

“If we do this,” you said, meeting his gaze dead-on, “we’re not half-assing it. I’m not your secret experiment. I’m not your practice run before you go back to dating girls. You don’t get to panic six weeks in and pretend you never said any of this. If you’re choosing me, you’re choosing me. Scared or not.”

He didn’t flinch away from that. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, his jaw set, and he nodded once, firmly. “I know,” he said. “And I’m not going to treat you like that. I don’t… want to treat you like that. You deserve more than that. I’m scared, yeah. But I’m not running.”

You searched his face for any sign of doubt. There was fear there, sure—but it was the kind that meant he understood exactly what he was walking into.

Slowly, your body relaxed, some tension melting from your shoulders. Your hand slid out from under his—only so you could reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, tugging him gently closer across the console.

“Good,” you murmured.

His breath caught.

“Because if you run,” you added, a spark of your usual bite creeping back in, “I will chase you down and kick your ass.”

His mouth curved into a grin, eyes shining. “Honestly? Kind of hot.”

You rolled your eyes, but your own smile was impossible to hide now.

You tugged again, closing the last bit of space between you. He met you halfway, and when your lips pressed together this time, it felt different—not like stolen moments in back rooms or car make-outs you both pretended didn’t mean anything.

It felt like an answer.

Like a promise.

Like the beginning of a story you’d never quite let yourself believe you were allowed to have.

The conversation dissolved the second his mouth was back on yours.

You shifted toward him instinctively, your free hand bracing on his shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. The angle was awkward with the gearshift between you, so he broke away just long enough to murmur, a little breathless, “C’mere,” and tugged you more fully onto him.

It took a little maneuvering, but you ended up straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, knees digging into the worn cushion on either side of his hips. His hands slid to your waist automatically, fingers splaying over the stretch of your back like they’d lived there all along. His touch was warm, steady—grounding even as everything else felt like it was tilting under you.

You kissed him harder.

All those months of “not catching feelings,” of brushing off lingering touches and almost-confessions—every bit of it came rushing out now. Your fingers slid up into his hair, messing up the careful volume, earning a quiet, half-surprised noise from his throat. He responded in kind, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his, like he was trying to erase the air between you.

The car windows began to fog.

You could feel his heartbeat thrumming under your palms, his breath hitching every time your lips parted and found their way back to his. You broke away only in tiny, stolen moments—just enough to drag in air, foreheads pressed together, both of you laughing softly into each other’s mouths like you couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This is—” he started, words dissolving as you kissed him again.

“I know,” you mumbled against his lips. “Just shut up and enjoy it.”

He did.

His hands roamed a little now, still respectful, still careful—but bolder than before. One slid up your back beneath your jacket, thumb brushing along the edge of your spine, while the other anchored you at his hip. Every touch sent sparks racing along your nerves. When his fingers squeezed at your waist and he tugged you closer, you felt heat coil low in your stomach, the air in the car suddenly feeling too thick, too warm.

Things were definitely drifting from sweet emotional confession into dangerously close to something more.

You shifted in his lap, and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering closed as his grip tightened just a fraction. You pulled back enough to see his face—flush blooming across his cheeks, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide. He looked wrecked in the best way: soft, open, completely focused on you.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice gone low and rough around the edges. “You keep doing that and I’m gonna forget we’re parked in front of Nancy Wheeler’s house.”

You smirked, brushing your nose against his. “Maybe that’s the problem,” you said, breathing hard but grinning. “You’re getting a little too comfortable in your ex-girlfriend’s front yard.”

He laughed, the sound tangled with a groan. “You’re evil.”

“Accurate,” you said, leaning in for another quick kiss before pulling back just enough to really look at him. “But,” you added, and your tone shifted, playful but firm, “I am also a man of my word.”

His brows drew together. “What word?”

You tilted your head, one hand sliding down to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath your palm. “The word where,” you said slowly, “you don’t get to fully raid the cookie jar without a proper date.”

He stared at you for a second, like his brain needed a moment to switch tracks. Then, as it sank in, a bewildered laugh barked out of him.

“Are you—” he sputtered, hands tightening on your hips, “are you seriously bringing up cookie jar rules right now?”

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, biting back a smile. “Look, Harrington. Emotional confession? Check. Incredible make-out session? Also check. But if you think I’m letting you have full access to the goods without at least one real, actual date where you pick me up, feed me, and act like my boyfriend in public…” You let your gaze flick down to his lips and back up again. “…you’re more delusional than I am.”

He stared at you, jaw slack, like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or kiss you stupid again.

Then he squinted. “I would just like to point out,” he said carefully, “that I have, in fact, been in your cookie jar several times already.”

You snorted, smacking his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, and that was before you told me you like me and want to live up to my standards. Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the DLC of my expectations.”

He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the seat for a second. “Of course,” he muttered, staring at the fogging windshield. “Fall for the one guy who turns my sex life into a side quest with prerequisites.”

You leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll live,” you whispered against his skin. “Besides, you just said you want to try being the guy who lives up to my standards. Consider this… Level One.”

He turned his head, capturing your lips in another brief kiss, his smile pressing against your mouth. When he pulled back, the look in his eyes had shifted—less frantic want, more intent.

“Fine,” he said, breath still uneven but gaze steady. “You want a real date? You’re getting a real date.”

You arched a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, looking almost boyishly determined. “Like, I’m talking actually planning something. Picking you up. Maybe wearing a shirt that doesn’t smell like Family Video. Holding your hand in front of people.” He paused, grin tipping a little crooked. “And then, after I properly romance you… I am absolutely going to revisit this cookie jar conversation.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, resting your forehead against his again. “Ambitious,” you murmured. “I like that.”

His hands slid up your back, settling gently between your shoulder blades, keeping you close without pulling you in too far. You could feel the effort it was taking for him to slow down, to rein himself in. It made something in your chest go soft.

“Just so we’re clear,” you added, voice lowering, “I’m not saying ‘never.’ I’m saying: take me out like you mean it. Show me this isn’t just some heat-of-the-moment, Vecna-might-kill-us-tomorrow thing. Then…” You let the word hang in the air like a promise. “We’ll see about dessert.”

His eyes darkened with that, but he nodded, swallowing hard. “Deal,” he said, and his tone made it sound less like a casual agreement and more like a vow.

You gave him one last quick kiss—sweet this time, chaste by comparison—before finally peeling yourself off his lap and sliding back into the passenger seat. The loss of contact made you both exhale at the same time, like you’d just been through something intense and were trying to find equilibrium again.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, then rested it on the steering wheel, grinning to himself.

“You know,” he said, glancing over at you with a sideways smile, “I’ve faced monsters, Russians, and interdimensional hell. But I think trying to plan a perfect first date that meets your standards might be the scariest thing I’ve done yet.”

You buckled your seatbelt, smirking. “Good,” you said. “That means you’re taking it seriously.”

He shook his head, still smiling like he couldn’t believe his luck. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You reached over and laced your fingers with his again, giving his hand a squeeze. “Nah,” you whispered, squeezing once more. “I’m the reason you’re going to live long enough to take me out.”

He didn’t argue with that.

He just lifted your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles, already looking like his brain was spinning with a hundred possibilities for that date he’d promised you.

YOU AND STEVE didn’t go back inside like two people who had just had a casual chat and “got some air.”

You went back inside like two people who’d survived a near-death emotional confession in the front seat of a car, made out like you’d been starving, and then negotiated dating terms like it was a hostage exchange—except the hostage was Steve’s self-control.

The front door clicked softly behind you, and the warmth of the house wrapped around your skin immediately. It smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long, laundry detergent, and the faint salty bite of chips that had been stress-eaten hours ago. The hallway was dim, only a lamp in the living room casting a soft golden glow that stretched across the floor.

Steve’s hand found yours again the second you stepped inside, like it was muscle memory now. Not tight, not possessive—just steady. Like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were really here, really choosing this. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, a small nervous tell, and you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t have time to pretend you didn’t notice the way your heart was still beating too fast.

Robin, of course, noticed everything.

She was perched at the kitchen table with Nancy’s notebook and a half-empty mug, flipping a pen between her fingers like she was trying to distract herself from spiraling into worst-case scenarios. But the second the door opened, her head snapped up so fast it was comical—like she’d been listening for your footsteps the entire time.

Her eyes landed on you first.

Then Steve.

Then your hands.

And Robin Buckley’s face did this slow, dawning transformation—like watching someone realize they were witnessing a historic event in real time. Her mouth pressed into a line that tried to be normal. It failed. A grin burst across her face anyway, bright and smug and way too pleased with herself.

“Oh,” she said, voice dripping with fake innocence. “Look who’s back. And alive. And—huh. Weird.” She tilted her head, pretending to squint. “Is it just me or does it look like you two went outside to ‘talk’ and came back with… how do I put this…” She gestured vaguely at the space around you both. “…a suspicious amount of happiness and romance tension.”

Steve immediately tensed, like he was expecting a sniper shot.

You squeezed his hand once, warning and reassurance all at the same time.

Robin’s grin widened. “Oh my God,” she whispered, like she couldn’t help it. “You’re smiling.”

Steve blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Robin insisted, pushing back from the table and standing up so fast her chair scraped. “You’re doing that stupid little soft smile you do when you think no one’s watching and you’re—” she pointed at you “—standing there looking like you just won the lottery.”

You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was too late. Steve’s expression gave you away. Yours did too. You could feel it—something light in your chest that hadn’t been there when you left. Something that made the air seem less heavy, even with Vecna lurking in the background of all your thoughts.

Robin made a noise—half gasp, half squeal—that she clearly attempted to swallow and failed. Then she practically rushed you, closing the distance like a woman on a mission.

“Okay,” she said, crowding in close, eyes glittering with feral curiosity. “Details. Immediately. I want a full timeline. I want dialogue. I want emotional beats. I want—”

“Robin,” Steve hissed, panicked, glancing toward the hallway like he expected the sleeping kids to wake up and join the interrogation. “Lower your voice.”

Robin slapped a hand over her mouth dramatically, eyes still wide. She whispered, “Sorry. Details. Immediately.”

You arched a brow. “You’re actually vibrating.”

“I am,” she whispered back, completely unashamed. “I’ve been waiting for this. Like… spiritually. I could feel the universe building to this moment.”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t say things like that.”

Robin ignored him. She leaned closer to you, whispering like you were sharing state secrets. “Did he finally say it? Did he do the thing where he stops being emotionally constipated and actually communicates?”

You shot Steve a look. Steve shot Robin a look that said I hate you.

Your mouth twitched. “He did,” you admitted quietly.

Robin’s eyes went even wider. “HE DID.” She pressed a fist to her lips like she might scream. “Oh my God. You did it. You broke him. In a good way.”

Steve muttered, “I’m right here.”

“And I’m so proud,” Robin whispered, pointing at him. “You, Steven Harrington, have evolved.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please stop narrating my life like it’s a nature documentary.”

Robin turned back to you with laser focus. “Okay. So what are we? Like, what’s the status? Are we boyfriends? Are we… labels? Are we—”

“Robin,” you warned, voice low but amused.

She held up both hands. “Fine. Fine. No labels. But something happened. You two look… different.”

Different was one word for it.

Steve’s hand was still linked with yours. Not hidden behind backs, not dropped the second you entered the house. He wasn’t even trying to play it off. If anything, he looked like he was daring the universe to challenge him on it.

Robin saw that too—and her smile softened for a split second, a rare tenderness sneaking through her chaos.

Then she snapped right back into teasing mode.

“So,” she whispered loudly, “you guys went outside and had a cute little emotional breakthrough and now Steve is acting like he’s in a rom-com and you’re—”

“Robin,” Steve snapped, still trying to keep his voice down, “shut up.”

Robin grinned. “Make me.”

You were about to respond—probably something sharp and funny—when footsteps sounded from the basement stairs.

The conversation died instantly.

Nancy emerged from the stairwell, hair messy, expression tired in that way that always meant she’d been thinking too hard. She looked like she’d just checked on Max, Lucas, and Dustin—making sure Max was still breathing steadily, making sure the headphones were still in her hand, making sure nobody was floating.

Nancy paused when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Her eyes flicked to Robin first—catching her bright grin and the way she was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Then her gaze slid to Steve and you.

And then it landed—like a spotlight—on your hands.

Nancy’s expression shifted into confusion so sharp it was almost comical. Her brow furrowed. Her gaze traced from your joined fingers to Steve’s face, then to yours.

“Uh…” she started, clearly trying to compute. “Did I miss something?”

Robin made a strangled sound that was ninety percent “I told you so” and ten percent “I’m trying not to scream.”

Steve tightened his grip on your hand slightly, like he was bracing himself.

You stayed still, calm on the outside even though your heartbeat kicked up again. Because now the truth was in the open, at least in the small ways that mattered. Because Steve hadn’t let go. Because you hadn’t either.

Steve cleared his throat, voice careful. “We just… talked,” he said, glancing at you for a fraction of a second before facing Nancy again. “Outside. Needed air.”

Nancy blinked slowly. Her eyes dropped to your hands again. “And the… hand-holding?”

Robin’s shoulders started shaking as she tried not to laugh. “Oh my God,” she whispered under her breath, delighted. “She’s witnessing it in real time.”

Steve shot Robin a warning look that promised violence later, then looked back at Nancy, ears pink.

“We’re fine,” he said, a little too quickly. “Everything’s fine. Max is fine. We’re… fine.”

Nancy stared at him, clearly unconvinced, but too tired to fully interrogate it. Her eyes softened a little, and she exhaled.

“Okay,” she said slowly, still confused but letting it go—for now. “Good. Because we need everyone focused tomorrow.”

Robin nodded vigorously, still grinning like a gremlin who’d just discovered treasure. “So focused,” she agreed. “Laser focused. Definitely not thinking about anything else.”

Nancy gave Robin a look. “What is wrong with you?”

Robin smiled sweetly. “Nothing. I’m a picture of mental stability.”

Nancy looked between the three of you one more time, then shook her head as if she’d deal with whatever this was later. “I’m going to make coffee,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen like it might save her sanity.

The moment she moved away, Robin’s head whipped back to you, eyes sparking again.

“You,” she whispered fiercely, pointing between you and Steve, “owe me details. Later. All of them.”

Steve sighed. “She’s never going to let us live.”

You squeezed Steve’s hand, voice low and amused. “Nope.”

Nam-gyu’s already half gone when you walk in—shirt off and his cheeks flushed; he's sprawled across the mattress like he owns it. His legs are bare, open, twitching like he’s been grinding against the sheets for a while already. His eyes flutter open when he hears the door.

“You’re late,” he whines, voice sticky-soft. “You said you were coming, and then you didn’t, and I had to start without you—”

You cut him off by grabbing his jaw, making him look at you properly. His pupils are huge. Lips pink. There’s a pill dissolving on his tongue—fizzing lavender, sweet and chemical.

“Did you even wait?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Thanos gave it to me.”

You glance over. Thanos is leaned back in the corner, lazy and shirtless, cigarette hanging from his lips. He smirks without moving.

“He was begging,” Thanos says. “What was I supposed to do, not dose him?”

You roll your eyes and climb onto the bed. Nam-gyu immediately grabs at you, pulling at your hoodie like a drunk cat, needier than he’ll ever admit.

“He was being such a brat about it,” Thanos adds, watching you pull your shirt off. “Wouldn’t shut up ‘til I kissed him.”

Nam-gyu huffs, pouty. “It was a bad kiss. You didn’t even put your tongue in.”

You press your mouth to his before he can keep going. It was messy. You shove your tongue in and find the sweet fizz of that half-dissolved pill, tangling up your spit with his and making him whimper into your mouth.

When you pull back, he’s panting. “F-fuck—see, that’s how you kiss.”

Thanos flicks ash to the side and comes to the edge of the bed. “Yeah?” he says. “Then let’s see what else he does better.”

You’ve got Nam-gyu between you now—your hand wrapped tight around his throat while you finger him open. Thanos feeds him his cock from the front, hand fisted in his curls. His hips are twitching like he’s close, but he’s trying not to come yet—he likes making Nam-gyu beg.

And god, does he beg.

“Mmh—please,” Nam-gyu whines around Thanos’s cock, drool sliding down his chin. “It’s so much—s’too good, I’m—I can’t—”

“You’re taking it,” you growl, curling your fingers inside him until he’s gasping into Thanos’s dick. “You wanted this. Acting like a slut the second I walked in. Didn’t even wait, did you?”

Thanos grips tighter, yanks his head back just enough to let him speak. Nam-gyu moans, words spilling out like melted candy.

“I waited—I was just—just bored, and you’re so slow, and he wasn’t even doing it right—”

“Shut up,” you and Thanos say at the same time.

He whimpers like he likes that too.

You push in slow, feel him stretch around you, shaking already from how open he is. He’s so loud, so fucking wet, practically sobbing when you bottom out. Thanos slips his cock back in his mouth, groaning when Nam-gyu moans around it.

You start moving. Thanos starts thrusting. The mattress creaks. Nam-gyu cries.

He’s clenching like he doesn’t want to come but his cock’s already twitching—spilling across his stomach without a single touch. You both keep fucking him through it.

“Good little cockdrunk whore,” Thanos pants, fucking deeper.

“So fucking spoiled,” you snap, pounding harder. “Maybe we should leave him like this. Leave him aching and full.”

Nam-gyu tries to speak and fails, eliciting a loud moan instead. His legs twitch again.

He’s already gone when you pull out the first time.

Mouth slack. Eyes glassy. Sweat soaking the curls at his temple. There’s cum all over his stomach, smeared down his thighs, leaking from his hole when you move back to catch your breath.

You brush a thumb over the mess. He shudders.

“Still with us?” Thanos asks, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw.

Nam-gyu nods—barely. Whimpers.

“He can take more,” you mutter, grabbing his hips again. “Look at him. He wants more.”

“Greedy little slut,” Thanos murmurs.

Nam-gyu makes a sound—maybe protest, maybe agreement—but you flip him anyway, press his cheek to the mattress and climb over him again. Thanos shifts to kneel in front, cock hard and shiny with spit.

You guide yourself back in.

He screams.

High-pitched and absolutely wrecked. His voice cracks halfway through. He’s so damn open now, leaking all over the damn mattress. You bottom out in one thrust and his whole-body trembles.

“Still tight,” you groan. “Fucking perfect.”

He starts babbling. Can’t even form full words. Just whines and gasps and stuttered nonsense as you fuck into him again, steady and deep.

Thanos strokes himself in front of him. “You wanna help, pretty thing? Or you just gonna cry?”

Nam-gyu reaches with shaking hands, wraps his fingers around Thanos’s cock. His lips follow, slow and tired.

You both groan.

He’s trying so hard to be good.

You’re ruthless.

Your rhythm turns punishing. His hips slap the mattress with every thrust. Thanos grabs his hair again, mouthfucking him while he sobs around it. You grab his waist, angle deeper—hit that spot that makes him scream again.

His knees buckle. His arms give out. He’s drooling all over Thanos’s thigh.

You don’t stop.

He comes again without touching himself. Harder than before. A broken little wail escapes his throat when he does, muffled around Thanos’s cock. His body jerks, clenches down so tight you can’t move for a second.

Then he goes limp. Fully gone.

“Goddamn,” Thanos mutters. “He’s fucking done.”

“Not yet,” you pant, fucking him through it. “I’m close.”

You slam into him one last time—then come deep, grinding against him while his body shudders under yours. Thanos follows, mouth-fucking Nam-gyu one more time before pulling out and finishing across his face, painting him a pearly white.

Nam-gyu moans weakly. Smiles like he’s drunk on it.

After, you clean him up together. Wipe him down with the old towel from the floor. Wrap him in someone’s hoodie. Thanos tugs him into his lap. You feed him water and gently stroke his hair.

He murmurs something. Slurred.

“What?” you ask, brushing your thumb over his jaw.

“More,” he mumbles. “Later.”

You and Thanos look at each other. And grin.

Yet, my hand remains immobile, holding onto a flask of spirits. A flagon. A glass. It does not matter. Circumstances differ—some form of ethanol remains in one container, while fragrant crimson seeps out of another. 

I come for a drink, yet I find myself gazing at it instead. It is far too beautiful to ravage: a tranquil, unmarred hue of sanguine imbued with a plea to hear a tale before the body cools and the heart ceases its sluggish beat. I listen. I always do. Every finite tale is more worthwhile than my own. 

—(Penned in a particularly striking red pen, on aged vellum that has been bound in soft leather. Found in XXXX in the ruins of a manor house.)

Oh God, have mercy on the damned. 

Censer smoke has left its withered marks on the friezes—a sight to behold, the touch of time is. The air is still pungent with frankincense smoke, and the vampire sits in the third pew in the seat adjacent to the towering stone pillar. 

A rosary sits heavy in his pocket. It’s a worn thing with at least three lives that have polished its iron pearls: the calloused hands of a father, the withered fingers of a widow, and perhaps the reverent hands of a vicar. As he thumbs at the pages of a yellowed songbook that rests on the walnut ledge, he converses with what he imagines their souls appear as now, rather than a God who has long forsaken him. 

“Lord, have mercy on our souls.”

Before the altar, a small choir rehearses—he can almost taste each lyric before it is sung into the world. Behind him, an elderly woman is bowed deep in her penance. He hears each fibre of the sackcloth shawl she wears: twisting, digging, and painfully irritating skin that is far too worn for such corporal punishment. She has driven away her son, and seeks his forgiveness. Her confession to Christ has been intruded upon by an unwilling witness. 

The man—no, the vampire—genuflects on carpet several shades duller than the cerise cascading from his head. Though, there is beauty in that too: the sins of man manifesting as dirt on a once-pristine material that can never be truly cleaned again. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The vampire has many monikers. Those who have made his acquaintance have christened the good-natured youth ‘Red’, for a name such as Argenti belongs in a small town not. The parson has dubbed him son, though when referring to him to others, he is adequately named ‘Little Red’. 

“I have lied before.”

He lies about many things. In the cramped booth where the ache of his knees has long dulled—rather, the scent of the priest’s decadent flesh sharpens—he lies about his sins. A sharp tongue. Quarreling. Thinking indecent thoughts. In the depths of the confessional, his lips look tangibly darker than usual, as though glossed over with a rich carmine. 

He leaves the booth with a mere Ave Maria to make up for the blood that has seeped into his shadow. 

Evidence sample 2: 

Death has arrived. 

And… him. 

—(Taken from a note that seems to have been written in frenzy, though with no less than pristine penmanship. Date confirmed to be XXXX.)

The existence of a vampire, naturally, presumes the existence of an antithesis of sorts. Sunlight. A stake. A hunter. 

Death comes knocking politely one morning. The vampire known as Red, or more intimately, Argenti, is not a particularly old vampire, though he can tell that behind the brisk thud against polished mahogany, there is well-disguised malintent in the raised fist. 

Nevertheless, he opens it—allows the sun to paint his face, set his hair ablaze and catch the gleam of the silver cross that rests against his breast. 

“Mr. Red.”

He first meets you in a doorway. It is not a particularly pleasant encounter. 

It would be a lie to say that he notices the look in your eyes first: a murderous intent that would be well-disguised if it weren’t for the fact that his senses were far more responsive than a human’s. 

No, no—he notices first the palm held out to him, covered in callouses that belie the hilt of a weapon. He notices first the scent of metal that covers your body—not merely the thrumming blood that drips with iron, but the objects hidden within the folds of your clothes that marr you with a specific objective. He notices first the electric pulse of your heartbeat, practically whispering your thoughts to him as it rings its knell. 

A hunter. 

You are not the first, but you are certainly the most polite. The youngest. The most desperate—those seeking revenge against his species usually are.

He takes your palm, and it’s warm. If you notice the sepulchral chill that leeches away at your body heat, you don’t say anything, yet he can hear you—each messy thought that crowds your mind. 

It’s him. 

Your eyes flick to the large foyer behind him, and he knows that you’re measuring the dimensions behind him: drinking in every detail that could aid you in the inevitable fight ahead. Still, he cannot help the small thrill that runs through him as you gaze at his efforts. The pristine, gleaming floors. A grand staircase with an elegant balustrade that he personally carved. Ornate carpets, upon which stately furniture rests. There’s beauty in them, but they’d be just as beautiful if they were destroyed—a fleeting moment of solace against the tides of time. 

“Would you like to enter?” Honey lingers in his voice: a quality that makes it far easier to lead people astray, right into his insatiable fangs. In this instance, it is to douse you with relief; relief from not having to use any of the excuses as to why you’re here, for he senses that you haven’t quite mastered the art of lies yet. Not like he has. “A serious topic deserves our attention, does it not?”

Your brows furrow. Questions scramble over each other in your mind, and you hesitate. Is it a trap? Has he caught on? Am I… wrong? Each heartbeat gives away the prevarications that thrum deep beneath sinew and flesh. 

“Unless, you’d prefer to deliver the news on my doorstep. I don’t mind, either way.” He keeps his tone perfectly neutral, and it works. You falter. You follow him over the threshold of his home—right where he wants you to be. He pays attention to how silently you step: padding as gracefully as a cat, though certainly as cautious as one. 

The heated prickle of your eyes isn’t hidden from him in the slightest: roving over his spine, the exposed skin of his palloured neck, and any weaknesses in his armour that you can breach. 

He lets you. There is splendour in watching false hope fall from Icarian heights. 

“Tea? Coffee?” A careful facade has been pulled over his face, though he is far too tempted to whistle—in mockery of the prey who thinks he is the hunter. “I have quite the variety to accommodate guests.”

“...Water.” You’re the laconic type, it seems—and mistrustful. You sit stiffly on the plush, terracotta-hued couch, firmly eyeing the door: looking completely out of place in the dark clothes that unfortunately don’t disguise your occupation. 

He can hear you, you know. From the kitchen in the back of the manor, he can practically feel you rifling through various stacks of paper left in the study, rummaging through the expensive desk, and generally acting like an unruly, unwelcome guest. 

But he’ll let you. 

Argenti hums a quiet little tune as he carries a silver tray laden with an icy pitcher of water and a glass, alongside a pot of bergamot tea with two teacups. His footsteps echo firmly against the wooden floors—and your heartbeat picks up lightly. 

Through the door,you waver. He’s given you ample time, and you don’t disappoint: sitting down hurriedly, arranging the miscellany artfully so as to not be suspected, and composing yourself with your hands firmly in your lap, inches away from the two knives on that leather belt. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” He nudges the door open with an extended foot, and watches your eyes swivel back to his form. The suspense serves as puppet strings linking his fingers to your limbs: languorously placing down the tray on the low walnut coffee table, setting your frigid glass down in front of you, and masterfully pouring out the tea in the two delicate cups. 

You do not drink, but you sure make a show out of pretending to. 

See, when one becomes a hunter, one of the first things they are taught is resourcefulness. He’s drunk the memories of mind-numbing lessons—how to catch a vampire in a forest, how to make do with stones and wit, how to weaponise surroundings to your advantage. 

There is a certain hidden trick that almost every inexperienced hunter fails to conquer. Timing. Traps and stalking mean naught if one overthinks—if one does not act on the instinctual timing to strike when necessary. 

You’ve hesitated. You’ve wavered. And in the end, you will not survive the night. 

Evidence sample 3: 

He hauls his inexperience with him, like a child dragging their toys along to a funeral. It almost makes one want to look away. 

In hindsight, he’s simply not sure of himself. Both his mind and body are steel that has not quite been tempered; trapped in his cortex are numerous codices, no doubt, and the fresh pain of whoever was dearest to him, lying drained of blood under the reverent mouth of a vampire—but this lacks, this pales in comparison to experience. 

Yes, I’m sure he was top of his class under his mentor. The desperation lingers in his blood, burbling beneath his surface—a prodigy keen on ridding the world of monsters. The memories scintillate, as memories tend to do, but it’s quite easy to approximate. I’ve an eye for these things, see. 

— (A letter to the future. Stowed away in a trunk of belongings, addressed to nobody save time. Dated XXXX.)

What face will you make, when you finally draw the gleaming metal from its sheath? 

He’s almost shivering in anticipation. So much, in fact, that he leaves a trail of blood-coated breadcrumbs for you to follow—starting with the tell-tale gleam of fangs as he smiles widely in response to your muttered thanks. Next is the deliberate way he holds the teapot—showing the glassy claws that glint against the deep navy porcelain. Finally, he waits: fixing his verdant eyes upon you, unblinking. He has moved his pieces. It is now your turn. 

He can predict how it’ll go—hunters tend to lack finesse. They see a clue that even hints at their preconceived notions being correct and—

There it is.

Your hackles are raising. 

You draw the knife. 

“Vampire,” you hiss, not the quiet ‘Mr. Red’ you so politely called him—but he supposes it was all platitudes on your part. You speak it like it is a curse (and it is–oh how it is). 

The edge of the blade presses into your wrist and draws crimson blood. He picks up on it before it even begins to show—so sharp the knife is—and unwillingly, his pupils hone onto the carmine, growing even more miniscule than they were, until they’re an endless pool of green. 

Pesky thing. 

It can no longer be called a knife; as it absorbs the liquid he is staring at so intensely, it elongates into a scarlet blade. An executioner’s blade for the monster. 

“How pretty,” he returns. The others had blades like this—imbued with their hopes and dreams and hate and screams. He reminisces as you lunge across the table, as his teapot shatters, as he parries it with a swing of the silver tray. The collision rings out, charmingly, against the heavy crash of his table. 

“Shut up,” you grind out. You’re brash, full of youth and passion and an itching burn to make change in the world. As blood drips down your wrist and splatters on his floors, as the two of you make your way to the stage of the foyer, he can smell it on you—your story, that is. 

It comes in flashes. He grabs an ornate sword fixed onto the wall—one he polishes daily, for between its genesis and its fixture in his home, it has made its advent a countless number of times in his hand. 

Blood, pooling at your boots. Nectarines cloying on your fingers. The taste of summer, morphing into bile and dread as you stare at the figure slumped against the bathtub. 

You strike. He blocks. 

The record player still turns—stuck on one specific lyric. It is a caesura to mark this caesura; time sluggishly grinds to a halt, and you stare and stare and stare. 

The red blade scrapes against the lustrous sword, and jams on the hilt that betrays its age: carved meticulously, yet scratched by a countless number of other weapons that lend it its own, unique story. With unnatural strength, he uses it to push you back, but you don’t relent. Your back slams against a mahogany shelf, but the pain that dulls your gaze is secondary. Burning hatred, and the cold rush of adrenaline, seem to always take priority when it comes to hunters like this. 

You fight well. He’ll give you that. 

A name. It’s blurred, as though you’ve forgotten it yourself. But it’s yours, and you focus more on the folded corner of the contract rather than the word. Your hands itch to smooth it out, and distantly, you hear the voice of your soon-to-be captain. 

A red line marks its way through space, cutting through the barrier of sound—a horizontal slash he admires before dodging it fluidly. It leaves afterimages in its wake, slicing through hand painted wallpaper with a sharp zing. 

Rough, old fingers smooth your lapel. A pin. The thick scent of gunpowder and the magnetic pull of death. Behind you, your fellow soldiers in an endless fight against hellspawn. 

He is enjoying this. The others fell far too early—sloppy from the beginning, though they were still beautiful. Fools who fell in love with revenge and were left ruined by it. 

Your first cigarette. It’s an if-you-can-spare-one, sympathetically placed between your lips by an older officer. His metal lighter warms your face, and you cough as the smoke hits your lungs—far too bitter, far too ashy, but it’s all the veteran hunter can afford with the meagre paycheck. You spend the night unwell and shivering. 

Your rhythmic steps are textbook perfection. Even with heavy boots, you remain fluid and light in this endless waltz. You swing up. A painting is sliced to pieces. You feint left and stab at his right side, and the carmine blade cuts through a vase: leaving a sharp musical crash in its wake. 

Your first kiss, induced by a shared flask of whatever that was. It burns. Oh, it burns–and you want to grimace, but it would be embarrassing, and—oh. A different type of warmth flushes your face as soft lips meet yours. You no longer remember who it was. 

He’s been dancing along to your little tune, slipping out of your grasp with mercurial grace. He’s let you play: destroying the lower half of his balustrade, leaving deep gashes in the walls, and macerating the poor flowers he picked just this morning. 

Your first kill. A cold body. Human. When a monster dies, they don’t seem like one. A corpse lies as quiet as the next, curled into itself—I didn’t do that. No, you didn’t do that. No, of course not. Blood as red as yours soaks into the forest floor, and your hands are stained with a darker, arterial shade that congeals—all oily on your finger tips, and you stare and stare and stare. Its dripping is the only thing that marks the passage of time: a caesura for this caesura. 

But every performance needs its climax. 

Evidence sample 4: 

How to write a play. 

— (A book found in the year XXXX in the study of a vampire.)

It’s a tragedy, but he finds it rather humorous. A red blade lodges itself in his stomach—and he sees the glimmer in your eyes, relief escaping you and rolling off you in waves. 

It hurts. No, no—that was a lie. It doesn’t. 

How does it feel, to have your throat sliced open?

The relief turns to panic, and you don’t even have time to blink before the gurgling sounds of death begin. You can’t even scream like the rest—for his hands are too quick. See, he didn’t even have to use his sword; the glassy claws growing from his fingers completed the job just as easily. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You die like the rest.

Evidence sample 5:

And so it begins. 

Oh death, have mercy on my soul. 

— (Taken from the aforementioned leather journal.)

Censer smoke has left its withered marks on the friezes—a sight to behold, the touch of time is. The air is still pungent with frankincense smoke, and the vampire sits in the third pew in the seat adjacent to the towering stone pillar. 

A rosary sits heavy in his pocket, and when he touches it, a splitting headache breaches the silent tranquility he steeps in. Three souls haunt it, though in his muddled state, he cannot read which ones. He thumbs at a leather bound prayer book that rests on the seat next to him. 

Mr. Red. 

“Christ, have mercy on our souls.” 

The small choir stands next to the lectern and is ever-so-slightly off key. He frowns. A widow cries behind him, praying fervently for her poor, dead son. His frown deepens. 

The man—no, the vampire—genuflects on a carpet the shade of drying blood. He thinks there is something wrong with him today. 

A bell tolls. That’s strange—it was not supposed to. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Wood digs into his knees, and his headache intensifies. 

“I have killed before. I kill people, and I eat them.”

The priest who calls him son gazes at him silently through glazed-over eyes. 

He leaves the booth and the rosary behind. 

Evidence sample 6: 

Death has arrived. 

And… him.

— (Submitted twice—a clerical error? Delete later.)

“Mr. Argenti.”

He blinks, and the cross feels particularly heavy against his clavicle as he stares at you. There is no crescent that gapes on your throat; and you’re pulsing with life, and fresh mistrust. 

“It’s you,” he says, before he can stop himself. His lies have caught up to him. He seems to be the puppet today instead—for he speaks his true thoughts today, as though they’re being pulled out of his frontal lobe directly. 

Was it all a dream? Nonsense. He doesn’t dream of things like these. 

“You… know me?” Another change. Perhaps if the day had repeated itself exactly, he wouldn’t be experiencing this dissonance. 

His head is ripping apart, and he grips the wooden door frame—a grueling effort of both remaining steady and trying not to splinter the structure. 

“Mr. Argenti—” It’s poorly masked. He can hear the dislike in your voice, but he can sense the duty that pours from you—to not ignore those struggling, to investigate fully before passing judgement on the damned. Right now, he is human. 

A warm, rough hand grasps his shoulders as he slumps against the wood—clammy, and on the verge of tearing into his brain to silence it. Another change. Against the chill of his body, the life exuded by each finger of yours is a welcome respite; and despite himself, he leans into the firm grip of your arms as you lead him inside. 

You don’t remember. 

A weapon presses into his side as he points at the study. 

Relief washes over him when he senses no change in your heartbeat as you walk past your final resting place (a dignified death, on the steps of polished wood and carpet, staring lifeless at the chandelier above you)—he’ll pass the inspection with flying colours this time. 

You’re a terrible liar. It’ll be easy to sense exactly when things change in your consciousness. 

Carefully, you set him on the terracotta-hued couch; a reverse of the situation last time, for he drapes himself ever-so-comfortably on the material, obviously sickly. It’s a mere headache, but the control over his body is immaculate—sweat drips from his brow, and he looks the part of the ill young master, which is what seals the deal for you. 

Vampires don’t get sick. You’re unsure. You’re wavering. You’re painfully inexperienced. 

A packet is placed on the table furtively by hesitant fingers. Fever relief, it says on the front in small letters, but even if it were blank, he can still tell what you’re thinking. 

He’s won this round. 

“I’ll pay a visit tomorrow,” you murmur, bowing to the vampire. The back of your neck is exposed, and he yearns to taste the lifeblood that thrums beneath. Will it taste the same as it did? Will it be more concentrated, with death winding its ghostly fingers amongst plasma and platelets? “I apologise for disturbing you when you’re unwell.”

From your bag, you unhook a small canteen of water and set it next to the packet with a small thunk. He watches you leave, debating whether to call back the hunter just to nurse him, a vampire, back to life. But instead, he watches: listens as you hesitate by the front door, as you turn on your heel and prevaricate as to whether to pad silently up those stairs to investigate, as you ultimately, regretfully, unlatch the heavy front door and place one foot on the threshold. It’s surprising. You’re more dedicated to the principles than the rest of the corpses dotted around the landscape, buried far beneath the radar of any dog’s nose. 

But then, you freeze.  

Ah. 

It seems that he did end up leaving marks in the doorframe, after all.  

A feverish smile stretches his sanguine lips. 

You will meet your end tonight, again. 

Evidence sample 7:

His blade incandesced a darker, arterial crimson tonight. In his haste, he drew the knife on his wrist, and perhaps out of outrage, cut deeper into his flesh than previously. 

In the end, he bled out just left of the door. I drank my fill. It was nothing remarkable. 

I took his hand, and imagined the warmth it had in life. My mind hurts. It hurts, damn it—

— (Penned in ink that smells faintly of iron, drying a flaky, rust-red. Dated XXXX, located on a torn out page. Half-charred.)

“God, have mercy on our souls.”

He stumbles from the pew—clammy, half-mad. 

Evidence sample 8: 

“Oh God. Oh God. It begins.” 

— (Footage taken from a security camera facing an alleyway near the XXXXXX Road church. Audio appears to be the only thing working, for the image seems frozen with not a soul in sight.)

“Father, I dream of killing the same soul—”

He opens the door. 

“Sir.” You stand politely—coated in congealed, oily red that plasters your long coat uncomfortably to your body, streaking from your crescent-smile neck and the heavy gash on your head. 

He stares and stares and stares.

The dark uniform meant to assimilate into civilian wear—yet still marks you out as other—is pristinely draped over your body. It’s old: the boots are endlessly scratched beneath the black polish you apply weekly, the hems of the trousers have been incessantly darned through their charming fray, and even your tie has been passed down by a poor, dead hunter. But there is no blood on it.

“Sir?” 

You don’t remember. 

You don’t remember. 

You—

He laughs—a horrible thing, in his opinion—and the shadows only allow you to catch a mere glimpse of his fangs. Your eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, but it is far too late for you. 

Your eyes remain widened—glassed over, no longer containing the same impassioned glint that they have carried. 

He picks up the head that has rolled a few paces to his right, slinging off the blood that remains cloying to those sharp claws of his. 

The vampire tilts it one way, then the other—all while keeping his laugh. In this death, in the cold air that creates its own tomb around you, there is no longer hatred in your face: only surprise. 

Mechanically, he turns you upside down, allowing the artery that spurts red from your neck to douse him with warm, sticky blood. It ruins his shirt, creating a tapestry of strife on the white fabric. It soaks into his very skin, burying small, forgotten memories into his brain (the taste of a cup of tea brewed by loving hands, the smell of summer in the late afternoon, the laughter of a small child). It seeps into his cold, dead soul. 

Finally, he presses his lips to the jagged circle that decorates a milky white vertebra. 

He drinks—and drinks, and drinks. 

Evidence sample 9: 

It works with the capriciousness of a child. He knocks at my door. I answer. He lies dead, at my feet. 

I crouch by his body. Stare at it. Lap at the wounds on his body, bite into the juncture of a boreal neck. The small snippets of a life burble on my lips.

He’s ordinary. There’s a packet of cheap cigarettes in his breast pocket: half-wrapped in plastic. An uneaten bar of bitter chocolate lies, discarded, in the bottom of his bag, beneath typical equipment that has been passed on from one pair of cold hands to another. 

It has not quite yet begun. There is a slight reprieve in which I am allowed to vainly hope that something will change. Life is not as beautiful when it stagnates—when it is not truly allowed to flower, to wither, and to die. 

But nothing changes. 

— (Notes from a book neatly labeled Observations. Dated XXXX.)

“Christ, have mercy on our souls.”

A pew knocks over as he runs—desperately, like a mortal man running from a mortal threat. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause to catch the breath that evades him. He doesn’t know where he’s heading, and he doesn’t know what he’s leaving behind either. 

The metal rosary sells for a few meagre coins, and the coins are pressed into a ticketmaster’s hand as he boards a train north—further than he’s ever been, but it’s even better that he doesn’t fathom where he’s going, for you won’t either. 

Deer, otters, fish—none are spared as Argenti travels on foot through the forests, landing in a cheap motel after selling the silver cross resting on his collarbone. 

Only—

His steps stutter to a halt as he spots you polishing a knife in the downstairs salon, and you sense his eyes upon you. Weeks. He’s extended his time by weeks, yet, here you are again. 

You don’t appear to recognise him; hell, there isn’t even that innate hatred you’ve displayed on his doorstep. You spare a mere glance, before you return your steady gaze to the silver metal in your lap. 

Something catches in his throat—a particular sort of false hope. 

Evidence sample 10: 

Creatures of fate adhere to the wheel of fortune more than anyone else. 

— (A faded letter addressed to Mr. Argenti contains this as its only message. Left unsigned, dated XXXX.)

He buries himself in the scent of your memories when you leave the couch behind—in the witching hours, learning it was mere coincidence that marooned you here. An assignment that isn’t him: reports of a monster at the base of the mountains, allowing him to flee innocuously the very next night after you successfully bring down a massive beast threatening to trample a village. 

In the midst of a small celebration, he slips out while the humans drown out their sorrows with liquor and food. Amongst such tangible emotions, amongst the hunger from eating only animals to sustain himself, he cannot help but feel more esurient than usual, craving and craving—

“Parties not your thing?” 

He startles, realising that he was too preoccupied with assuming where you were to sense the slow, steady heartbeat leaned against the wall. There is nicotine in your bloodstream now, which is perhaps why you’re that much calmer than you normally are—gently holding a lit smoke between your index finger and thumb that is worlds apart from your firm grip on your sword. 

“Me neither,” you continue, leaning against the railing of the steps that lead into the darkness. He stares at the depths of the forest longingly, before  turning his attention back to you. There is something graceful about the way you move: the ease with which you gaze into the wilderness, the experience with which you tap the stick against the metal, so unlike when you first hacked a lung out with the if-you-could-spare-one. 

You don’t attempt to continue the conversation, but maybe it is for the better. If he keeps running, keeps heading across mountains and oceans and worlds, he may eventually reach a place where he can be free from this nightmare. 

There is a quiet lucidity in your blood that he’s never felt before, wrapping him up in its ebb and flow and forcing his mouth to open. 

“No, no—it’s not that,” he shakes his head. “I find there is a certain warmth to watching people celebrate their safety.”

“Are they ever truly safe?” you counter cynically, and he knows he should be stepping away from you, he knows he should close his lips and nod his head and bide his time. 

“Perhaps not,” he admits. Despite himself, he leans his own forearms against the metal railing—a mere breath away from the heated pull of your arms. He can feel your lifeblood thrum steadily, while your exhales come out as puffs of condensation, twining with the blue smoke of a cigarette. “But at this moment, they are. Though, they savour not merely a respite from monsters, but the chance you have given them to step forward. Is there not beauty in that?”

“You’re bored of that warmth, then?” You neither agree nor disagree with his words, dodging the question entirely. It’s like you don’t have an opinion at all on the matter—which, upon reading the flashes of cognition pulsing through you, seems to be the case. It is your duty, after all, not some foolish quest for glory.

“I am a mere visitor. I’ll leave them to their celebrations and watch from afar.” I don’t belong. You read between the lines, and a sharp exhale leaves your lips. 

“I can’t say I disagree,” you murmur, turning to face the orange light streaming onto the wooden balcony that protrudes over the forest. His breath catches as he spots a wry smile wedged against the cigarette—something he’s not yet seen painted across your face. 

Your heavy gaze meets his green one. 

“Want one?” You hold out a box of the same cheap sticks he found half-wrapped on your corpse, and it rustles this time too. Wordlessly, he accepts; cold fingers brush against scarred, fervid ones, and he lingers, taking his time placing the thin cylinder between his lips. 

There’s a lighter in your right breast pocket. He can tell, by the scent of the brass from the heavy object, but also because he’s held it himself: full of scratches from the scrapes of his sword and numerous others, from dropping it, from the hands that have passed it down before finally ending up in yours. 

Yet, you don’t reach for it. Instead, you cup the air around the fragile ember, and tilt your head. Like magic, the small, incandescent tip ignites the cheap want-one that he’s holding—a proxy kiss in the darkness.

It’s silent, and he’s halfway through the cigarette when he realises the clamour of your thoughts has grown a lot quieter. 

Evidence sample 11: 

I am a fool. 

— (A confession, dated XXXX. Unclear what media this falls into.)

A red line. The sharp sound of metal cutting through air. The grim set of your mouth. 

He licks his mouth clean of blood, and the lifeless squirrel falls from his grasp. 

Did you see him properly, in that darkness a month ago?

There is no betrayal—not even a trace of recognition in those eyes of yours—only a special type of blind fury reserved for the most zealous of hunters. This kind is always slated for one particular fate: an early death. 

He staggers; a diet subsisting of animal blood always leaves him weaker, yet it is far more than enough to deal with you. 

You never remember. 

It’s picturesque. The parabolic arc his arm makes. The precise cut of your crimson blade—drawn from your boot this time, of all places. The trajectory of your hand as it severs from your wrist and lands in the snow, marring the pristine snow with its puniceous hues of blood pathetically spurting from tangled veins. 

You never remember. 

You meet your end, peacefully slumbering in the tranquil snow. 

He cannot bring himself to bite into your neck, for it is perhaps what binds him to this nightmare. 

A cold burial. Footprints, blurred with blood and an entity that should have never existed. Smoke from an if-you-can-spare-one, burning a prussic blue against a melancholy night. 

Evidence sample 12: 

I am drowning. Sand fills my mouth, my lungs—every damned vein in this body, entrapping me within an accursed hourglass. 

All life but mine is beautiful. I wander, half-dreaming, half-drowning, desperate for any sort of end to this eternity I have not asked for. 

Death, have mercy on my forsaken soul. 

— (Amongst the final pages of a journal that has progressively become messier, dated XXXX.)

You die, bleeding out in a creek with your sword in your hands. That is your fifth death. He learns the name of your mother. 

In your sixth, you drown in a lake he drags you into—red hair streaming behind him like blood as he dives deeper and deeper down. The dead don’t need to breathe, after all. Each thought of yours has been diluted, yet you still do not remember. 

Over and over. 

He loses count. Somewhere between one death and infinity, he can no longer read your thoughts. 

It is no use. 

No matter how hard he attempts to destroy the spokes of the wheel, it meanders on. 

Evidence sample 13: 

The brain's ability to modify its neural connections in order to adapt and compensate for damage or injury is referred to as neuroplasticity. 

Similarly, taking a single person and looping them through time, over and over, while keeping their mind unaware of it, causes damage, even though it may not seem like it. There is an intrinsic sort of dissonance, that builds memory through their body instead—creating a unique situation where the body has adapted to compensate for the shortcomings of the mind. 

— (Excerpt from Observations, dated XXXX.)

You don’t remember.

You couldn’t possibly. If you knew just how many deaths you’ve suffered at his frigid hands, would you still charge in so blindly? It’s pointless—so very pointless. 

Except, it’s not. 

You never remember—not a trace haunts those impassioned eyes of yours—yet your body bears the traces of countless deaths. He’s heard them: risked yet another cycle to stand outside your window as you heave in your sleep, wrapped in cold sweat and the nightmares of slumber that never ends—never relents. And in a way, it makes him surge with a vindictive sort of satisfaction that you die each night to a face you can never quite glimpse. 

You never remember, but your body does. 

He can’t comprehend how much time has passed (it could have been a decade, or it could have been a hundred years) but one cycle, when he’s wrapped his hands around your neck, he realises that it took him several more moves to sap your life from you. 

It continues. 

He glances at the scratch on his arm. 

It continues. 

His sword play has now reincorporated defense back into the previous flurry of attacks. 

It continues. 

Tales of your exploits taint his self-imposed exile—dungeons that couldn’t be cleared, monsters that mothers warned their children about, all cleared by a hand that seems to be growing all the more powerful. 

It continues. 

The dance you engage with him is slowly growing more and more fast-paced: a whirling clash of blades that takes more of his breath away. A scarlet blade nicks the side of his neck. A strand of carmine hair flutters to the ground, severed from its owner. Your hand grazes his shirt in the wake of his mercurial speed. 

Argenti grasps his aching muscles as he lays by your body, too tired to do anything but stare at the stars hanging over the asphalt. His sword lays shattered a short ways off, twined with the shards of your own. 

Evidence sample 14:

It was an unfair match from the beginning. Just as humans never consider the cattle they slaughter as their equals, humans could never play the same games that we could. 

I sit opposite nobody. A chessboard lies between me and a silent infinity, and he is frozen in each piece that I move. Countless deaths, orchestrated through my hand alone. 

Except, the ordinary human is beginning to thaw. A miniature hand escapes from its rigid confines. The king wrenches the crown off his head. The knight drops his sword. The bishop tramples over his mitre. 

How long will it be before he becomes a player in his own right?

— (A letter to the future, dated XXXX.)

He blocks the meticulous swing of your sword with the spear he wrenched from a wall of these ruins. There is no audience here to view this performance—none to witness the moment you make your advent, the moment you are born again as somebody who can match his blows. 

“How many have you killed?” you spit out. Just you. Just you, for the past eternity—but he does not say that. 

“How many times have you died?” he returns, and he takes advantage of the slight discrepancy in your movements as you process his words to drive the end of the spear into your chest. 

It is the last time he can create this sort of distance between the two of you, but he does not know that yet. 

Evidence sample 15: 

How much time has passed? 

How much more can I take?

— (Scratched on the walls of an underground prison, presumably from the year XXXX. Half-incomprehensible.)

Untouched snow stretches for miles in every direction: a backdrop much too pristine for what is about to occur. Boreal wind stirs the fog in the distance, yet he cannot feel it—when waiting for the inevitable, there is a certain warmth that comes with dread. He sits, mindlessly watching the flurries pick up and die down again. 

Your tracking has improved—almost inhuman yourself. Despite treading over the snow, it is left unmarred by human footprints. There is an uncanny sharpness to you—in the way you seem to smell out monsters, in how you effortlessly come across him in each cycle. 

A spectre is visiting. 

“Stand. Die honourably, for it is the last mercy you will ever receive.”

You sound the same as ever—being stuck in limbo tends to do that—yet he can sense something else in your voice. A certain weariness creeping into the edges: a consequence of glory. 

The Slayer. The Blessed One. The Protector. 

They’re unwelcome titles—far too grand for the weary youth who shared a smoke with him all those cycles ago. He knows you—far better than you know yourself, and definitely far better than all those fools who worship you blindly. 

His hand has stuck to the spear, and he feels skin tear as he uses the weapon to stand. Bottle green, dulled eyes stare at you, inviting you to begin. 

White makes the first move. It’s the polite thing to do—a test to see if you can withstand playing on the same field. 

The ghost selects his knife: one strapped to your wrist, so it draws blood as it exits the sheath. No wasted moves. 

The vampire bares his teeth, and awaits the swift advent of your crimson sword. 

Evidence sample 16: 

“It’s cold. God, it’s so cold.” 

— (Last words of a monster, garbled and almost indecipherable. Dated XXXX.)

On a snowy morning, he dies for the second time. 

It does not hurt as much as he expected. 

In a stroke of luck, you are a breath quicker than he: surging with a red blur to each movement, neatly cleaving his head from his shoulders. It breaks through the snow, and he drowns in a sea of white, until two, calloused hands pick him up. 

He can’t see the look on your face. 

All that remains are the last vestiges of his senses—a dull pain, a glacial wind, and the rough texture of your ice-bitten fingers. 

Is it… over?

His head is placed carefully on something equally as cold. Not snow. He realises, startled, that it is his own body you’ve placed his head on, cushioned by the shorn lengths of red hair that adds yet another dimension to the bloodied white landscape. 

“Lord, have mercy on the damned.”

He hears the striking of flint, before he is set ablaze, facing the wintry sun. There is only one surefire way to kill his kind, and as always, you’ve delivered pristine results. 

It’s over. 

The last image branded in his eyelids is you, kneeling in the snow in front of a pyre—praying earnestly for the being who has no soul. 

Death is not as cold as he thought it would be.

Evidence sample 17:

I have tried everything. A thousand lives I have taken from one person, and a thousand lives I have died. These paths amalgamate into a singular one—a circle that I walk upon, a crown made of thorny branches. 

Some unlucky accident always occurs. One ends up in the hands of the other: a corpse and a survivor. Two spokes on a wheel that continues turning until we end up in the same place. 

— (From Observations, dated XXXX.)

The vampire known as Argenti kneels in the pews, rosary heavy in his pocket and heart equally as heavy. He does not run, nor does he attempt to outrun capricious destiny. 

He listens to the choir. He sympathises with the widow behind him. 

He prays his penance. 

He kneels, bowing his head to a statue carved with tears, and leaves. 

It’s always been moderately cloudy when he exits, with the draught slamming the heavy oak doors behind him. He takes a moment to appreciate the grey clouds echoing his life drained of colour, before leaving it all behind. 

Except this time, the sky weeps: heavy downpour drowns away everything in sight, while the tell-tale sounds of thunder reverberate through the heavens. It is another change. He holds out a hand from beneath the stone eaves, and it comes back dripping with polluted water. 

A laugh escapes from his throat: yet another change that brings him false hope. 

Blood-red locks spill from his head and drip from his body as he walks along the road—plastering to his rain-drenched body, to the shirt he’s worn a thousand times. He barely notices as he stumbles across the street, dragging his feet through puddles and mud. He ducks into the first building he sees, and by the reek of liquor seeping into the rain, it’s a bar (just as well, for he plans on getting drunk off someone’s alcohol-addled blood tonight).

The patrons look like you. Blearily, he staggers to the bar and orders whatever his long nails catch on: somehow articulating the words to a bartender who sounds like you. 

The hard liquor burns his throat as he downs them, but a corpse does not get drunk. 

How long has it been?

He lies in wait, resting on his forearms—allowing his sanguine hair to create a gauzy curtain that veils him from the pairs of your eyes watching him.

How long will it be?

Damp, thick fabric presses briefly into his side as someone sits next to him in the packed bar, but he doesn’t turn, even when he hears your low voice order something he doesn’t quite care to remember. Except, the person next to him might well be his next meal—thus, he cracks an eye open, only to see you.

Not some mirage. He can tell by the scent of metal that lingers on your belt—only the one on your forearm remains as you attempt to blend in with civilians. It works, yet it doesn’t—your coat is dark enough to be indiscernible, but the way you carry yourself leaves no room for doubt in his mind. 

There is also the issue of thinking. He can hear every emotion that wells up in the surroundings—lust, envy, greed. Sins of humanity he’d normally take his time dissecting to distract himself from his immortal, unfortunate life. Thoughts that simply don’t match up to your typical patterns; when he glances at you, a blank slate stares back at him. 

Nothing. There is no derision as you catch the prickle of his stare and gaze briefly back at him—no dislike, no recognition. Nothing. 

His verdant eyes rake over you, snagging on your breast pocket. Do you still carry them with you, with the fame and awards that have made their way into your hands? Are they the same cheap sticks you shared with him before he killed you?

No—this is still before any of that happens. 

He can taste them on your breath—down to the very nicotine. He can tell, two smoked in succession, that the tension in your shoulders comes from other humans like yourself. Your higher-ups? Those who don’t agree with your diligence? It makes sense why you’ve come here tonight—is that also a difference that has altered all these cycles?

You look tired. He can no longer read between the fine lines, but that’s enough. 

He thumbs the silver cross he’ll leave tonight as collateral: not a penny fills his pockets, after all. 

“Put his drinks on my tab, too.”

He’s sure he’s misheard—sure that he’s miscalculated and isn’t actually as stone-cold sober as he thought. You don’t say a word more, and sip slowly on the iced drink you brought: some straight liquor that will make the rainy chill go away, he thinks. 

If he went the orthodox route, he would meet you tomorrow as you show up early to interrogate the man known as Red to the locals—yet you have met him a day earlier. This has never happened. Have you realised he is your target? Are you currently feeling him out? Was this your way of buttering him up before you pulled your knife on him?

He peers at your reflection in his shot glass. You don’t even spare a glance his way. 

A single glass. You never order more than a single drink, as he knows you think that you must have your wits about you at all times—ready to fight whenever necessary. You finish it off quietly.

Is this what you did the night before you first met him? Was it only the rain that brought you here? 

There’s no point of reference. He curses at himself—for not thinking of finding you before, for running away from something inevitable in all these cycles. 

It is the only avenue Argenti hasn’t explored. 

Yet, without glancing back, you down the rest of your drink, set it on the polished bar counter, and slide off the stool. Crimson cascades around his shoulders as he sits up incredulously—that’s it? 

No. He watches in shock as you walk into the foggy downpour; laying on the counter is nothing but an empty tumbler and coins that are more than enough to cover his drinks, yours, and several more rounds. 

No—who knows when another opportunity like this will arise again? All the changes in each cycle have culminated into something that looks like a diverging path. He knows he’s being foolish. He’s long killed off whatever drives the false hopes within him. Yet, he finds himself practically knocking down the barstool as he hurries into the grey rain—past the humans he was supposed to get drunk on.

“Wait–” he calls out, blindly running after the scent of metal and clinging cigarette smoke. It’s faint—at risk of being sluiced away by the heavy precipitation—but he’s quick. Lightning quick. 

Where— 

He turns around in the street, suddenly at a loss as to where you went. Even with his excellent vision, the deluge overwhelms him: seeping into his mouth and lungs, drowning any plea out. 

“Sir—” He almost collides with someone at the mouth of an alleyway, and a brief inhale is all he needs to know it’s you, furrowing your brows at him. 

“Did I perhaps not leave enough for your drinks?” you murmur under your breath, easing your hand into your heavy coat for your coin pouch. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head. At this period in time, you’re still inexperienced, yet this moment reminds him of exactly how naive you are—green behind the ears and painfully lacking in the department of interacting with others. 

“I’m sorry,” you frown. “Can I help you, then?”

He almost smiles. You could help him, in fact—by staying far away from him, so your paths never converge again, like two perpendicular lines. Yet, he says none of this:

“Do you know me?”

You don’t say he’s wasting your time. You don’t begrudge him for asking pointless questions. You take it in stride, for helping civilians is part of your duty, as is protecting them. Even as the rain continues pouring on your shoulders and drenches your face, you still study him seriously, lingering on his eyes and the bloody waves of his hair. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you carefully reply. It is clear you’ve mulled the words over: polite when you really don’t need to be. “Could I have your name?” 

He knows then. 

“If you ask the townsfolk, my name is Red,” he confesses, as though he were presenting his sins for judgement. “But on paper, I am Argenti.”

“Argenti.” You taste the name, and it sounds far better when it isn’t already marred by the tang of suspicion. “My apologies, but I do not think we’ve met.”

Despite his situation, a smile breaks out on his face. You haven’t received orders yet. The manila envelope containing his fate has not exchanged hands with the executioner. You don’t know him at all, and he intends to make sure you never do learn of him—that the file never leaves the hands of your captain. 

The noose that has always been present around his neck has not yet been tied. 

“I also apologise,” he bows, allowing you to see the thin fabric of his shirt soaking to his torso in the torrent—won’t you feel sorry for him—and forcing his body to seem as though he’s suppressing his shivers. It is the performance of a lifetime: literally, for his neck depends on it. “You seemed familiar to me, and for that I selfishly kept you in the rain when I’m sure you have places to be.”

More than familiar. He knows you—from the very marrow of your off-white bones, to the almost scentlessness that clings to your dermis, to the tales that make up your past. He knows the tell-tale twitch of your hand when you’re mildly irritated; the way you cross your calves over one another when something piques your interest; the way it always takes you two tries to properly spark the lighter you keep tucked away in your right breast pocket. He cannot say any of those things. 

He feels your eyes trail across his practically-exposed flesh, and smiles. Each creak in your facial muscles as you deliberate on what to do is a welcome one, and the more pity you have in your heart for him, the better. 

What a sight. 

He lets out a cough.

“No, it’s fine,” you murmur awkwardly. You never quite know how to handle the weak humans who relied on your protection—and right now, he’s no different. Fascinating. It is an unbelievably surreal experience to be regarded by you with not a trace of hostility. It naturally helps that he looks bedraggled: soaked to the bone in clothes that seem worlds away from the thick garb you never seem to be seen without. “Follow me, please.”

A dozen or so paces into the alleyway, respite is found from the rain in the form of a left-open awning by a lax employee, serving as an imperfect cover for the ill-fated pair stranded in the storm. 

It’s terribly cramped. Well, not really—being in a smaller space with a sworn enemy, rather than keeping a distance of one spear-length, tends to induce claustrophobia. He has no choice, however. 

Paradoxically, he must stay by your side longer to prevent a death at either of your hands. 

“Is there any way I can repay you?” Your back is almost pressed against the rough brick, and he inches closer with the pretext of avoiding stray raindrops that drip from the edge of the awning. “I’ve made you lose an awful lot of time through granting my whims.”

He stumbles, barely concealing the stray cough in the crook of his elbow. Your frown deepens. 

“The wellbeing of civilians is my priority,” you answer promptly, firmly, but your hands flit uselessly about at your sides, as though you’re considering whether to take his temperature, or catch him in the event of fainting. You glance at the skies that threaten to strike: a faint ozonic scent coats the earth, and the rain doesn’t look as though it’ll let up anytime soon. “It’s not safe if you’re out at this time. Do you live nearby?”

He peers at you through wet lashes, allowing a bone-deep shiver to wrack his arm as he points to the far-off hill surrounded by trees. “I’ll be fine. I’ve walked there in worse weather than this.”

“That’s not the issue—” you sigh, massaging the bridge of your nose with your forefinger and thumb. “You live outside the town, then?”

He nods, hardly believing his luck. 

You’re weak to weak things. 

“Then, as for your repayment, allow me to escort you home safely.” The hand that had cleaved his head off a mere life ago now extends proverbially to the corpse’s own.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to impose. I’m also a capable citizen, just like you,” he argues, shaking his head. The final nail in the coffin. 

In response, you pull from your pocket a leather cover that holds your license—one he’s taken out and stared at more times than he’d care to admit, while your body begins to decay at his feet. 

“I insist.” You stare up at him from the plastic, looking only a year or two younger, yet the difference in the way you carry yourself is unmistakable: untempered steel compared to an old sword that has killed far too much. “It’s not as safe outside town boundaries as you would assume.”

He widens his eyes appropriately: carefully taking the small card in both hands to examine it, to observe the compact lines of your signature up close, like he’s already done all these times. 

“You’re a hunter, sir?” He places it back into your hands—purposefully brushing his cold fingers past yours, and you briefly glance at him with something akin to worry. What seems like millenia of fighting has given him the most precise control over his muscles, and so now, he is nothing more than a frail young man—not a monster, but another human under your aegis. 

“I am,” you nod. It’s not pride that carries each syllable, but rather a matter-of-fact neutrality that has grown endearing, and he can’t fathom why. “You can trust that I’ll protect you.”

Behind your placid words, a burning intensity lurks in your gaze. He swallows thickly, suddenly at a loss for words, and looks away to where you haven’t cast your stare. 

“I’ll be in your hands, then,” he finally mutters. 

Evidence sample 18: 

Naturally, I was a fool. Longing to escape the heavy shackles of my penance, I marched forward desperately—always forward in an attempt to outrun the inevitable. 

Vampires are creatures of the past. Time moves sluggishly for us, yet it is still too quick for us. The places we once knew have been callously ripped from us by an unstoppable force, and we often linger in our memories as a consequence. Humans call it nostalgia, yet it can’t quite encapsulate the sense of dissonance an immortal feels. 

The instinct to bide my time was suppressed in the face of the wheel of fortune. I grew delirious, and didn’t reflect in the past like my kind would be so inclined to. I examined each consequence, each ripple I created in the tapestry of fate—and in doing so, I neglected to look at the source.

— (Excerpt from Observations, one of the final pages. Dated XXXX.)

You take guard duty very seriously, shucking off the heavy coat he barely sees you without and placing it on his shoulders. It’s warm, and he wonders if that’s why you run so hot; yet, just as quickly, it’s dismissed as the droplets of rain practically evaporate off your body. You press by his side wearing only the uniform under your outerwear, and he wonders if you feel discomfort. He finds nothing but easy neutrality in your expression.

Is it truly what lies beneath the surface?

Have you subconsciously learnt the art of acting, in the cycles that have honed your body to a razor point?

You don’t speak, but you listen—ears pricked for the slightest disturbance amidst the rain and his chatter. He speaks of anything and everything—all to eliminate the chances of you finding the slightest suspicion in his actions. Parents who never came back from a dungeon raid. The variety of fruit in the market this morning. The picturesque sight from the top window of his home when dawn alights. 

He dilutes the truth with small, white lies. A foolish, feeble young master walks beside you: weaving a gossamer web of glamour around his tall build and muscle and undead strength. 

You know none of these things yet. 

Of course, he’s staggered more than a few times in the slippery mud that poses no real threat to him, and you’ve caught him every time with a quiet careful murmured under your breath. He knows that you’ve felt the taut planes of his body—that it’s silently registered in that meticulous brain of yours—but he’s still just a pitifully weak human in your eyes, and that is what your first impression of him is, not whatever you would have received on him in due time. 

He compartmentalises himself into a neat little box that leaves no doubt in your mind. 

The vampire—no, the human—can’t help but hope that this time will be different. 

Evidence sample 19: 

Please. Let this be the end. 

— (Unknown.)

“Wait.”

It’s repugnant and laughable, grabbing onto a human’s sleeve so desperately. He’s never stooped so low, never begged for his life—for he must accept his fate—but you’re stepping down off the front steps and about to seek out the branch office, and he fears it may still not be enough. 

You turn, studying his palloured face and his shivering hand. 

“Yes?” You indulge him and his whims. 

“You’ll get ill if you walk back out into this storm,” he explains hesitantly. On cue, the distant sound of thunder rumbles, and a fresh torrent of rain streams from weeping clouds. 

“I’ll be fine,” you deny, but you don’t wrench your shirt out of his arm like he half-expects. 

“Please, I insist,” he argues. “Those risking their safety for us should take care of themselves—you aren’t immune from sickness. You can wait out the storm in clean, dry clothes.”

You consider his words. The parting of your lips confirms your surprise: practically tasting his argument, the logic that threads what he says. From your trouser pockets, you pull out a small watch—gauging exactly when you need to be at base by—and that is when he knows that he’s won. 

You won’t set foot there. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce, following him into where infinite graves of yours lie. 

Do you remember?

No, you don’t.

You merely peer at all the furniture that you’ve destroyed before with faint curiosity. Instead of scrutinising with undisguised suspicion, you appreciate the paint strokes within the frames and the fine craftsmanship that shines from the various structures he’s arranged and abandoned so many times. 

He’s sick of them all. The beauty within them has withered away. They’ve been coated with dried blood so many times before that they’re permanently stained: a stark reminder of his eternal failure. 

The human known as Argenti leads you up stairs that you never quite got to reach. A hallway of polished doors meets the gaze, stretching out for what seems to be miles in either direction. 

He doesn’t go in most of them often enough for them to not be coated in thick dust that stirs with the faintest signs of life, thus he avoids the first few rooms and nudges open his own—a grand space filled with poetry, literature, and numerous trinkets he’s amassed over the years. Things he once treasured for the stories behind them, but that have now stopped comforting him. 

You stand, unsure, in the midst of it all. 

You don’t belong in the monster’s lair. You’re far too naive, far too hesitant at this point in time. Something foreign undulates within him at the realisation—something warm and all too ugly. 

“This is…”

Simple garments are thrust into your hands, and he backs off as though stung. They’re plain things—a soft, white shirt similar to the tailoring of your current one, and pliable, dark trousers—but at a glance, it is clear that you’re unused to things that haven’t been passed down, unused to the texture of clothes that haven’t been worn to the very threads. 

He sinks into the low chaise longue that has your clothes draped on it to dry in front of the fireplace—after you’ve disappeared into the bathroom. A moment to collect himself. If he breathes in deeply, the residue of your scent peeks out through the heavy vestiges of rain and smoke and everything that isn’t you. 

You’ve left your knife behind. He slips it from its sheath—watches it tilt this way and that with a sick sort of satisfaction. In this tender point in time—where you have not quite yet got a grasp on your abilities, even in the face of a shattered weapon and shattered body—leaving your only means of defense behind is almost too good to be true in his eyes.

He cradles the handle, observing where your touch has indented the leather grip in your training, where you’ve left your mark on a weapon that has killed him an incomprehensible number of times. 

Its sharp edge reminds him that it’s too soon to feel secure. Argenti sheathes the executioner’s blade, and stands. He cannot afford to waste more time. 

With a meticulous eye, he selects the loose, flowing clothing that will become his armour. He washes with even more care than usual, scenting his hair and body with rich oil that lingers intoxicatingly, a saccharine sapidity amidst the bitter aftertaste of hard liquor. 

He won’t come close, but the heightened senses that have morphed you into something on the boundaries of being human—senses that you haven’t quite yet realised that you possess—will latch on to the details, small things you won’t be able to help but be fascinated by. 

He knows you. He knows you focus on the specifics, which is precisely how he’s making a fool out of you—oblivious to what lurks beneath as you focus on all these puzzle pieces that all point to him being human. 

Argenti eyes himself critically in the mirror, adjusting the crimson tresses of his hair to be even more beguiling. In the dim, soft glow of the candelabra, each lock is set ablaze and illuminates the carved features of his face. The stage is set. The actor’s costume has been slipped on fastidiously. 

He cannot fail. 

He cannot. 

Long, sharp nails tap impatiently against his kitchen table as he brews two mugs of a tea he’s sometimes smelled on you when meeting you in one of the cycles—some blend he locates through scent again in his array of drinks he keeps for show. If he’s being honest, the knife left resting on the chaise longue wasn’t the true sign of the past diverging, it will be this: whether you drink or not, whether you have faith that he hasn’t poisoned the steeping liquid. 

He fights the urge to move swiftly up the stairs. There is no margin of error—only certain limbo should he fail in diverting his fate. 

Steam curls from the two cups, and he barely notices the red imprints that the hot ceramic leaves on his hands. Pain is secondary—each second counts when considering how exactly to move forward. 

He sets them on a table located between a record player and a comfortable couch that only just sits two. Almost done. After intense deliberation, soft music that belongs more in the background of a romance film plays from the crackling player—a mere hint. He cannot overdo it; it is all in the details, whatever will be noted in your subconscious. 

His extended hand sharply drops to his lap and he straightens, almost instinctively, as he hears the familiar, finicky sound of his bathroom door latch unhooking. Those green eyes of his swivel to the source of the movement, and he waits. Bides his time with bated breath. 

You come out shirtless: towel resting on your damp hair, trousers comfortably slung low on your hips, and a hand loosely holding the shirt you’re about to put on. You still haven’t noticed him; in the ornate clutter of his bedroom, he practically blends in. Thus, he decides to watch you: bare feet padding soundlessly on plush carpet, with the only sound emitting from you being the rustle of fabric. 

His gaze hones in on tiny water droplets that run down your body as you yawn—yet another unexpected gesture, when you’re normally so conscientious with how you present yourself—and he can suddenly feel the crackling heat of the fireplace all the more easier. 

It’s the first time he’s seen you like this: so vulnerably exposed. Years of training has been mapped on your body—functional muscle, deep scars, and faint signs of blunt trauma. He’s gotten to the lighter marks of stitching around your bicep when you finally notice the intense prickle of his stare and look away in embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you cough out, gripping the shirt tighter self-consciously. “I was unaware that I was not alone.”

He suppresses a smile. You’re surprisingly, pathetically endearing in this cycle.

Is this how you are with every other civilian? At the very thought, his nails dig into his palm, threatening to draw blood. 

“Don’t be sorry. I was partly at fault for staying silent—” he returns, shamelessly continuing to gaze in your direction. “—and observing the strength of a hunter.”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” you mutter, still not meeting his stare as you hastily pull the shirt over your head. 

“On the contrary, it maps out the lengths you go to for the protection of humanity. It’s admirable,” he asserts. You finally lock eyes with him, and you press your lips together. 

“I see,” you say evenly. He knows, from the tell-tale, miniscule hunch of your shoulders, that more eloquent words have escaped you in the face of the compliment—and for that, he feels a twisted sense of gratification. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he murmurs lowly, leaning against the backrest. “I’ve made tea to warm us up.”

It’s an invitation, and you take it, sitting down next to him as he hands you the fuller mug. Step one, complete. 

Your posture is brutally militaristic, and though you accept the mug with a quiet thanks, your stiff shoulders don’t ease. Argenti takes a gamble, and nudges you with his own shoulder. “That can’t be comfortable. How do you relax at home?”

He thinks he’s lost when the silence stretches out. 

“I don’t,” you eventually say, serious as ever, but it is only when he observes the slight quirk of your brows that he realises you’ve dabbled your hand in some dry humour yourself. 

Now, that’s new. He can’t stop himself from gaping at you—or at least, staring incredulously, as you blow on the top of the tea, as you adjust your posture so you sink into the plush fabric yourself (not by much, but it’s infinitely more relaxed than what you consider ‘standby’).

You slowly inhale the wisps of steam still floating from the surface of the tea, and although he knows you’re likely only appreciating its aroma—trying to decode the notes within—he still finds himself wracked with something akin to nervousness. Your lashes flutter shut as you contemplate your findings, and he swallows. 

“Smells familiar,” you remark. You stare at the murky depths in the warm porcelain for a few moments longer. “I think this is one of the only flavours I enjoy.”

“I picked it on a whim from my favourites, so I’m glad it’s something both of us will enjoy,” he lies through his teeth, and doesn’t feel an ounce of shame about it. In the end, beauty lies not with morality, but his survival. 

In the distance, lightning splits the heavens. You drink. 

You drink, and he takes a large, tasteless sip of his own to mask his eyes fixed upon you—the way your fragile throat moves, the residue left on those lips of yours, and the almost-imperceptible exhale of satisfaction he hears. Step two, successful. 

The actor bows to raucous applause. 

“It’s good. Thank you.” 

No, thank you. 

The fragrant scent of herbs clings to you. Unwillingly, he chases after it: leaning ever-so-slightly into your body heat, watching your eyes flick to him— to how he’s currently languorously sitting with an elbow propped up on the backrest and his body turned to you.

Your throat bobs minutely as you swallow. He knows that you’re beginning to notice the dulcet fragrance of his skin, the mellifluous cadence of his syllables, and the way he’s only just brushing against you. 

“How are you liking the town so far?” He tilts his head, letting soft waves of carmine cascade down his shoulder and just graze against where fabric doesn’t quite cover your wrist. An imperceptible shiver runs through your body. 

“The people are welcoming,” you whisper, practically, swallowing a sizable volume of tea to give yourself a few seconds of reprieve. It’s useless. He can hear the pitched acceleration of your pulse: hear the way it stutters, arrhythmic, when his leg shifts to be just a hair away from yours. 

You’re nervous. 

It’s the first time he’s seen the signs of the emotion on you. You’ve been concerned, yes. You’ve worried yourself over others. Yet, this is purely nervousness for yourself. The closest he’s ever come, he thinks, to seeing this particular side of you is through the cluttered memories in the early stages of this limbo. The painful wait to see if you were accepted into the corps. The gut-churning sensation of your first practical exam against an instructor. The buildup to a first kiss that you barely remember. 

“Yes, I’d imagine.” His voice is a shade away from a purr, purposefully vibrating low in his sternum. “You travel a lot as a hunter, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Your voice cracks, and you hurriedly clear your throat. “Only domestically so far, though.”

A brief silence stretches out, though it is never truly silent with the gale blowing outside the manor: heavy raindrops pelt against the windows, and the continuous rumbles of thunder belch in the distance. 

You’re trapped, and you don’t even realise it yourself. 

“It must be hard,” he murmurs, concern laced in every syllable. “You get the acclaim you deserve, but you lose a part of yourself in the process.”

You stare into your half-empty mug for a few, precious moments. “No—it’s rewarding.”

“It’s the only thing that keeps me together,” you continue bitterly.

Argenti knows this. 

Despite his earlier promise to not get too close, his hand ghosts over the warm curve of your bicep. It’s a tad too heavy to be comforting, but it serves its intended purpose—you glance upwards in surprise, and he feels your pulse pick up yet again. There’s an influx of hot blood at the back of your neck, and he feels the urge to increase your temperature even further. 

“How often do you have a chance for a break like this?” 

Never. Between brief reprieves to smoke, and the meagre hours that you snag away from nightmares to rest, there is never enough time to truly sit and not have to be alert. 

There’s likely nobody who’s asked you this before, either. From the snippets of your memories that he could still faintly read, those who talk to you bow in gratitude and look at you with hopeful tears in their eyes (yet, they still won’t hold your blood-soaked hand while doing so), or they spit at you (and you watch with dulled eyes as they condemn you for letting life slip through your hands—you could have saved her; why did you let him die?), or they avoid you like a cursed existence. 

“I don’t remember.” You watch rain drip down the side of the glass: lines of liquid merge together until they become enough to drown in. Squeezing your tired eyes shut, you down the rest of the tea—the warmth is a far cry from the deep water pouring outside.

The cup has lost its warmth in your hands. He can tell that you’re about to take it as a signal to leave; by the twitch of your hands, you’re about to reach for your pocket watch and say you’ve overstayed your welcome or something along those lines. 

His hand travels down the length of your arm, resting carefully on top of the hand that cradles your cup—effectively halting the very genesis of movement. 

“You don’t need to leave yet,” he says huskily, and you freeze under the glacial pressure he ever-so-gently applies to the back of your hand. He’s never quite done this before: never stopped to appreciate the hummingbird flutter of your pulse, the faint shallowness of your breathing, and the sharp stiffness that suddenly takes over your muscles. 

Yes, your hand is used to things that are far removed from the life of an ordinary layman: the dull pain of a sword, the thick congealment of oily blood that drips down your forearms, the constant adrenaline that keeps you alive in a fight. 

You’re not used to the touch of fragile flesh. You’re not used to being treated like you’re breakable yourself, nor like you’re not just a mere weapon. 

“I don’t want to impose,” you practically whisper, but it’s a pathetic protest. 

“Look at the weather,” he murmurs, firmly. It’s hard saying no to somebody so much weaker than you. “I’m not letting you leave until it lets up.”

Your lips press together, and you exhale slowly. 

“Fine,” you concede. He allows a smile to paint his face. It’s almost fake, except seeing you so pliant like this brings genuine joy into the deep water of despair welled up within him. 

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” His hand retreats to laying on his side, and he gleefully watches each microexpression cross your face; each creak in your muscles as you fight the urge to chase after a gentle touch sounds like music to his ears. “You seem so familiar.”

“Regretfully, no.” Your finger runs along the rim of the mug. “I would’ve remembered someone like you.”

His smile fades. 

It’s not your fault that you don’t remember. He knows it’s not, but the eternity he’s suffered alone makes it hard to brush the comment off. The two of you are so closely intertwined in each other’s fates that your words seem like a cruel joke—water offered to a drowning man. 

I would’ve remembered someone like you.

And yet, you haven’t. Not once has he seen a flicker of recognition pass through your eyes, even when death is almost upon you and you reach into the veil of the afterlife. 

Resentment taints his lips. 

“Do elaborate,” he breathes. His teeth catch in the light as he smiles—canines ever-so-slightly longer than average, but you’ve already been ensnared in the paltry goodwill he shows you.

You swallow, and he watches the movement of your throat as it bobs. Weak. So weak. Argenti wonders how you taste in life—whether the hues that spill from you will be a more vibrant flavour if they’re tainted with your tranquil emotions (rather than the decaying aftertaste of death). 

He takes another sip of his tea, then sets it back down on the table. It tastes like sawdust—as does all mortal sustenance after having the first swallow of blood—but he barely notices as he focuses everything on observing you.

“You’re memorably naive—ah, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just that you’re excessively kind to a stranger.”

He wants to laugh. If the actor was free to move as he wished in this play, he’d let out the tension until tears came out rather than sounds of sheer amusement. 

A single line is enough to have him reroute his perspective of this farce: you as the character, and him as the sole audience member and director. He alone is aware of the comedy laden in each syllable. 

Each word you speak is a lie, though you are unaware of it. He is not naive or kind. And rather than a stranger, he knows you far better than you know yourself. 

“But that could also be applied to you,” he deflects, quite evenly if he says so himself. “You paid for a stranger’s drinks, and even allowed him to squander your time in the rain. And now, you’re still sitting next to him—in his home.”

His fingers ghost over yours as he takes your cup, briefly stretching to place it beside his own. He turns back, and somehow the couch is far smaller than it was a mere moment ago. 

The sudden proximity, naturally, is due to the vampire—no, the human—leaning further forward, placing a hand in the small chasm between the two of you to stabilise himself. 

Over and over, he seems to be breaking the promises he made to himself to keep his distance—as though he’s the enthralled one instead of you. But that’s impossible; he’s only doing this because keeping his distance has continuously doomed him. 

“Tell me,” Argenti breathes. “Who’s the real naive one?”

Long tresses of burning red brush over your thigh. Despite the thick material of your trousers, he knows you can feel them: from the faint, yet salient, shiver that runs through your body. 

How pitiful. You open and close your mouth, but words seem to be out of your grasp. You can only watch with widened eyes as he trespasses against the faint boundaries of your space. 

You know nothing. 

You’ve kept yourself blindly devoted to the sword: ignorant to the warmth of another body, ignorant to the simple calm of someone wrapped around you. It’s why you practically tremble when he leans in even closer to stare at your blown-out pupils—why the sinew in your hand creaks as it desperately clenches around fabric. 

He should leave it there. Your mind has already become far more pliant and susceptible to the notion of his innocence. All that remains is the very final steps: keeping you over in a guest bedroom and spiriting himself away to dispose of the file on himself in the array presented to you in the morning. 

He sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut briefly, and the thick tension dissipates in turn. “I’ve got a spare—” 

—guest room. The weather won’t let up anytime soon, if this continues. 

That’s what he should say, ideally. It’s what he tries to say, before you interrupt him so callously—like your mouth has only caught up with your brain now. 

“I can defend myself.” 

You say it seriously, yet he cannot take it as such when you say it in such a low voice—like you’re intentionally taunting him. 

Do you act this way with everyone?

“In fact,” you murmur, and your slight exhale stirs his hair. “Inviting a stranger into his home—where one tends to be the most vulnerable—shows carelessness, doesn’t it?”

This is bad. It was never meant to go this far. He’s so close now that he can see the strange, cold sort of hunger in your eyes: an inhuman spark that’s a singularity in an intransient eternity. He’s too close to you.

You’re warm—far too warm. You contain the life he does not have—the surging blood that already intoxicates him, that clouds his judgement and makes his head hurt. 

Yet… It cannot all be blamed on the pseudo-drunken stupor he’s in. 

“Two fools we are, arguing about our foolishness,” he mutters under his breath, and you laugh. It’s a quiet thing—a short set of exhales that really makes it a chuckle more than anything—but by God does it catalyse the destruction of the self-restraint he’s exercised so far. In a final attempt to salvage the self-control he’s always prided himself on, he balls his fists in his lap. 

Has anyone else ever heard this?

“Please,” he breathes, unconsciously. If you hadn’t already stripped him of his sanity, he would’ve gone mad once more. 

These are the final few moments before the stage is obliterated utterly. 

“Please?” you frown, leaning in closer to hear him better. “Sorry, I don’t think I heard you right.”

His nails pierce through the skin of his palm, forming scarlet crescents, before he lets go: of his hands, of whatever vestiges of hesitation that linger in his heart, and of the stupid plan he painstakingly created to avoid his fate.  

God, have mercy on the damned. 

“Forgive me.” 

It is too late to stop himself from plunging into the depths of water he’s avoided. He willingly gives in to the tide: to the glacial liquid that rushes into his lungs and steals borrowed life away from him. 

It wasn’t meant to go like this. 

On the night Argenti is given a final chance to alter his fate, he dooms himself. 

Evidence sample 20: 

Hatred is a complex emotion for immortals. 

The length of time we are allotted oft serves as a diluting agent, sifting away the intensity until we are left with a mere husk of our grudges. Our aversion. Our disgust. We forget things. We forget what we thought a hundred years ago—the precise formula behind our feelings. 

But sometimes, those feelings are all we have left. Time serves as the diluting agent, yes, but it can macerate the final product—concentrating it into such a poignant blade that it can never be forgotten. 

I hate him. From the bottom of my damned soul, I hate him. 

— (Excerpt from Observations, near the middle of the journal. Dated XXXX.)

You’re warm. 

Boreal fingers cradle the side of your face, and sepulchral lips are on yours the very moment his limbs fall under your spell. 

You taste of meaningless things— 

He cannot quite think straight. 

—the vaguely flowery echoes of tea— 

There was something that he was supposed to be doing. 

—a heady sharpness from liquor. 

Right. Right. He was meant to—

He pulls back with an urgent panic, opening and closing his mouth as words escape him. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was meant to place you in the proverbial birdcage as he went out to search for the file that sealed his fate. 

Your pulse hammers against his hand, and his eyes snap to yours—searching your face in a flurry of worry. 

“Oh God,” he murmurs. In the brief moment before everything changes, he registers three things: your blown-out pupils as you scan his expression; his own, dead heart desperately trying to claw its way out of his chest; and your hand, resting lightly on the side of his neck. “I’m—”

Sorry. 

He doesn’t get the chance to speak, for your rough hand pulls him closer and you swallow the potential words laying dormant. 

You’re clumsy. Your lips are tentative in fear that you will somehow hurt him, as if he’s some sort of fragile creature that will disintegrate if any sort of pressure is applied to him. It’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous, and his previous hesitation vanishes like dew in the midday sun in the face of such affront. 

Argenti’s hand mirrors the one already on you, and he uses the extra leverage to coax a small murmur from you as he tilts your head, letting it collide with the soft backrest of the couch. The minuscule widening of your lips is enough for his tongue to part fully the seam of them—enough to properly taste you. 

And it’s unintentional, but his canines grazing on your mouth cause the slightest bleeding that’s almost imperceptible, until the metallic taste pools on both his tongue and yours and you groan at the flavour. You mutter something garbled that could be an apology or a profanity, but he neither hears you nor cares. 

No, he is far more focused on appreciating the fine notes hidden within the stream of ambrosia that drips viscously: each strand of embarrassment, each thread of passion and anger and peacefulness. 

A small shred of pity tugs at your frigid, rain-soaked heart as you sit down next to a drenched man who’s clearly had a day just as gruelling as yours. It’s on a whim you pay for his drinks, on a whim that you chose this particular seat, and on a whim that you decide to take a longer route to base to wash away the exhaustion you feel. 

Snippets of memory, after an eternity of silence, make his way into his mind as he drinks—and perhaps the detour from his previous was necessary, Argenti thinks. 

He hovers over you with one leg kneeling on the couch and the other firmly planted on the floor, forcing your head to tilt even further upwards as he chases after the taste: reverently, lapping up each crimson bead as it threatens to spill from your lips and be wasted on the space between the two of you. He devours you; true to the nature that lurks beneath the facade he’s obediently displaying in front of you, he cannot help himself drinking every little piece of you in—every beautiful tragedy he’s missed in these long years where he could not read you. 

He tugs at your sleeve, and you feel nothing as his mouth shapes words that you can’t quite remember. Familiar? You frown. You’ve left human attachment behind—in the walls of a home that burnt down a long time ago. You’re just another face amongst the soldiers sent to their deaths—another one clad in the dark coat reminiscent of a body bag. 

It’s worth it, he tells himself as you thread your fingers through his hair, creating a gauzy veil that blocks out the prying eye of the storm. It’s of utmost importance, he convinces himself as your warm tongue carefully enters his mouth and obtains miniscule wounds from his teeth that are a little too sharp to be comfortable. 

You feel nothing, but maybe that’s what you keep telling yourself in order to believe it. 

He sees himself through your eyes—the very first time he’s observed himself in your memories, for you never remember him. That fact alone catalyses the imminent loss of his self-restraint—the fact that for once, he’s there in your mind like you’ve been in his all this time. And if he’s merely occupying your thoughts—neutral, vacant little things you might be prone to forgetting—then he needs to simply make himself unforgettable.

Endless blood, cascading in your line of sight. 

Two pairs of lips converge as if he’d like nothing more than for their atoms to merge into one another, and for that he is rewarded with the vestiges of your memory—little scraps, like the feeling of what his hair looks like in candlelight. 

Lips, glossed with similar rouge. 

They’re recent—any more, and he’ll be in the present. 

Skin, the temperature of a statue. 

He distracts your brilliant, inquisitive mind with more mundane things. 

Tastes like bergamot—and hints of tequila: human flavours that he can hardly comprehend, but you identify only with a single sampling.

Please.

The thought is fleeting, but its salient desperation brings it to his attention. Please, what? His lips travel to your jaw, and you pliantly cant your head further on his hand as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck. 

Please. 

His cold lips rest on the external jugular artery. If he opened his mouth just a bit more, it would be incredibly easy to cut past the dermis and down the rich liquid entrapped within. But he doesn’t do that—even though you’ve so politely given him access to the vulnerable region of your throat. No, he doesn’t, though his hand twitches and curls desperately into the material of the shirt you’ve donned. 

Argenti pulls back. 

He’s no stranger to what could come next. You are—the most you’ve ever gone and done was a fleeting kiss in the heat of the moment with someone you don’t even remember, and now you’ve done it again. He’s had his fair share of mortals that have been enchanted with his looks—the way he carries himself—who in turn, have enchanted him with their blood that sings for his lips to partake in. 

None quite like you, though. You, whose chest rises and falls heavily—matching the shallow, arrhythmic gait of your pulse. You, whose eyes are fixated so seriously on him, the man—the vampire—whom you simply keep forgetting. You, whose lips are still smeared with the faintest traces of metallic blood. 

“What do you want?” he whispers. People don’t tend to ask you that. You’re given a sword and kicked out into the world, like the rest of your brethren who die so easily at the hands of his kind. 

His tongue darts out to pick up any residue of your blood that remains on his lips. 

More. 

It’s a weak thought that’s been brutally suppressed, and he wonders who it belongs to. 

“Whatever you give me,” you murmur in response. In the end, you’ll take anything he gives you—for wanting is something that you haven’t quite figured out. Wanting requires knowing yourself, and you don’t. You’ve been on the receiving end of orders and a blade long enough that you are used to mere scraps, and don’t dare to dream higher. 

He does not pity you. He has drowned enough in the sands of time: each grain wearing down the love he has for humans. Love, yes. For their stories, for their emotions, for each ugly little sin he finds beautiful. 

You’ve drowned with him, over and over and over, but it matters not when you don’t remember anything at all. 

His hand traces the bare, scarred skin exposed by the loose material of the shirt. He can feel every wobbly heartbeat: the sound he is most familiar with. An organ that pumps the precious lifeblood he is ever grateful for—the very foundation of everything, far more sacrosanct than the filthy emotions vampires experience. The grip his fingers have on the material tightens, and he practically rips it with the way he slides it down your shoulders: roughly, uncaring for how the buttons along the front loosen from the stitching. 

He drinks you in: every very vein as it vasodilates with your rising body temperature, each goddamn muscle as it tenses, the deafening thump of your pulse as you sit there, watching him in return. Behind him, the very skies tremble with the sheer force of the storm; but in here, the only sounds are the gentle throes of music and the sound of your shallow breathing. 

Hurry. 

Are these even his thoughts?

He’s cold. 

So cold, in fact, that his lips instinctively find purchase on your feverishly warm body, and his hands trail the scarred expanse of your chest: mapping each dip, each valley, out in a way he could never do before. The frigid temperature of his fingers makes you shudder, and twisted satisfaction stirs within him. 

“Argenti,” you breathe, and your nails dig sharply into his shoulders as he kisses your sternum, lingering longer than necessary in order to feel your heartbeat better. It careens wildly between your lungs as he kneads at your chest with his glacial fingers, rolling the sensitive area of your stiffened nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and coating the other with his tongue. 

For every gasp he coaxes out of you, a small flicker of joy lights up the well of despair within him. 

The vampire sinks to his knees between your legs, trailing cold kisses down the length of your stomach. He can feel where the blood has pooled between them—where the heat has condensed, where he’s taking painfully long to get to. 

In your almost-delirious haze, you barely notice where exactly he’s shifted to—only that this goes far beyond anything you’ve ever done. You know this. He knows this, which is precisely why he takes his time, pressing languorous kiss after languorous kiss to where the abdomen tapers beneath black fabric. 

He pauses. You can’t bear to ask for more in that serious voice of yours—it would be too humiliating, and there is far too much pride within you to ask. But the blood that he’s feeling practically entreats him: to do anything to alleviate the pressure you’re beginning to feel. 

Please. 

The grip on your thighs tightens, and he uses his shoulders to spread your legs further: preventing you from chasing your own high, from escaping the slow pace that he’s creating specially for you. 

When he gazes up at you from where he’s kneeling, you look more dishevelled than he’s ever seen—and he’s seen you at your worst, most desperate moments. Your chest continues its shallow breathing, coated in a faint sheen left behind by Argenti. Kiss-bitten lips have swollen slightly, from how much he’s drunk from them. And finally, your eyes look down upon him in a stupor: dilated and glossed over as you shudder beneath his touch. 

He smiles, and that very act is enough to make your head turn away in what appears to be embarrassment. How endearing. Yet, for someone so obstinate, you sure turn back quickly when his breath fans over the tent in your pants. Your hand flies to the top of his head, and your breathing becomes even more noticeably laboured. He didn’t even think that was possible, but you always seem to defy his expectations. 

“Don’t—don’t do that,” you strain out. He can feel your thighs quivering around his shoulders, desperately attempting not to harm him in any way. How laughable. 

“What shouldn’t I do?” he questions; each syllable he breathes out causes the muscles of your legs to become even more taut. “Should I do this instead?”

His lips make contact with the fabric, and you flinch. Those bottle-green eyes of his lock with your own, watching you bite your lip in a desperate attempt to prevent any sort of undignified noise from leaving that mouth of yours. A drop of blood wells up on them, as though it’s provoking him. Consider him provoked. 

Though his lips and tongue both are cold, the same cannot be said for the breath that fans from his mouth onto your hard-on. The mere contrast is enough for your thighs to flex around his shoulders, but your sensitivity causes your body to be wracked with shuddering gasps. A moan escapes your lips, and it is only when he feels your abdomen tighten that he realises something is wrong. “Did you–” 

“Shit,” you hiss, and it’s the first time he’s heard you curse. You’ve buried your face in your hand, tilting your head back to avoid meeting his eyes completely. “Sorry, I—ah—”

He ignores the apology as he rubs at the damp spot in the trousers with mild interest, before slowly unzipping the front, making sure you feel each and every tooth. 

“Argenti—” 

Your head snaps back down, yet your eyes can’t seem to stay open as you practically squirm under his touch. Instead, your grip around his hair tightens, though it is clear that you’re still restraining yourself with the futile belief that you’ll hurt him. That won’t do. 

His hand reaches past the elastic of your boxers, and you flinch, but ultimately control yourself. It is only when he’s brought your dick out—half-covered in its own cum—and has opened the seam of his lips, that you finally yank his hair to force his eyes to meet yours. Which they do. Just, shamelessly. 

“What are you doing?” you murmur disbelievingly. He takes a moment to answer, and he uses that moment to observe exactly what he’s holding. He studies the curve. Each vein that ripples the surface of the skin. The mushroom tip that seems to be straining a slightly darker colour, likely a courtesy of the blood rushing everywhere. 

“Cleaning,” he replies, even more shamelessly. It’s his fault, is it not? He made the mess—he should clean it up. It’s how he’s operated with his kills; some of that logic, therefore, must apply here. 

“It’s dirty,” you attempt to dissuade him, but it’s quite the poor effort. It doesn’t even deserve a response. Rather, he focuses on distracting you; deft, freezing fingers carefully move vertically, and the effect is almost instantaneous—a broken groan of overstimulation, and a dull throb in his scalp as you more desperately hold onto his hair. He smiles.

“Argenti…” you warn, but really, you calling his name like this only spurs him on. Before you can eke out any more protests, his boreal tongue darts out to lap up your release, and you flinch. 

“Ah—fuck,” you groan. It’s a first for him to be servicing a human like this, and it’s certainly a first for you, who’s only ever pleasured yourself with your hand to pass time in the long hours of the night where only nightmares open their arms to you. He knows—of course he does. 

Doesn’t he do a far better job than you?

He opens his mouth to take you deeper, feeling every little ridge on your dick as you vehemently restrain yourself from thrusting into his throat—though, he doesn’t need to breathe. Your worry is pointless, thus he only really concentrates on driving you to a mind-numbing brink once more. He peers at you from under his lashes as he practically devours you, and he is rewarded with the sight of your chest covered in a light sheen, before your self-control snaps at his languid pace. 

Rough fingers drive his head down, and you fuck his mouth in earnest: snapping your hips upwards while his head bobs obediently in tandem. You’re close, again, and he can’t help but want to see you completely and utterly ruined. 

There’s a foreign desire that’s budding and coiling within him, and he doesn’t quite know how long he’ll endure against it. 

Your abdomen heaves once more, and the cum that spurts into his mouth lays thick and hot on his tongue, but still he does not relent. Instead, he takes his time licking you clean, causing you to practically writhe in his grasp as he prolongs the intense pleasure you’re feeling. 

You can take it. He knows you can. 

“Argenti,” you gasp out, and the frantic urgency of your voice reminds him of his own, aching dick still trapped in the confines of his pants—though it isn’t yet time. Rather, he licks his palm clean, tasting the remnants of salt and a faintly metallic flavour reminiscent of blood, before pulling down the waistband of your trousers to expose those scarred legs of yours. “What are you—”

He ignores the question, for it’s so obvious as to be laughable. Gripping your hips so hard they’ll likely bruise, he slides your body down the sofa so your thighs rest comfortably on his shoulders—locked in place by the firm caress of his hands. 

A cold tongue prods into your hole, and your body stiffens completely. In shock, perhaps. Incredulity. He does not care. Your insides are so painfully warm, and that’s all that matters right now: sating himself and stretching you out until you forget totally and utterly about what awaits you at the office. Better yet, until your feet cannot take you there at all. 

His index finger traces around the edge, and he can feel you shivering through the thighs that have unceremoniously clamped around his ears—and naturally, the hand that grips his hair with increasing tension. As he carefully slides it in—aided by his cold, slippery saliva—you abandon the caution you’ve exercised around his frail mortal persona, threatening to crush his head between your legs. 

He finds that he wouldn’t quite mind that. It would be a break from the endless decapitations and funeral pyres—and he’d have gotten the chance to feel this extraordinary tightness swallowing his fingers up. 

But perhaps, the details that he’s enjoying the most about having you at his mercy are the sounds you make: such loud moans you’d condemn yourself for later down the line, but you’d remember. You’d remember the pleasure you’re feeling with shame, when your hand sneaks down to touch yourself in the middle of the night—pulling on your nipples roughly just like he did, fingering yourself exactly the way he does. 

Except, you’d never be able to recreate this. He knows your body, after all, more than you know it: each sensitive spot, where you’re most receptive to pain—all of it. 

His fingers piston in and out of you leisurely, while his tongue continues to coat the rim with frigid liquid. It’s quite a pity that he can’t see with his very own eyes the sweat that slicks your skin, or the look on your face as his red hair is branded into your cognition forever. 

See, you won’t be able to forget him. Not the intoxicating scent that’s burying itself into your skin, nor the sensations wracking your body. 

You remember each death—each faceless assassin who’s ended your life thus far—in your nightmares. Surely—even if this particular cycle goes awry—you’ll remember this in whatever wet dreams you have: the scent of his skin, his tongue laving across your body, the taste of his lips. 

It does not take much to drive you over the brink again: just the mere addition of a third finger that seems to be sucked into you of your own accord. 

And you’re arching your back into the soft couch, practically begging for his fingers to hit you deeper inside—into that spot that makes your dick pathetically stiffen with nothing coming out, while creamy liquid gushes around his fingers and makes his job of preparing you all the more easier. 

It also allows him to finally look at you properly: a mess at both ends, almost breaching a particular boundary of lucidity that is only achieved when the mind is broken with pleasure. You are not quite there yet. He must try harder. 

Those serious eyes may be glossed over with unshed tears, but your cheeks are still dry and you are not quite wracked with sobs of almost agonising pleasure. Your mouth may be parted and swollen with both kisses and from you biting down on the soft flesh, but your voice is still whole. And while you may be covered in the light sheen of exertion, there is still room for the canvas of your body to be marked to his liking. 

Of course, this isn’t just because of what he’s been imagining—but the steps to truly brand himself in your mind forever. You’ll never forget, he vows: the shape of his body as he fits perfectly against you, nor the feeling of euphoria that will slowly control your mind and spirit. 

Laying like this, so pliantly, it is hard to associate the two images he has of you: the almost inhuman hunter, and this weak mortal that exists in this particular present. 

He can almost fool himself into believing this is how it’s always been.

Evidence sample 21:

Him and I, we dance an endless waltz. A snarling thing—both parties are inhuman. One comes equipped with indestructible incisors and a body honed for death, while the other carries only a sword and nightmares like a shroud. 

It’s an ugly thing, this dance is. Far too uncoordinated, where one remembers all of the steps, and the other, none. The music restarts. And restarts. We are no closer to mastering it now than we were at the beginning. 

He represents the hideous past. Each twist of his body odiously shuns the music, yet there are moments where he is in sync with a singular note, and with me. In those moments, he is beautiful. 

— (Noted in Observations, dated XXXX. Or was it?)

You lie in a pool of blood-red sheets that ripple around you like roses. 

“Argenti, please,” you all but beg, and he can’t seem to quell the sadistic urge within him that wants more of these burbling words to sound from you: unhindered desperation that taints each syllable with a clear indicator that in this moment, you need him. 

It was easy leading you here—you willingly came into his arms yourself, uttering only a surprised murmur when he lifted you with ease (perhaps the only time he showed his hand) and carried you to his bed. It’s symbolic—if he considers it with the manner of a director—representing the final step in this equation. The slumber: something he’s not been granted for all these cycles—the sweet taint of death he used to abhor but now has grown to crave, against all his instincts as an immortal. 

“Please, what?” he returns. It’s strange, really; such vindictive actions could be attributed to the capricious whims of a youth, yet he’s lived far too many lifetimes to be called such. “Use your words.”

You’ll think of this moment shamefully in the years to come. Will you leave the hunter corps? He’d like to think you will—stopping this foolish pursuit, never coming across him ever again. You’d start a family, maybe; never quite looking at your spouse the same as you imagine him looking down upon you, coaxing your legs to spread so easily. 

Will you seek him out again? Would you remember? A frown paints his pretty face as he imagines all the different possibilities—no matter how far you end up from him, it seems he cannot quite reconcile with that fact. Has he become used to your presence, the only variable in a world of constants?

“It’s too—ah—embarrassing.” You look away. It’s not a sob. Not even close. He’ll make you cry those words he wants to hear, and he’ll satiate the libido that’s lain dormant within him all these lifetimes while he’s at it. 

He doesn’t reply. If you think it’s embarrassing, he’ll drive you to the point of true shamefulness. 

Within the silence, four things can be heard: the faint sound of the storm; the record player, still playing its crackling, quiet songs; the heavy sound of your breathing; and finally, each metal tooth of his zipper as his hand works it downward. 

Go on, he goads as he slowly slides the aching tip of his dick against your own, spent one: biting his lip to prevent any groans from escaping his mouth and distracting him from your own shivers. In all these years, he’s not properly had the time to enjoy himself like this, and he’s far too sensitive for his liking. 

Overstimulated moans dribble from your lips, and you practically writhe beneath him in a strained attempt to contain your twitching muscles, failing tremendously.

He likes this sight. 

He likes the way you feel beneath him: likes the warmth flushing your body with a feverish heat as he grinds against you, making up the rest with the languid pace of his hands; likes the look on your face as you struggle to contain your baser instincts; likes each and every sigh that bleeds into this twisted atmosphere. 

“Ar—gen—ti,” you whimper, name fragmented on your lips with each shudder that wracks your body. You’re close, again—the stamina of a hunter is nothing to scoff at—but it’s his turn for release. His hand adopts a brutally punishing tempo: hard and fast and rough. 

He likes this sight.

You—all malleable under his hands like this—is enough to make his abdomen tense. He rocks against you with a rhythm that begins to cant out of pace, reflecting his scattered mind as he focuses on getting himself off: even as you shake beneath him, even as white liquid spurts out of you like pearls and coats the valleys of your stomach. The heat only coaxes him to go rougher, slipping against you with practised ease as though he’s done this before. 

He gazes at your teary eyes, and with a low groan, he cums across your body: thick ropes that leak all over your swollen tits and neck and chin. He watches you lick at the salty liquid that spreads near your lips, and almost unconsciously, he leans down with an elbow propping him up, to capture your mouth. He tastes himself, but all he’s thinking about is how perfect you feel—as if you’ve been made for him, rather than made to kill him over and over. An execution always in limbo. 

If he were to see himself, or if you were just to crack your eyes open, the strange, hungry look in his eyes would be starkly visible in the normally tranquil pools of green: a dilated obsession, marring the clear irises with a murky depth. But he pulls back before you see, and it remains a secret he himself doesn’t know about. 

Broken moans spill from your lips as he continues prolonging the aching pleasure sweeping through him, and through the garbled mess cascading from your mouth, he finally hears what he’s been looking for. 

“Please,” you slur, resting your hand on your soaked body. “Need you in me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In fact, he’s already hard again: tip flushed a furious, leaking red as it nudges at your tight hole. 

“See,” he breathes, easing just the tip in as you whine. “Wasn’t so hard, was it now?” 

“Oh God,” you groan as he lets you get accustomed to the burn, feeling each and every shift as you flutter around his dick. 

“There’s no God here,” he murmurs, tilting your hips so you can take him deeper as you were meant to do. 

“Shut up—ngh—” you moan out as his hips slam into the curve of your ass with a wet squelch, far easier than he expected. You’re so tight around him, practically milking him dry as your muscles contort and tense with the intrusion of his cock within you. 

There’s no more coherency as he drags it out, then rams it back in, barely allowing you to get used to the pace—only a disjointed set of sounds that indicate you approaching the precipice of total ruin. 

He marvels at the soft feeling of you around him as he carves a space into you that’s exclusively for him, gripping your hips with bruising strength so he can drill into you deeper and deeper.

“Look,” he remarks with a sharp groan, slowing his pace so you register each word as his tip catches on the rim. “See that—”

Punctuating his words is the prominent bulge that protrudes ever so slightly from your abdomen, with each thrust of his hips into you, and he savours the sight of your breath catching in your throat as you watch, seemingly enthralled—at how you’re being made to fit him. He can practically taste your embarrassment, yet you remain transfixed at the sight. 

His hand reaches out to press down on the small, soft mound, and you almost wail as you arch upwards. Those fat tits of yours rub against him as you gush around him so pliantly, tightening those walls even further. Your spent dick uselessly twitches against your abdomen, and he can’t help but find it so pathetically cute. 

He’s close. 

Wet streaks drip down your eyes, while cum dribbles from you every time he moves his hips backwards. The sight is enough to drive any man crazy with lust, and the heavy scent of sex and sweat pushes him into the most poignant insanity. 

“Argenti—mmph—” you sob, and he’s laying his slicked skin against yours. You bite his shoulder to abate the haze you no doubt feel. 

It will be your ruin. 

The pain sharpens each sensation that he feels, and he can no longer restrain himself: driving his cum deep inside you, forcing you to give up yet another orgasm as he fills you up so good. Sobs wrack your body as that half-softened cock of yours is robbed of clear liquid that squirts into the miniscule space between your two bodies, dripping into the mess you’ve already created. 

He kisses you, roughly and passionately: plugging you up, despite the liquid that slowly oozes from you and into his sheets. Fragmented moans brush against his lips, and he swallows them all—driving you to ruination as his hips roll slowly against your own, as your nails claw at his back and your mind is gradually wrecked. 

Until you could not possibly live without him, until he is branded forever into your memory, until you are his. 

It is only when your eyelids flutter shut that he is truly satisfied: as you drown in the cold water of slumber, he’ll make sure he can keep moving forward. 

Evidence sample 22:

There seems to be a lot of discussion on the genesis of a vampire. Are we created? Is it a natural order of things when a corpse does not properly rest? Are we born, perpetually and intrinsically damned?

The answer is surprisingly simple. A human drinks from a vampire. The vampire, in turn, drinks from the human. Or, the vampire drinks from the human and then, the human drinks from the vampire. It does not matter. Both must be alive—well, as alive as the undead can be. 

Of course, blood can accumulate through killing. Blood absorbed through the skin, particles left on the lips—right before the moment of death, it is naturally viable for a transformation to occur. But a specific quantity must be absorbed, and from the same organism too—and it is impossible to kill the same thing over and over. 

Hence, the sensible answer is that through direct drinking of the other party’s blood, a new covenant is formed, and a vampire is born. 

— (Written by a famous undead doctor, found in the manor of a vampire suspect in the year XXXX.)

Sleep is one of the human’s most vulnerable states. Those wrapped up in the shawl of pleasant dreams oft find them hard to shake off, like sticky cobwebs. Reaction time is impaired in waking, and the muscles find it hard to obey the commands of the brain. 

You are no different, slumbering with your nape exposed—blissfully unaware of the vampire watching you, watching each and every tranquil breath of yours. It is rare to find you free from nightmares: rarer still to find you in the serene arms of the halcyon summer you see in your mind’s theatre. You don’t have many good memories, after all. 

His attention lingers on your neck, and soundlessly, his canines elongate into razor-sharp incisors. 

Him getting drunk off your blood like the finest ambrosia has always been limited to lapping it up off your corpse—rich carmine that seems to decay as soon as your heart stops beating. He’s only sampled while you breathe—each red jewel a sweet production of emotions. 

And you, of course, have drunk plenty of his blood, even if you were unaware of it yourself: morphing into a half-being, bordering on the very precipice of inhumanity. 

There is a surefire way to not drown in the deep waters of time. 

It is to drag you down with him—to make you his.  

Gently, he presses his lips to the soft dermis that hides an artery, pulsing slow like molasses as you dream of everything but the tragedy of your life. 

It is the last act of mercy he will grant you. 

Evidence sample 23: 

The vampire bites. 

You didn’t care, you yearned for sweet noises of your lover.

If you could purr you would, tongue licking the sweat and flesh, before biting down and sucking. The noises were loud, but the music was louder. Both hands snaked downwards to hold his waist. Lighter whined softly, hand moving up towards your hair, gloves entangled with your hair. His hips couldn’t help but grind up against yours.

You were hard, and Lighter could feel it, his irises glancing down to see that bulge, he gulped nervously. His breath quickened as he continued rubbing his crotch against yours. You groaned, still sucking areas around his neck, before biting down on a sweet spot, causing Lighter to let out a choked groan.

“There?” You whispered, kissing the area. “There…” He responded, looking away but giving you more room, wanting more. You hummed, fixing your body, hands moving downwards onto his pretty little ass, gripping it, groping his cheeks lovingly and harshly. Lighter scoffed, before grunting, feeling your canines latch onto his neck once again. You sucked and sucked, hearing Lighter’s vocals get released into the cold desert air.

He was getting hard, and you could tell by the firm area he’d rub up against you with. Your cock twitching with anticipation, ready to be inside his snugged warmth.

You hummed, eyes fluttering open to glance up at Lighter, noticing that he’s been staring back at you as well. His eyes were hidden behind those dark shades, but you could see the rest of his face. Bottom lip swollen from the long bite he had on them, his cheeks crimson as he was warm from all this action and loving. He took notice on what you did, sucking on his neck, creating a big hickey on it. Your own gorgeous eyes staring back right at him. He swallowed thickly before looking away, feeling your mouth pull away, making him shiver at the cold air hitting wet spots.

Your hand moved to grab his chin, making him look at you. You leaned in close, taking his lips onto your own.

Both of you made out hungrily, you sucked on Lighter’s tongue, causing him to moan inside your mouth. His hands gripping your shoulders, fingertips digging onto both his glove and your clothing.

Pulling away, you both panted, your face going into his neck instinctively once again to kiss it while you regained your breathing. Lighter whimpered, tapping the back of your neck with his leather glove. Your ears perked, pulling yourself away from him, which hurt. “What’s wrong?” You asked, caressing his cheek with your fingers. Lighter blinked at you, sighing softly. “I want you already.” He spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbing due to taking a nervous gulp. You chuckled and nodded.

Lighter hissed, teeth grinding slightly against each other, his hands holding the wall was he was open to you. His tight pants were now around his thick thighs, feeling that breezy touch his caked up ass. He was bent over in front of you, fingernails clawing the wall, desperate for any leverage, he held on tight to nothing. He had a beautiful arch going on, you wished to see from the side, but you were granted an even beautiful scene.

Your saliva coated fingers inserted themselves inside him, stretching him out slowly and gently. All kinds of motions you did with your fingers, as well as pressing anywhere to find that sweet spot. Scissoring, rhythmical rubbing, and then curling your fingers.

“A-ah… right there..” You heard him whisper, seeing him bite down his leather sleeve, watching slight drool dribble down the corner of his mouth. You hummed and nodded, continuing to finger that sweet spot. Lighter’s cock was twitching, seeing the pre drip down onto the cement floor. You can hear the delicious squelching your fingers made inside Lighter.

After almost having a climax, Lighter sensed you stopped, huffing quietly as he was edged. He spread his legs out a little, due to you giving him a little love tap beside his thigh. This caused him to go a little bit lower on the upper part. His head low as his ass remained high up. He subconsciously wiggled it, yearning for more, his stretched out hole twitching for you. You grinned, giving your hard cock a couple of strokes, before going in raw.

Lighter groaned, hissing on some occasions, but more so groaning. Feeling your girth stretch him out even more than what your fingers did. He also felt how long you were, your fat tip surpassing his prostate, causing him to whimper from that smudge. You huffed, feeling how tight Lighter was, just for you. This time you were the one biting your lip. Lighter’s ass was so mesmerizing, two full moons at the palm of your hands.

You grabbed them, as you stayed still for Lighter to get adjusted to your length. His eyes were squeezed shut, feeling your length, and the way your warm hands squeezed his ass. You fondled them for some time, squeezing them here and there, spreading them, before giving them a loud and rather harsh slap. Lighter yelped, lifting himself up just a bit, just to give you a glare. “D-don’t do that.” He stuttered, sunglasses lowered as you could see those eye bags and needy glare. You chuckled, nodding, and rubbing his red marked ass to soothe it out.

He gave you a sigh, before going back to the position he withheld. You licked your lips before slowly starting to thrust, holding Lighter’s hips in place. He felt your cock slip in and out of him, rubbing up against his prostate. He loved your length and girth, it was perfect for him. Your cock snuggled deep inside him was perfect.

Your pace seemed to match that of the music coming from indoors. Lighter could feel the vibrations from leaning against the wall. His breath hitched as you quickened your pace. You’d let out small groans, hearing how your boyfriend would let out small moans and grunts.

From breathless grunts to panty moans, the sudden change in pace had him crazed. The poses had changed in a small amount of time, possibly a few minutes. You were closer to the wall, making Lighter finally be upright and being pressed up against the wall. You fucked upwards into him, lips in contact to his skin as they sucked the back of his neck hungrily. Lighter couldn’t hold back his moans anymore, he let out any sound possible, shaky or high pitched, even low ones.

His thighs trembled as your cock pounded that sweet hole, ass jiggling and recoiling so toxically that you couldn’t help but seep the venom. Taking a couple of glances before focusing back on his neck, in fear of coming too soon from the scene itself.

Lighter moaned onto the wall, hands, chest, and cock pressed up against the wall, drool escaping his mouth. He sounded like porn actress, thank the universe he’s yours and yours only. You’re the one to fill his little ass full of your cum and kids.

“C-close.” He whimpered, glasses nearly falling off before catching them and readjusting them on his face. “Already?” You teased, before kissing his neck again, then leaning onto his ear. “So am I baby… so am I.” You whispered, licking his ear. He shivered at that, body trembling. You stopped for a moment, Lighter whimpering as he regained his breath, before feeling your hands grab both his wrists, placing them on that beautiful arch of his.

“Stay still baby.” You ordered, before pulling all the way back, leaving just the tip inside before slamming inside him, causing Lighter to choke, in advance to fucking upwards into him fast and hard. Lighter couldn’t resist moaning into the air, huffing and panting like a human in heat. “F-fuck..” he cursed, squeezing his eyes as he couldn’t contain himself, his thighs pressed against each other, before letting out a long n low moan, gritting his teeth afterwards as ropes of cum stained the wall and floor.

He panted in exhaustion, trying to regain his breath, but couldn’t by the way you continued to pound his ass. His breath being snatched away by the brute force of your cock fucking upwards into him.

You latched onto his neck, canines biting down hard that he bled a little, fucking him further for a minute before finally lunging deep inside him, causing him to whimper, feeling your cum paint his innards. He huffed quietly, his hair stuck to his sweaty neck and forehead. He felt your hips grind and cock twitch, waiting for you to finish coming inside him. He felt slightly full, was this all you’ve had pent up for so long?

Lighter couldn’t help but glance down, eyes widening as his cheeks flustered. He saw his mess, but behind him he could hear and see the dripping of your cum inside him. Just how much did you stuff him with? He sighed softly, feeling slightly full. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fight in this state tomorrow or after that.

You were about to pull out before you felt his hands grip yours tightly. “S-stay.” He stuttered, gulping his nerves and regaining himself. “Stay inside me… I like it like this…” He mumbled, shuffling awkwardly. You hummed as you smirked, pressing him up against the wall further. He let out a grunt, feeling your cock somehow miraculously snuggle itself deeper inside, pushing your cum further in. Lighter would’ve squealed if he could.

You grabbed a jacket nearby, placing it around the hips of you both, covering where you both connected. “You came a lot..” He remarked, glancing at you from behind. “Yea well… I just wanted you to feel me for a while.” You whispered, continuing to kiss that addicting neck. “Might as well just paint my neck purple.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes before letting out a grunt from the the sudden thrust of yours. He growled lowly, before sighing.

“Grind up against me… I like that…” He admitted, moaning softly as you obliged, grinding your hips inside him, cock rubbing subtly against anything.

And he wasn’t wrong with his judgment, you gave what you offered. You were the gentle glow and the warmth that radiated on the nights that he’s cold. Always blessing him with that smile of yours — how ironic was it that he was the famed archon, and yet he looked to you and worshipped you far more than anyone in the people of Liyue could ever do so with him. To him, you were the unsung deity, the person that deserved a throne but never needed one, your benevolence exceeded anyone’s expectations and anyone wouldn’t be ashamed to have you.

You are Zhongli’s pride and joy, the only one capable of forging the embers of passion that sweltered within him. You are his everything.

And even with such a kind attitude, you were no downer. You exhibited a form of exuberance that immediately drew everyone in. With that warming smile of yours, everyone wanted to be near you for a chance (though Zhongli still with the characteristics of the draconic Morax would refuse anything closer, you were his even before he staked his claim).

Said exuberance of yours often turned you into a mad riot — a whirlwind of pure excitement that anyone could barely keep up with. Zhongli had to stifle a quiet laugh when he had to come get you from Wanmin restaurant, Guoba scolding you as you tried to beat Xiangling on who can eat the most Jueyun Chilis. You lost to young girl, but Xiangling wasn’t doing any better. You tried to reason out that you were losing on purpose, but with your labored breathing and your adorably red face, Zhongli could tell otherwise.

Often times, Zhongli would get dragged into such schemes, to the point that he has to save you from plummeting down into Osial’s prison when you tried to propose to him to be your lover in the stone forest. It truly was memorable for all the wrong (and right) reasons.

You’ve endeared him when you took the leap of faith and came to him with open arms, ready to finally have him after the long-winded pining, the hinting glances he would give you, and the way the former archon only seems to care about you and only you far more than anyone else.

Being with you was nothing short of delightful. Everyday, Zhongli would wake up to your breathtaking smiles and home-cooked breakfast. You entertained his endeavors and stories that could last for days, even making remarks of your own. You bought him trinkets that ranged from something simple, to something he knew even Tartaglia’s bank would quiver at. You were perfect.

Well. Generously speaking.

By all means, you weren’t a bad partner or a lover, you gave him everything, from the material possessions, down to the intimate moments you and him shared.

It was only that there are times, when Zhongli would be left in the silence of your shared home, he would zone into those moments that were so intimate emotionally and found… that it was only him that ever shared the appreciations, the loving gratitude, and the genuine love that he feels for you. And you accepted it wholeheartedly, only to turn the other way and continue on with what you’re doing.

It worried him greatly.

Even more when his thoughts were proven right as you held him so closely as you and him laid under the shade of the tree, with him comfortably resting on top of you. He could hear your heartbeat from your chest, as he laid his ear on it, quiet thumping can be heard and if he were to listen close enough, there was a timber of kindness and love inside it.

He sighed, content and at peace within your arms, “I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated life more than now…”

“Hm? Why do you say that?” You asked, hands slowly removing itself from his waist as you played around with the strands of his hair. “You’re not dying on me, are you?” You jested and he only scoffed with no malice. Ever the joker you are, it’s ridiculous how he fell for such charms.

“I am merely appreciating the finer things in life. Madame Ping has urged me to talk more about it,” a mere white lie for him to coax out your vulnerability. Madame Ping was far too aware of his happiness now that he has you — she was always the one on the receiving end of his talk of fondness about you.

“Oh? Then what makes you appreciate this life then?”

“Complications are far behind me now that I’m no longer the one in control… everything feels so much simpler yet so intricate,” he looked up at you, chin resting on your chest as he flashed you a small smile. “All of it because now I have you. I love you, [Name]. I would give you all the stars if I could, and slay a thousand beasts to keep you from harm… you are my everything and without you, I can no longer see myself as something…”

He watched with glee as your eyes widened at his words, no doubt taken by surprise. Zhongli can feel it, your vulnerability, ready to bare itself to him with the same level of intimacy as he’s displayed. Just that, and he can be the most content man in the world.

“I— ah, that’s good.”

Zhongli blinked owlishly as you stumbled over your words. Struggled even. He felt your muscles tense up beneath him.

“Good. I’m glad you’re happy, dearest.”

He couldn’t shield you from the way his eyes flashed a smidge of hurt at your response. And you weren’t an idiot. A bit reckless to the point of trouble following you, sure, but you were far from ignorant. Especially to your lover. You frowned a little and tilted his chin up, “Hey now, don’t make that face. I’m glad you’re feeling okay in the life that you’ve been living. And I love you too,” you tried to salvage what you could but even you were aware at how lacking it was.

Zhongli wasn’t unappreciative of your efforts, but he could only nod and stomach the gnawing worry inside him as he felt your lips brush against the skin of his forehead. Surely there’s a way to pry you open, right? There was something holding you back… and he doesn’t know what.

He was aware already that despite how accepting you seem, no one has ever seen you so vulnerable. You were an individual so full of life, but you never once wore your heart on your sleeves. And if people could look past those smiles of yours that are just so full of life, they would’ve known just how closed off you truly are. It was confusing, really, and Zhongli was starting to doubt things.

If he can’t even know your true feelings… then what’s stopping you from suddenly going up and leaving, only to never come back? Zhongli was heartbroken at the thought, he can’t lose you, not in a million years and even more than that.

But how… in Teyvat is he going to pry you open?

“ALCOHOL!!”

Zhongli almost yelped as he watched the poor you crash into the cobble streets of the harbor, jolting at the sight of the infamous Crux Captain on top of your back, with an incredibly huge smile on her face. He grimaced at your weak groan. He knows you can stomach a little pain. He knows that after he watched you confront Azhdaha to help the traveler into coaxing him to give them some materials for something important.

“[Name]!! I’ve arrived with a hundred souvenirs and a thousand more kegs! Courtesy of the rich lady up top, of course.” Beidou cackled as she finally got off of you, helping you up to your feet. “Oh! Hey there! Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your beloved for awhile!” She winked at Zhongli… but from her one eye, it only seemed like a mere blink.

Zhongli tilted his head a little as the look of confusion crossed his features, “Pardon? What do you mean by that, Captain Beidou?”

You dusted off the last bits of dust on your clothing and laughed a little, “Ah, I almost forgot. Y’see, before Beidou left, she told me I owe her a challenge.”

“A challenge?” The former archon cocked an eyebrow.

“A challenge!” Beidou parroted with a loud laugh, patting your back rather strongly to the point that you almost went back down to kiss the ground. “I challenged [Name] into the greatest drinking contest ever! Them against me, of course! It’s finally time for us to prove who’s the one that can hold the most liquor in the world!”

Zhongli looked at you questioningly, and you returned it with a shrug, “It’s what she wanted. And she won’t leave me alone until I say yes. If I didn’t I probably wouldn’t have been able to leave the ship.”

“Like there was even a chance for you to say no!” Beidou laughed again before patting your back and Zhongli’s shoulder, “Alright, I’ll see you in Liuli Pavilion! The booze is waiting and I don’t want my rival backing out!”

You had to rub your back from the soreness and sighed, “Though I doubt she’ll win, you have to admire the captain’s spirit. It’s hard not to honor her request.”

Zhongli stepped nearer and fixed up the lapels of your suit, smiling a little, “You know it’s a rather unfair match, right? While the Captain is amazing, you’re basically impossible to even get drunk.”

“That may be true, but hey, who knows?”

Who knows, indeed — is what all Zhongli could say as he gawked at the many barrels of alcohol that were stacked upon each other. The captain was not kidding, she secured barrels of it even, and the spark of glee that was within her eyes was relatively alarming. He merely tagged along so he can at least help clean up, but now curiosity was lingering at the back of his mind.

He’s never once seen you drunk. Often times, it’ll be him already mumbling about on the occasions that you and him would go out and drink to unwind (often in the company of one harbinger who would always challenge you and subsequently lose). He’s even seen you offer a handicap and drink Snezhnaya’s fire water in one bottle and Tartaglia still got wasted first.

You simply held your alcohol so well. Zhongli figured maybe this was the reason for Beidou’s challenge, to finally outdo you.

And Zhongli would have called it a night if it hadn’t turned for the unexpected.

But before that, expectantly, Beidou was out. She couldn’t beat you, and probably not even a million years. But she managed far more than any other human out there, swigging drink after drink with little to no care, keeping up with you all the more. It was almost inhuman, really, to see her empty the huge beer glass with so much gusto, the accompanying snacks as chasers left to the crew members who were also around to witness their captain’s victory.

And when she finally tapped out, surprisingly, you… you were already drunk.

Zhongli waited in bated breath as you and him were the only ones awake in the establishment. He was positive even the owners had to have dozed off with how long this competition has been going on already.

“Z…Zhooooong…zhongzhong…” you murmured and he was already by your side in a flash.

“Dear? Are you alright?” The concern inside him was quelled as he watched your flushed cheeks brighten even more. You’ve had one too many to the point that you were barely coherent. He was surprised to say the least — seeing you so feverish and so drunk.

“Zhonnnngggzzzzzzzli,” he blinked as you looked up, letting go of the beer glass you had in your hand. “Did I… win?”

“Sure did. We’re the only ones awake.” He laughed.

You raised a wobbly and weak fist in victory, “H….Hhhh…. Y-Yep. D-Das’right… I am the… undefeated champ,” your fist landed softly on the back of Beidou’s head, bonking her slightly with a slurred grin, “Take that… you… sea lady thing…”

Zhongli sighed a little, it was definitely in your fashion to get yourself into this kind of situation. Definitely your style to agree to something as ridiculous as a drinking contest and get drunk for the very first time. A smile tugged on the corner of his lips, “I will go get you some water and carry you home, yes?” He said and you nodded.

Only that when he did stand up to get water, you pulled him back down from his coattails, making him sit on your lap.

“[Name], I…”

“Shhhshshshshhh, no. Shush.” You huffed, enveloping his waist with your arms as you buried your face into his chest. He let out a breath, “Shush.” You chided and Zhongli obliged, trying to breathe quietly… however that’s done.

You and him stayed in silence, and he relished in the feeling of you within him. It was a sight to behold, something he will definitely remember for all eternity.

“Zhongli…” you murmured into the fabric of his coat, he only let out a quiet hum in response, playing with your hair like you did with him before. “I love you.”

“I know, dear. And I lo—”

“No!” You suddenly yelled and one of the crew members stirred at your volume, but you could care less. You lifted your head from his chest and held his shoulders, pulling him back a little as you looked at him square in his eyes. “I. Really. Love. You.”

Zhongli smiled a little and nodded. But you cut him off before he could say it back again, “I don’t think you realize just… how much… I love you. It’s ridiculous. I love you so much that it’s soooo annoying,” you drawled and the former archon had to wonder what you meant.

Lucky him that you were going to tell anyway. It seemed as though a moment of sobriety and clarity came upon you, as your lazy slurring left your system while you spoke.

“You… are probably one of the best things that ever happened to me. I know I don’t say it much, but,” you hiccuped and Zhongli only then saw the tears cascading down your face, “I really, really, really love you so much. You have no idea how much it broke me when I saw your face before. You looked so sad, Zhongli, so, so, soooo sad. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before, love. I don’t know what came over me, and I—!”

“Oh dear,” an airy chuckle left Zhongli’s parted lips as he watched you suddenly break open the emotions you held in your indestructible dam, flowing through like the tears in your eyes.

“I just— I just… I just!!! I just love you so much, man! Y-You treat me so well and give me all that I hope for!” You wailed so dramatically and Zhongli had to wonder if anyone woke up (he hopes not for the sake of your dignity and that he only wishes to be the only man to see this side of you), “Zhongli, I will marry you. It’s not even a want to do kind of thing anymore, I-I feel like if I don’t have you, I will die.”

It wasn’t even your intention, but soon tears pricked at the ends of his eyes, sniffling at your display, “Let’s hope we do not come to that point, yes?”

You pouted a little, “…Yes… Anyway… I’m… sorry I couldn’t say much… it’s hard for me, I guess,” you confessed and Zhongli understood. He always will for you. “But please understand… that if I also could, I would bring you not just stars but all worlds, that for your safety, I will not just kill a thousand threats but also build the strongest home… I will do it all for you…”

Suddenly, the fears within Zhongli were quelled and sent away as you finally gave out, letting him know that his worries were nothing but anxiety and that he will always have a place in your heart. He could feel his cheeks warm at your proposition earlier of tying the knot, even he couldn’t resist the giddiness that flooded his system at your drunken promise. It was enough for him to know that you still loved him even when it was expressed through a drunken honesty.

“…I love you… Zhongzhong…” you took your final shred of consciousness to breathe out your little declaration, eyes finally closing as you gave into the blissful slumber.

He cupped your cheeks and pecked your lips with a content smile, “I love you too, [Name].”

GEPARD LANDAU

He’s a very reluctant househusband at first, actually. He’s one who firmly believes that relationships are a team effort (and they are and should be), and thinks that it wouldn’t hurt for the both of you to work together. Of course, you encourage him regardless, and with both of your career-oriented selves, you were basically the couple that could foster a ten or so children and still be financially sound.

Serval is the one who convinced Gepard to lay low a little in his job and relax for once. You’re making a decent income a month — enough for you to be the only one working and still have a comfortable life together.

You have to thank your sister-in-law and her craftiness. She wasn’t Gepard’s sister for nothing. She knew your husband more than anyone and knew that he was too down bad to even refuse in entertaining the thought of not taking care of you. All she had to do was do a little convincing.

“If I were [Name], I sure wouldn’t mind coming home to a nice meal like this every night,” she’d muse with a hum while she ate off of Gepard’s cooking. He came home early that one night and thought to surprise you. Of course, Serval just had to taste test since she’s looking out for you, her beloved brother-in-law. “Also wouldn’t mind being taken care of by my own spouse…”

Gepard quickly folded. What if his sister was right and you wanted that kind of life? But it’s not like he also wants to quit his job just like that. So he made a gradual decrease in work until he can finally have a schedule that can commit as a househusband and occasionally help when he’s needed at work as a consultant.

Your beloved husband is a bit mid from the start — basic in cooking, in chores, but it’s his perseverance that pushes him up to S-tier househusband status. He will really go out of his way to learn recipes that you suddenly brought up in the middle of a conversation and will execute it to the highest standards. He will become a lot more meticulous in his chores around the house.

If he can, he’s definitely the type to drop by and join you in lunch. He’s a lot more free now, and if there’s nothing else to do in the house, he’ll take some lunch and go to where you work and just eat lunch together. Everyone is looking at the windows of your own office in envy while they watched you get spoon fed by your cute husband (they don’t know how embarrassed Gepard is since you technically just coerced him to feed you so people can see you on purpose).

So very attentive to you. He wakes you up early (even earlier if you have meetings where you have to discuss things to be extra prepared) for work. Your lunch is just top tier, but the plating is too cute — with the slightly uneven shapes to create cute animals. He’s the kind to even put a note in your packed lunch every time without fail.

He knows how hard you work and only wants the best for you. And when you recognize his efforts, he’s quick to get flustered from your compliments. He will fold like a wet cardboard. He’s too weak.

“Dear, please,” you could only laugh at your beloved’s winsome attitude. Currently pressed against the marbled counter of the kitchen, you can only shower him in a plethora of love-filled kisses as you expressed your unending gratitude. Your lips left tiny pecks from his cheeks down to his neck, only serving to fluster him even more.

You pulled back but not before leaving another quick kiss on his nose, “What’s got you all knotted up, love? No one’s watching.” You cooed, leaving your poor husband whining at the thought of earlier — when you so cruelly asked him to feed you in front of your subordinates while you busily ‘worked’ on your projects.

But somehow even with the unbridled embarrassment that you brought to him, Gepard couldn’t help but feel the elation engulf his entirety at the prospect of you showing him off in your own mischievous ways. Even with your busy schedule, you were more than willing to let him come inside your work and take the time off just to let him join you for lunch. He’d already heard enough drama around the neighborhood to be grateful that you can still balance your work with your marriage.

He was grateful to have you as his partner for life. And even then, he wouldn’t mind having to visit you just to feed you. It was certainly a rare thing that he’s heard partners would suggest, so to be given a privilege as seeing you everyday at work was something he would cherish more than ever.

A kiss on his temple knocked his fleeting thoughts off the rail and pulled him back to reality, blinking at your curious smile, “…Shield for your thoughts?” You inquired with a gentle tone, eager to pry just what has got your husband so spacey all of a sudden.

He only grinned before pulling you in for a proper kiss and murmured against your lips, “Just thanking my lucky stars for having you as my husband.”

Now it was your turn to be flustered.

𐂂

SAMPO KOSKI

Your friends still think you’re a legend for even managing to wife up the untamable Sampo. But somehow, you pulled him in and he was more than willing to be a househusband. For more reasons than one.

But let’s get out the pinnacle of his reasons out of the way — it being, him living so comfortably? Financially supported by a handsome guy like you? Sign him up. He’s more than willing to take care of you while you take care of him. He’s a sleazy guy, after all. Wouldn’t wanna get married to a broke man. Kidding.

Anyway, he mostly sells the story of getting married just for benefits for laughs. But really, you’ve somehow managed to actually trap him as a prisoner of love. He’s a huge simp for you and actually considers your high-end job a bonus. A really good bonus. But other than that, you’ve got Sampo completely wrapped around your finger. And he’s a very eager househusband.

A surprisingly good househusband. He’s meticulous in his work and can cook. But what really sells him is how well he can budget and actively get discounts just by smooth talking the vendors in the market. You once went with him, telling him to go nuts and buy everything that he needs, and you came home with only just a good half of your money spent. He was scarily good and from then on, you made an oath to take notes from your husband’s amazing haggling skills.

He’s a very resourceful man. If you need anything, he’s there to lend a hand. He’s always there to fix equipments that break down. Really, you rarely get issues with the things at home, because the moment he senses that there’s something wrong, he’s already on the case. Your husband is a jack of all trades.

All he requires is a small fee of some attention and loving from you. Seriously, he will mope around and will let you know that he’s upset that you forgot to give him a goodbye kiss earlier when you left for work.

You wake up much earlier than he does, but please wake him up. He wants to cook you breakfast and see you off like a loving househusband that he is. He will sulk if you so much as even think of leaving him without waking him up. He’s a big drama queen and unless you make up for it once you get home, he will continue to walk around the house with a pout on his face.

The only way to make this man completely crumble underneath you is to spoil him. He’s working so hard with the upkeep of your shared home! If you take him out on surprise date nights, he will melt. Shower him with lavish gifts from all the money you saved up, courtesy of Sampo’s extreme bargaining. He will latch onto your arm the entire night like your pretty little arm candy (even if he’s taller than you).

Oh, right. You will get sudden visits from Natasha or even Seele and Oleg, just to check up on your married life. They’re mostly just there to whack some sense into Sampo if he’s being difficult to you. Suffice to say, they’re always surprised when they come visit your homely abode that’s clean and has a refreshing atmosphere. Seele plugs her ears every time you say it’s all because of Sampo that your house is even remotely presentable. She’s in denial.

It was a grueling day, leaving you completely vulnerable to the throes of exhaustion. You ought to take some vacation days, maybe go on a different country with your husband for a treat. Surely, he’d like that. You noticed he’s been working just as hard as you at home. Speaking of which — the reason for your home’s unfamiliar silence was in fact the lack of singing from your lively husband. You were so used to hearing his voice that the silence felt incredibly deafening when you were alone.

“Love? You home?” You called out, glancing at the shoe rack by the door to see his outdoor shoes in the same place and the indoor shoes missing. He’s here. You pursed your lips, brushing off the peculiarity and headed to the joint dining room and kitchen, seeing a nice still hot meal sitting on a nice plate. But it was the only thing on the table, no other plates or even a husband waiting on you with a smile. You peered at the food to see a card beside the plate, scribbled with a sad face.

“…What.” You sat the card back down before finally poking your head in the living room, seeing your husband watching another sad show while screwing in some panel from what you can only guess a part of your heater. You sauntered up from behind him, before grabbing his face and tilting his head up to meet your gaze.

He made no noise and had it not been for his evident pout, you would’ve only been left wondering what you did to make him so sulky again. You sighed before leaning to press a kiss against your lips. You could feel him finally smile against the kiss.

“So you still love me?” He asked, insinuating that you felt otherwise for not even giving him a kiss goodbye earlier.

“Not like I have a choice,” was your only cheeky response.

“Wha— Hey!”

𐂂

JING YUAN

Out of everyone, he is probably the most eager one to be a househusband. He is so ready to retire. He’s been moaning about it at work constantly, about how he’s just ready to settle in somewhere nice and be taken care of. And when you decided to finally tie the knot with him, you didn’t even have to ask twice, that man is already turning in his resignation and is already making your shared home even cozier than ever.

He’s a very languid man, but that does not mean he’s going to flake out on chores. He can do them all efficiently just for the sake of getting them out of the way so he can keep relaxing after. That, and of course making sure that you come home to a clean home. Aeons know how stressful it is to come home from work and seeing your own home completely cluttered. Jing Yuan has suffered the same thing before he met you.

Jing Yuan loves you through his cooking other than sleeping in with you. He creates the greatest dishes for you. Often are you eating your lunch with so much pride. Your subordinates would come inside your office during lunchtime to pass some papers and they would see you just completely enjoying life with your husband’s cooking.

He likes to greet you with a nice warm meal after your work. And he’d just watch you eat his meals with a fond smile while you continue to talk about each of your days with each other. Of course, occasionally, he’d open his mouth and you would have to feed him as well. Yanqing would sometimes come home to such a sight and never has he seen a more domestic scene than before.

Another one of his much favored ways to show his love is through after work massages. You’d come home and be completely smothered with love just by his touches. Sometimes he’d give you a nice neck and shoulder massage while you’re eating and talking about your day. Or you could both be lounging on the sofa and he would absentmindedly massage your overworked hands.

However his most favored time spent with you is when you’re on a day off and that he would successfully persuade you into staying a little bit longer in bed with him. Just sleep until the afternoon, with limbs tangled against one another. He loves spooning his husband that takes care of him so dearly. Just feeling your back pressed against his chest while he’s nuzzling his nose into the nape of your neck. Bliss. Utter bliss.

The two of you scream old married couple. Just two old geezers enjoying their lives. It’s really such a relaxing relationship. Being married to Jing Yuan is like a vacation from your problems and him being married to you is an adventure without the nauseating exhaustion.

Yanqing is inadvertently your child the moment you got married to your husband. And suffice to say, you were far more content in your life than you could ever imagine. Never have you felt the genuine happiness swell within you the moment you came home to the two of them cooking together. You still have a slightly motion blurred picture in your phone and neither of them know about it.

Overall the most chill househusband. But even in his passivity, you can feel the radiating warmth of love for you. He just… loves you so much that he’s more than willing to take care of you and the little family that you and him have created. He will wait for you by the door with his half-lidded gaze completely fixated on you with so much adoration. He’s lucky to have you.

You were used to the hectic mornings you often faced upon waking up. It was always a rush job in the morning, speeding through all your morning routine before finally leaving for work. But today was not that day. You could tell from the way the sunlight hit your eyelids. You always left just before the sun could even come up, but right now, you had other plans.

You wanted to prepare a nice breakfast for your husband. He had been working so hard all the time, taking care of you and Yanqing with no days off unlike you. You figured you could get the day started and surprise the both of them with some of your cooking prowess. Suddenly filled with the motivation, you sat up, ready to face the first hour of your time off work for a few days.

However, your plans were soon foiled when a strong arm hooked around your waist and immediately pulled you back down on the bed without even breaking a sweat. You sighed, looking off to the side to see one golden eye peering at you sleepily. Lips turning up into a smile, you shifted to fully face him.

“Can’t even let me make you some breakfast in bed, huh?” You teased with the same fondness as the very first day you and him got married.

A quiet grunt was all your lover gave, only to follow it up with his own gruff response a minute later, “While that sounds nice, I believe I can also reap benefits just from canoodling with my husband for let’s say… until the afternoon.”

Your hands were tied at that point, and with one last charming smile from your dozing husband, you dove into his arms, letting him press some kisses on your face before falling asleep, with you following after.

𐂂

BLADE

No one in this world knows how you managed to charm and marry Blade in the first place. Even his family considers you a miracle worker for bagging the hard to get man. You could only reminisce of the times he would give you the cold shoulder when you tried to ask him out. You were cringe but Blade somehow liked it.

Regardless, he’s one of the reluctant househusbands at first. Blade doesn’t like the feeling of not going out and making money like you. He believes that as long as he can, he will contribute to this relationship. It’s really adorable. And you were supportive of what he wants, but when he realized no one can take care of you while you’re busy being the breadwinner, he decided that he’ll take one for the team and take care of everything in the house instead.

He is meticulous in cleaning. Your house is always sparkling clean the moment you arrive at home. He’s constantly on the hunt for any dust that could taint your shared humble abode. He once read that an unclean house can cause sickness to the occupants, and he has never let a single dust touch a furniture ever since then. Your health is his priority and he will do everything in his power to keep you healthy.

You know what? Screw it, he wears his apron without a care too. He goes out of the house in a pink frilly apron you gifted him as a silly little joke and he’s not ashamed of it. Even Kafka’s incessant teasing isn’t enough to deter him from wearing it. You gave it to him and he loves it. That’s all that matters.

Surprisingly loved by your neighbors. In contrast to his gloomy disposition, he’s always seen around the market and with people’s tendency to draw closer to mysterious handsome men like him, let’s just say he’s managed to unintentionally charm your neighbors. Everyone calls you lucky for getting him, everyone calls him lucky for having a good husband that provides.

Really, he cares so little about the money you make. All he needs is your love and attention. It is imperative that you give him calls on certain times of the day, let him know that you’re still alive at the very least. It’s not like you can’t make do on such a promise either, you loved calling him just to take a break from work for a little while. Even just hearing his quiet grunts of agreement while you gossiped about your subordinates was enough.

He wakes you up… like really early. Super early. Like at least a few hours before you call in for work. His reason? To get enough time with you before you go to work. It’s adorable. You two could be just lounging at the balcony, sipping coffee or tea while you both watch the sunrise.

Speaking of which, with him comes a package. His aforementioned family. Kafka and Silver Wolf’s visits are a must. They are a part of him and now they are a part of you. Kafka could be dropping by just to chat and gossip with you (somehow both of you know a lot about people’s own businesses) or Silver Wolf would just barge in and hog all your game systems (she says no one plays them since you’re both old men so she gets the privilege). Either way you’re already used to it, and one guest room is always at the ready.

Getting married to Blade is honestly the best thing you’ve ever done in your life. You still don’t know how you pulled him, but with him resting on you while the both of you watched shows, showing you his vulnerability tells you that doing so is not an accident or a mistake.

“…Would it kill you to step back a little? It’s hard to cook.”

“But you’re so warm. So soft… so…”

Quite possibly out of all the forms of affections that you’ve expressed towards him, Blade finds your nosy hands cupping around his chest from under his clothes the least practical. Especially when you’re doing it while he’s cooking your breakfast before you’re off for work.

He flipped the omelet with ease despite his claims of difficulty just seconds ago. Of course, it wasn’t as hard when he’s standing still. But on times where he had to go get some things, you in your sleepy daze had to trudge behind him like a shadow just to persistently warm your incredibly cold hands.

Regardless, other than the difficulty in moving, Blade finds it even harder not to burn the kitchen down as his concentration dwindled with every kiss you pressed against his neck, unrelenting and incredibly soft, so filled with love in every individual peck that met his skin. His face turned a rather dark shade of scarlet while you busied yourself with him.

“Keep this up and you’re going to be late.”

“At least it’s extra time with you~” you cooed.

Blade only sighed before leaning against your back, using his free hand to softly knock into the side of your head as his form of half-assed discipline.

Well. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that extra time too.

𐂂

DAN HENG

He’s not so much as a reluctant househusband. In fact, he relishes in the idea of just staying home and doing his work there. He likes the comfort of being able to sit things out for once after having to look after his two gremlins for friends. However, he does want to make sure that you’re always safe when you’re working.

After a lot of reassurances, he finally decides that you can handle your own. He will compensate for it by taking an extremely good care of you and your shared home. And this man does not play around. He’s sort of like Blade, excelling at everything that needs to be done not just because, but it’s to keep you safe. He cooks you healthy meals and scrubs any dirt off the face of the world.

Easily one of the greatest househusbands in the list. Dan Heng has the right temperament and while he’s often aloof to most people, when it comes to you, you could already feel how he seems more lenient, a little softer on you.

He does all his work efficiently to get them over with as fast and as best as he can so he can have time to visit you in your work. If he knows he has time, count on your beloved husband to come and bring you some freshly cooked lunch in your office. Almost everyone in your company already knows who he is. He’s the elusive husband of the big boss, coming in just to bring you some lunch.

Speaking of which, might wanna keep your subordinates in check. Dan Heng is a looker, and the fact that he’s just as considerate, combined with his mysterious nature, people are bound to be more attracted to him. Though honestly, none of their little admiration could measure up to Dan Heng’s love for you.

In his eyes, you are the only one important, right next to his own family with Himeko and the rest. And he will do all that he can to make sure that you’re alright in any aspect of your life. However even with that dedication, it’s also your job to keep him intact. He focuses so much on you that he sometimes forgets to wind down.

Taking him out on something with a serene atmosphere usually does the trick. Bring tons of books to entertain yourselves, and if the stories get too old, you chat about things you have yet to tell each other. Dan Heng really appreciates the effort you put in, investing your time in him despite the fact that you’re running a conglomerate, but even then just a little gesture from you is enough for him to know how grateful you are for his own efforts as well.

Old married couple 2.0. March said so herself when she decided to barge into your home to show you her pictures from her recent travels. She and the raccoon are tied at the tally of visits. Often they just crash just to make sure Dan Heng hasn’t driven you insane yet with his very… unromantic nature. Safe to say March still couldn’t believe that dear old Dan Heng was the first to pop the question in tying the knot.

Speaking of unromantic, your husband does come off as one, often giving you practical solutions than giving you any words of comfort when you’re stressed. And perhaps it’s because you understood that’s his way of romancing you that you and him ended up married in the first place.

Exhaustion was more of a friend than a foe after having to bury yourself in the tower stacks of paperwork. It’s times like these that you had to wonder if running the family company is even worth it.

“I’m too tired to driiiiive,” you whined, looking at the spreadsheets in exasperation.

And as if he had a sixth sense, a knock on your door was heard and you gave the green light with little regard for the person behind the door. You then looked up and almost cried at the sight of your beautiful husband, with two coffees in hand.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” it was all he had to say to prompt what little motivation you had left in your system, letting your sluggish self spring back to life. You bound to him with a grateful smile on your face and greeted him with an embrace.

You took one cup from him and graced him with a kiss on his cheek, “Hang on, let me get some take home work. I need to at least finish a good third of this.”

Your poor husband was a lot more worried than he could let on with his stoic face — seeing you on the ropes, completely hard at work and barely functioning at the sheer exhaustion was almost enough to tempt him into stopping you from bringing home your work. Alas, he supported you regardless and only thought to compensate for your extra work with an even better dinner.

“Anything you want for tonight?” He asked, thoughtful as always.

“Mmm… chicken fried rice?”

“Chicken fried rice it is.”

𐂂

CAELUS

Not a single soul expected for this man to get married. Everyone thought he’d just end up on the streets willingly, constantly rummaging through trash can after trash can, falling in love with one and settling down with it in his own odd way. Surprise surprise, he is now a househusband that digs through the high end trash cans placed inside your shared home.

Quite frankly, if Caelus was being honest, he also did not expect to trip into you and quite literally fall in love. And for you to reciprocate it. He always thought you two were just the best of friends, with you supporting his hobbies with little to no judgment. So imagine his surprise that he keeps feeling every time he wakes up right next to you (and right next to his five foot pillow of a trashcan, but it’s a separate affair on its own).

Moving aside your husband’s very odd addiction of living the life of a trash panda, Caelus is actually a pretty decent househusband. His specialities are mostly the meals he makes for you. They’re always so delicious and is often the highlight of your day even without him around.

He’s very active around the neighborhood and is always armed with the latest news around town. The other stay at home spouses love him. And you were quite surprised to find out that he’s far more connected in the very place you both live in than you could ever be. When you’re free, you’d sometimes accompany him to the market and somehow end up staying very late because a lot of people recognize him and seem to want to chat with him.

Caelus parades you around as his beloved husband and people are just dropping jaws when they realize you have definitely been interviewed in one of those famous magazines about businesses and all that jazz.

Surprisingly, just like Sampo, Caelus is your man when it comes to spending wisely and learning how to haggle. He knows his way around almost everything and even you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself of fishing out such a dashing man that is wise in finances. Good man, honestly.

One fact about him that you like are his skills in caring for children. There’s something so wonderfully domestic whenever you would come home early and see him playing with the children — Hook and Clara, if you can recall. He’s mostly just babysitting for them on days that he’s not completely hammered to death with housework.

His favorite thing to do with you is grocery shopping at night. Just the two of you cruising around every aisle, more often than not, you’d push the cart with him in it getting gradually buried by every item you decided to purchase. It’s a good way to spend some time together while getting something productive done. And perhaps coax you into buying a little more food than you and him intended in the first place. Dan Heng always advices you not to be too swayed by your husband antics… but it’s clearly not working.

Caelus is a silly little man, with his weird eccentric jokes and his equally strange fascination for all things related to trash cans. But it’s probably because of this that you found yourself enamored. He is your respite in the suffocating world of your workforce. He pushes you in situations you never thought would be fun unless he was with you.

“If you loved me, you would’ve gotten ten more boxes of cookies.”

“And if you loved me, you wouldn’t be willingly burying yourself in that cart instead of helping me pick between chocolate or strawberry milk.” You quipped back with a snarky grin, not even bothering to look at your childish husband who continued to be sprawled out in the cart at ten in the evening while you shopped.

Caelus pouted, you always did make good points. It’s why he could never win an argument against you. Or maybe he could… if he wasn’t so completely smitten at the sight of you. You were always seen as the dignified boss of your company, dressed in three piece suits that could suffocate anyone and their wallet.

But here you were, dressed in a loose shirt (likely one of his just judging from the fit) and some pair of joggers that you haphazardly threw on.

Absolutely breathtaking.

He lent out a hand to reach for the carton of flavored milk that you finally chose, adding it onto the pile. He waited until you were at the end of the cart, getting ready to muscle your way through pushing an incredibly heavy cart, courtesy of your husband.

Caelus looked up at you, “Don’t I at least get a kiss for helping out?”

“Cae, I’m dying from pushing you. How ‘bout we entertain that incentive once you got out of the cart and started helping me, hm?”

Maybe he’s just a simp, but how could he deny his demanding husband’s whims?

𐂂

WELT YANG

This old man is the definition of a reluctant retiree. Well, it’s not actually a retirement for him. He still gets to be the voice of reason, only that he won’t actually personally animating. Who’s to blame? You. To be accurate, this old man officially decided to step down from his hands-on job as an animator so he can be a househusband. You’re a priority after all, and only the heavens know how bad you need to be taken care of.

Welt joins the ranks of a godly househusband. He knows his way around almost every single thing that needs to get fixed. His cooking? Top tier. His housework game? Absolute perfection. Floors are swept, counters are wiped and dusted, sheets and clothes are washed and pressed. He is perfect.

And on top of that, he still manages to balance his work from home as the consultant for any new anime that is about to be produced and can still care for you without even breaking a sweat. Old man Welt is always pulling through.

So let’s get this out of the way — actual old married couple. Not just vibes. You two are old men who look at the screen with squinted eyes. Well, only Welt does that while you laugh at him and then proceed to forget where you placed your own phone despite being on it just a few minutes ago.

Regardless, you live a much more balanced life, just two husbands cruising through life with little worries. You live on a good neighborhood, living comfortably and get a lot of visits from yours and Welt’s friends/family. Most of which are from the trio and Himeko. You and Welt always host these family dinners on weekends where everyone is free. Life is good.

However despite all the glamour of living a comfortable life in this marriage, there is one glaring difference between you and Welt — mostly it’s the fact that you have worse time management than he does and often gets the short end of the stick, always pummeled to death with your paperwork that could leave anyone in a fit of raw despair. Welt looked at your work the one time you left to answer a phone call from office and shuddered at the heavy load.

Welt is essentially your clock when it’s time to unwind from work. You have a tendency to overwork at times and it’s something that Welt always makes sure to keep an eye out for. He just wants what’s best for you, and oftentimes, what’s best is for you is to finally get some shuteye after suffering through another overnight that you pulled.

Also, there is an unspoken rule of not letting any man with long blonde hair inside your home. It’s just a house rule. The top of all other house rules in fact, as it takes the most priority in fulfilling.

Regardless, Welt is so… househusband-shaped. He knows what to do as one and does a damn good execution of it all. Maybe it’s because of his compassionate self that you were quick to fall for the old man. He didn’t even have to try and show off, all he had to do was be himself and you’d still give him the world with every penny you’ve earned from your job.

A taut frown tugged onto Welt’s lips as he squinted on the labels from the spices that Himeko sent from her recent overseas trip. Not that he didn’t trust his good friend’s tastes in any form of flavor, it’s only that he wanted to make sure none of it had any ingredient that could probably send you into an anaphylactic shock. Yes, he is this meticulous when it comes to you.

Alas, his cautiousness grants no extra clear sight in viewing the labels and he struggled, holding them in different proximities. Are the characters really that small intentionally or are they so incoherent because they manufacturers made an error in the sizing the font before printing it on the packaging.

Fortunately for him, you came into the rescue as you plucked the packaging from his hands. Welt didn’t need to look up to see the same smug smile plastered on your face whenever you’d catch him doing the same thing to his phone. Well, he loved looking at you so he did it nonetheless.

“Having trouble again, old man?” You teased and Welt only had to sigh in response. “Is this from Himeko’s package?”

Your endeared husband nodded, “Of course. I had to see what else she gave us. And I’m looking over the ingredients so I can keep you out of the hospital as best as I can.” He turned to the stove and lowered the heat. “Now kindly read it for me, dear.”

You only nodded, flipping over the packet, “Sure thing.”

There was a silence that followed, with Welt expecting you to run your mouth about the ingredients already. He looked back to you…

…And saw you squinting at the same bundle of text that he’s been staring at.

Welt scoffed, playful and light in nature, “And you call me old.”

And as cliche as it may sound, Rex... did want to see the world. See Liyue, live amongst the people he had cared for and protected for so long. He would never admit it but the rare visits the adepti performed to him were never long or frequent enough, and the visits were always overshadowed by the burden of the dynamics that existed between them. All the adepti and even the Yaksha restrained expressing themselves whenever they were in his presence out of fear of disrespecting him or provoking his ire.

Yes, their dedication had been commendable, however, their respect was often tiring. Rex wants to be around others who see him as an equal, and every day he had looked down from his adeptal realm seeing Liyuens interact, a crack had formed in his armor until he one day realized he wanted to be among THEM- his people.

It hurt to fake his death, to fool and mislead those who have known him for the longest time, to watch his adepti and his people mourn. It was not without consequence- he questioned his actions for the longest time after. While the Traveler's presence had ensured the fallout hadn't been too bad, Rex himself had to set apart his own time to mourn the relationships he broke, accept that that part of his life was over now.

But yes. Liyue has changed in so many ways- while it has always embraced the traditional, anyone could agree that it was making way for modernity, with space being made for new ideas to take hold in the city.

These ideas included cuisine, fashion, and even history! Imagine his shock when he learns of how much history has been reinterpreted by others into events so far from the truth it's laughable, really. But this is not a bad thing. Being around other historians gives him a way to hear about how others viewed past events and his efforts, and proves quite entertaining.

And as much Rex tries to pass himself as a normal being and throw himself into the character of "Zhongli," there are certain revealing habits he can't shake. He finds himself making many trips to Iron Tongue Tian to listen to his surprisingly accurate accounts of past events, labeled as "stories". It makes him long desperately for an old pal to speak with to reminisce over these things, drinking delicious cups of tea or even rice wine.

Azdaha. Guizhong. Oh, how Rex misses them. Even Madame Ping, who comes the closest to understanding his situation is relatively unavailable, dedicated to the life she has made for herself here.

So Rex decides he must distract himself some more. He's no adventurer quite the caliber of the Traveler, but Liyue has had a bit of a shortage on the green-clad adventurers. Many Liyuens had avoided joining the Adventurer's Guild either due to caution or fear, seeing as how many are superstitious.

It's a wide-held belief in Liyue that those who join the Guild are only "looking for trouble that will find them". Thus, parents had warned away their overeager children, friends passing similar messages on to other friends, and thus registrations have been slow, except for the occasional vision holder.

Vision holders are treated a bit differently. They're typically stronger and more resilient so they are treated with less concern. After all, they have Celestia and an archon looking after them, after all.

Desperate for higher registration, the leader of Adventurer's Guild (unknown to most) had made a visit to Liyue's Qixing, asking their help in the matter. It is not known what the Guild and to give up in exchange , although rumors speculate that the Qixing had requested the Traveler return to commit to a few commissions in Liyue once more.

The Qixing did their part and asked that more Liyuens, even those without visions, offer up their services in exchange for Mora and better relationships established with the people of Liyue, and thus, 'Zhongli' had answered the call. Relationships and connections are everything in Liyue, and for someone who forgets his Mora pouch so often, he needs these connections so people won't threaten him with violence when he does slip up.

Plus, he's a man of the people; he'll always do his civic duty!

He is not the most diligent of the bunch, but every once in a while he'll accept a commission, just for the cause, and also so that he may flex his powers, (just a bit). Before, as an archon, it wasn't as if he could just float down from his adeptal realm to, as Paimon would have put it, "Kick Some Butt".

Liyuens had been under the impression that if Rex were to descend, it would solely be due to a disaster that would befall them. Thus, he learned to only stick to his yearly rite, out of an abundance of caution, although there would be a little envy he felt as he watched his Yaksha would take out threats single-handedly.

But now?

Zhongli relishes in using his ability to vanquish some unruly hillichurls or metachurls or even lawlachurls, appreciating the challenge and making the Territory safer for anyone who would pass through.

He had believed he had explored every inch of Liyue when he happened upon it, a small pile of rocks that hadn't managed to escape his notice. There's something odd about the way they're stacked, and on a whim, he goes to break them.

When he destroys the rocks, there is a hole that is revealed, with a few geo crystalflys flying out. Suspecting there may be treasure, the archon looks around to make sure no one is watching before he cautiously jumps down the hole, opening the wind glider the Liyue Adventurer's Guild had provided him with in exchange for completing requests. He doesn't necessarily need it, but it's best to make use out of it (and the Traveler also had the same one).

He floats down for a LONG time, and huffs out a breath when there is nothing but an exquisite chest at the bottom that awaits him, nested between two unlit torch stands. He resents the thought of climbing all the way back up, and is just about to summon a geo pillar that would rise under his feet and carry him back up when a thought strikes him.

He regards the two unlit torch stands once more. Could it be that lighting them would give way to secret hidden mechanism of sorts?

Zhongli may not have the power of pyro, but he most certainly carries a lighter, from when his Liyue travels would carry him too near the cold, blistery region of Dragonspine.

Worth a try, he reckons.

He pulls out his lighter and lights the two torch stands and underneath him, there is the slightest rumble under his feet. His assumption was correct! Before, he had been seemingly encased by rocky walls, but now? One of the walls slides away to show a tunnel set with the equivalent of geo bombs, and Rex sighs to himself before dashing through the space.

He is not lazy! But... he does indeed find all of this movement troubling, and if not for the fact that the promise of a greater treasure surely awaited him, he would have returned to the surface.

So the former archon walks. And walks. And then- he feels it. A tiny whisp of elemental energy, indecipherable but surely existing. Something- no, someone is down here.

Interest, concern, and wariness are the emotions at the forefront of Zhongli's mind, and although he does summon his spear to his hand, he continues to walk the path, preparing himself for anything when finally, the path widens into a cave.

A brightly lit cave that is in fact, sparkling with riches. Cor Lapis, Jade, Amethyst Lumps, Coalescence Crystals, Magical crystals, treasure chests, old artifacts piled up on top of each other, and there's a moment when a purely selfish urge takes hold of Zhongli, when he considers how much he could take with him. Strangely enough, no Mora litters the ground, which is interesting.

He steps forward, seeking the elemental presence he's felt, using his elemental sight. Nothing appears, but Zhongli is cautious. He's been in similar situations enough so that he doesn't freely approach the chests.

He takes a few steps back and uses his elemental skill, holding long enough that a great tremor is sent throughout the cave as a golden translucent shield forms around him.

His actions prove to be wise. The ground begins to shake and Zhongli watches in shock as a shape forms underneath the riches, and grows larger and larger, until a large dragon-like being rises from the middle of the pile, and blinks their eyes at him.

Zhongli, with his long lasting memory, attempts to place the one before him, but cannot. He doesn't know who this is. He would remember one as powerful as this.

Heart pounding hard at the strong pulses of elemental energy that seems to pour off of you, Zhongli swallows, and decides to lead the encounter, and wills away his spear.

"I apologize for disturbing your rest. I am Zhongli, formerly the Geo Archon that presided over Liyue," he speaks, respectfully bowing his head to the other.

And although Rex may be 'living' as Zhongli, a simple mortal man, at his very core, he is still a dragon. Born from the dust and stone, his earliest form had been similar to that of an advanced draconic Geovishap, and only when he conserved that form into a body that had been more humanoid, was he able to ascend into archonhood.

And so, he allows his more draconic features to slip through his glamour, fingernails lengthening into claws, a smooth black and gold tail slipping from the middle of his lower back, and the slight horns grow from his forehead. It's a feeling similar to exhaling a deep breath, and Zhongli stretches, under the other's watchful gaze.

The dragon stares at him for the longest, before nodding.

"Did Celestia send you?" The dragon- no, you ask, voice rumbly from obvious disuse, but Zhongli enjoys it all the same. It's been a long time since he's come across another like him.

Dragons are temperamental beings, and Zhongli working with Celestia and abiding by their Principles had made him an outcast to many of his kind, so to know there's another outside of Azdaha, makes a giddy, excited feeling overtake him.

"No. I was simply exploring this area before I stumbled upon the entrance to your cave," Zhongli answers honestly, and you nod again.

"I see. It appears you made no motion to take from my collection either, so I can see that you are one with integrity," you purr with approval, and Zhongli- he doesn't know why -shivers at having pleased you.

Perhaps it was because he was in the presence of who he could tell was an elder being, which he doesn't have much experience with. He's often the oldest person around when in the company of others.

"Thank you," he answers, and then attempts to satisfy his curiosity, "May I please know your name?"

"Ah," you shake your body and move closer to Zhongli before bowing your own head in a sign of respect, "I am Y/N, Sky Shaker. This one greets you, former protector of this land."

"Y/N," Zhongli repeats to himself, ensuring that he has the correct pronunciation down.

"You may come closer. You have earned entry into my domain." You tell him, and Zhongli nods, before doing just that. He cannot hide the enthusiastic whap whap whap of his tail against the loot as he climbs on top of the pile to settle himself at what he considers a respectable distance from you.

He is not proud of the sound that leaves his mouth when a large claw closes around his arm and gently but forcefully tugs him even closer, and is shocked when he feels your tail heavily situate itself over his body. You then shake, moving to position yourself better and that's when Zhongli realizes that underneath you two are soft plumes, warm and cushiony.

You're nesting, he realizes with shock, something dragons typically reserved for their mates or hatchlings, and he stiffens, which you notice.

"Apologies, I do not exactly remember proper draconic etiquette after being sealed away by Celestia, and rely on my instincts. If you're uncomfortable, I can move," you offer, preparing to shuffle away, but Zhongli's tail shoots out to intertwine with yours.

"No!" Zhongli exclaims, before he looks down and quiets his voice, "It's been centuries since I've last nested myself," and he hesitates before sharing, "I've missed it."

"Ah," you say, before you rest your head down, large eyes closing before you're snoring and you're asleep. Zhongli looks at you, having many complex feelings.

You're obviously strong, but you seem to hold no desire to pose a threat to Liyue's wellbeing. You had instantly accepted Zhongli, invited him into your nest, and then rested, the ultimate sign of trust. Zhongli is awash with adoration, and honestly? He falls asleep, too.

When he wakes, it's to the sound of a loud rumbling. He looks over at you, and while it's hard to tell the emotions on a dragon's face, he can tell it's embarrassment. He wonders why until the rumbling sounds again, and he realizes it's coming from your stomach.

"Zhongli," you ask hesitatingly, "Is it possible that you are carrying any... sustenance with you?"

Ah. Waking from a long slumber must have left you with quite the appetite.

"Oh, but of course," Zhongli gives you an indulgent smile before he whips out one of his portable adepti's seeker stove, "I can cook you something right away."

"Cook?"

"You'll see," Zhongli replies with a smile, "I'm sure you've seen this employed by humans before."

"Yes, I have. But to see that you know this... 'cooking', as you called it, is wondrous as well."

There is a small part of him that preens as you marvel at the stove and his expertise in using it.

"Oh, this? It's nothing," Zhongli boasts with a laugh as he cooks many things together in one pot, summoning out bowls from his inventory to serve the food up to you, who quickly devours whatever he places down in front of you. If Zhongli had somehow known, he would've farmed more ingredients before heading out today.

He'll have to save his famous Slow-Cooked Bamboo Soup for another time, seeing as how that would take too long to prepare with how hungry you are. Skewers, soups, stews, and salads all quickly disappear into your chomping mouth, although you take your time to consistently compliment him and his culinary skills.

"MM, this is amazing," you say through a full mouth, "and is so much better than raw boar," and Zhongli smiles. He had felt the same when he first had cooked food. He sets aside some food of his own and begins to eat as well. Watching you tear through the food he's cooked has awakened his own hunger, and you two savor your respective meals. He waits until you're satisfied to start asking some of the questions he's been holding back on.

"Did you live amongst the humans before being sealed?" He questions, and you shake your head.

"No. As you can see, I'm quite large and mortals are very fragile. I would typically find places that are far enough where they wouldn't be disturbed by my presence," you answer in a very forthcoming manner.

"I see. So you've led a more solitary life, I take it?" Zhongli poses, and you nod.

"Yes... but that was due to necessity rather than choice," your response takes considerably longer this time, so Zhongli pauses. He doesn't want to breach a sensitive topic for you, so he shifts gears.

"I... can relate. Being an Archon meant always keeping everyone at arm's length, even those meant to be closest to me. There were times when it was terribly lonely," Zhongli confesses, and feels your tail slide around his legs in a show of comfort.

"But have you considered ever taking on a human form, or at least one that is more humanoid?" Zhongli asks with interest, and you shake your head.

"Yes. I tried it once and it burned through a considerable amount of my energy and it felt like I was pretending to be something I am not. When you first approached me today, you were in that form. Do you not find it uncomfortable? Mimicking the humans?" You ask him, and Zhongli pauses. You had raised some good points. He had first donned a human disguise due to wanting to be among his people, and he did hate the feeling of it initially.

"Well, I did, at first. But now, it comes a lot more naturally to me," he answers.

"Oh, so it is something that requires practice," you surmise, and he nods.

"Hmm," is all you say to that and the two of you rest again for a moment. Inside the cave is nice and cool, a perfect temperature overall, and the coziness makes Zhongli's eyes grow heavy and this time, he is the one to fall asleep first, as you watch with amusement. You are older than him, so you cannot help the protective instincts you have to keep up and keep watch, even if you know your cave is far, far away from any intruders.

You study his form, and listen close to his pulse. He's heavily rooted in the ground and his geo resonance is quite strong. Interesting element.

//

When he wakes, there is an amount of regret and indecision in his stare that alerts you to the fact that he probably must go now.

You try to not let it bother you, but it's your first interaction after sleeping for near a millenia! And with one of your dragon brethren no less! But you won't push Zhongli into overstaying.

"Is it the time where you must depart from me, friend?" You ask neutrally, and Zhongli sighs, turning reluctant eyes on you.

"I'm afraid it is. There are matters I must attend to, I'm afraid," Zhongli explains and you nod.

"I understand. It was nice to meet you, Zhongli of Liyue," you say solemnly, and Zhongli frowns up at you.

"You say that as if this is our last meeting," Zhongli says with obvious displeasure, and it warms your heart that he intended to return to you.

"It's probably for the best that you don't return. Celestia won't be happy that I'm awake," you growl, unhappy at the thought of it.

"Y/N. While I cannot defy Celestia," Zhongli starts, "I have seen them in action enough to know that your situation may be less dire than you think. Seeing as how no emissary has arrived to reseal you, I would wager that as long as one does not bring attention to himself, then they may be able to continue life, albeit quietly."

"Ah," is all you can say as you process his words. You can live freely now? Is it really possible?

"I will be here," you say, forcing yourself to not get excited, and you raise a large claw in the air and a blue stone materializes, and you pass it to Zhongli.

"If you'd ever like to visit again, this is a teleportation array. It should allow you to leave here directly if you press it once, and if you press it twice, it should allow you to return to me just as easily." Zhongli looks down at the stone, mouth agape in shock for a moment before he quickly closes it and nods.

"Thank you, Y/N. I will return," he says earnestly, and before your eyes, his features return to that of a human's.

"Safe travels," you salute and he smiles before he is lifting his hand and with a press of the array, is gone.

What a day. You hope he comes by again. There is much you want to ask, much you want to know. And with that thought, you lay your head down and fall asleep once more.

//

After Zhongli is teleported out of your cave, he immediately gets to work, layering rock over rock over the hole he had used to enter.

He can't risk anyone else discovering you for your safety alone... but there's also a small part of him that wants to keep you to himself.

It's just. He's on no good terms with any of the other dragons alive in Teyvat since they all typically hate those who aligned with Celestia and archons and well, that was what Rex had been. And to find a new dragon who doesn't know and doesn't care, one he can act up on centuries old instincts with, is such a luxury that he doesn't want to give up to anyone, not even the Traveler.

Besides, it would be nice to befriend an outsider with their own stories to tell, their own history. If Zhongli makes certain accommodations, he can visit quite frequently as long as he manages his duties well.

Zhongli stares at the blue transport stone you had given him, and he smiles, raising it to his heart before placing it in his inventory for safekeeping.

He's looking forward to visiting.

//

And it appears, you do too.

Whenever Zhongli visits, you meet him joyfully and eagerly, and it's quite clear that you enjoy his company, which is great because it means his excitement is mutual. You two pass the time talking and exchanging stories. You're still in your dragon form, so Zhongli continues to cook for you, one of his favorite things to do because of your pleased reactions every time he does.

He's your only link to the outside world, and he quite likes the feeling of having one person he cares about depend on him. It does not tire or stress him out, instead he feels strong and reliable. In a way, he now understands why Lady Guizhong had urged him to settle down and form a family back then. Being a provider and caretaker suits him.

He later discovers you were sealed away because you had refused to partake in the Archon's War, and that you wanted no role in Khaenriah's downfall. He's silent with shame at the reminder of what he considers one of his biggest failings, and you pick up on it, intertwining your tails together.

"Would you like to talk about it?" You ask considerately and Zhongli shakes his head, lips drawn in a tight line.

"I am bound by contract to keep my silence on the matter," he sighs, a burden heavily placed on his shoulders at not having the ability to confide after such a long time.

"Ah. Onto another topic then! I would like so much to visit these other lands you have told me about," you express sincerely, coiling your long, slinky body around Zhongli's own.

"Of course after seeing Liyue, I would love to see Mondstadt, the land of freedom. Or even Sumeru! Oh, how people must look and dress nowadays. The things they eat! The creatures must be different nowadays as well. I wonder how strong I am..." You muse aloud, having warmed up to the idea of coexisting with humans, and Zhongli frowns. All of the actions you have mentioned made it seem like you would be going about them alone, which. He is not a fan of that.

"Well, if you go about that, surely you would need a guide," Zhongli responds neutrally, hand coming to stroke over your scales, making you hum happily.

"Oh, but of course! Wouldn't you lead me, friend?" You ask him, "There's nobody else I would want by my side when that day comes."

"I-" Zhongli is cut off by the enthusiastic whapping of his tail against the ground, quite embarrassed.

"Well, that settles that!" You laugh boisterously, and Zhongli smiles and ducks his head. He's glad you don't know human expressions very well, for he's certain he's a bit red in the cheeks.

The two of you become close companions, and Zhongli wants to repay your consideration from the first time you two ever meet.

He produces a singular Mora coin, about five times the size of a regular one, imbued with his essence that he presents to you.

"This is not a teleportation array, but, if you ever find yourself in trouble, simply strike a charged attack at it, and I will come." Zhongli tells you, and you're enthusiastically picking it up.

"I will remember this, Zhong-li," you drawl, obviously pleased and Zhongli smiles. He loves making you happy- it's so simple and easy to do. He fears he may get addicted on the feeling soon.

//

When Zhongli visits you one day, you're different. Well, you're you, but this time you're in a half draconic, half human form much similar to the one Zhongli was donning the last time you saw him, although your complete bottom half of your body is draconic. Your legs are covered in scales, your feet form talons, and your tail swishes from side to side.

Oh, and there's another thing.

You're naked, too.

Zhongli nearly has an attack on the spot at the sight of your two ribbed penises, softly hanging down between your legs as he attempts to string words together.

"Zhongli! You've arrived!" You go over to him happily, your tail showing your excitement, curling up.

"I- Yes," is all Zhongli can muster, completely powerless to the flood of lust that nearly sends him to his knees at the sight of you.

He himself is a dragon. He is familiar with the claws, the horns, and the sight of a tail. But he does not, ahem, grow an extra appendage, down there.

"And look- I've been practicing, and now I can shift into a humanoid form!" You eagerly inform him, turning from this side to that to show off.

Zhongli swallows hard.

"I still have work to do before I can achieve a fully human form though," you sigh, oblivious to his plight.

"I see- you've, ergh, done a great job!" He manages in a tight voice, and you eye him worriedly.

"Are you alright?" You ask with concern, and he nods.

"I was not expecting to see you without clothes," is all he remarks and you groan loudly.

"How could I forget garments!? Humans love to wear their garments!" You exclaim and then you're running through your treasure pile to open a treasure's chest, taking out the clothes that previously belonged to others and -

"No." Before he knows it, Zhongli's hand is snapping out and stopping you from wearing the garments, ones that stink of other people. He can't help the territorial feelings that flare up from within. He's the one you invited into his nest, and therefore, you should smell like him. Besides, you deserve the best, not tattered remains of old clothing left behind by adventurers.

With ease, he waves his hand and pulls out one of the robes he wore in his early archon days, which was flowy enough to account for his tail and horns.

"Here," he says, a touch of pride in his voice as he watches you marvel over the soft cloth before slipping it on and over your shoulders and-

Oh dear, this may have been a mistake.

Because if you were looking delectable before, you look downright tempting now in his clothes, the robe opened just enough to show a sliver of your skin, of your chest.

You raise an eyebrow at him in question and Zhongli bites at his lip before he breathes in deeply, exhales.

"My robe suits you."

"Quite," you say in approval, before you're rubbing your face against the material, "it's so soft and plush."

Zhongli says nothing, but he shakes when you use your tail to bring him closer to your usual nesting spot over the plush feathers. He's pressed close enough that he can still feel the soft shape of you against his hip, and his blood rushes down so fast he's dazed.

He needs to regain control of himself and fast!

"Well, if you're a fan of the robe, I can bring some more garments the next time I see you. Blankets, too," he offers, and it's only out of the sincerity of his heart, and certainly not because he wants to see you covered in his things.

Certainly not!

"Thank you," you say, bumping shoulders with Zhongli, and he squirms. You're so physical and tactile with him and normally he finds it endearing but today he's so on the edge that anything could tip him over.

"You haven't shifted yet," you point out, and Zhongli fidgets nervously. If he were to, surely his shame would be exposed. The arousal he's been feeling is surely trapped in his pants in his human form, so he shall keep it that way for today.

"It's because this is unfortunately a short social call," Zhongli says, forcing himself to stand and unwind your tail from around him.

"How regrettable! I do so enjoy the time we spend together," you bemoan the loss, but the robe flaps open, showing your thigh and another flash of your cocks and Zhongli needs to leave.

"I'll be visiting soon!" Zhongli forces out, before he is quickly using the teleportation array you gave him to transport himself out of your domain.

Once outside, he hurries to a nearby dark cave. He's so desperate, he can't wait. He's shaking as he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants and underwear down to his knees. He swears under his breath as his erection touches the cool Liyuens air, and he's so hard that precum has already beaded at the tip and trailed down the length of him.

He should be ashamed of himself. He should not be doing such an act outside, yet he can't help himself. If he stayed any longer with you flaunting your body, Zhongli doesn't know what he would've done.

With haste, he bites off his gloves, before he's spitting into his palm twice just to get it slick enough before he's bringing his hot palm to his throbbing dick, begging to be touched.

"Oh," he groans in relief, throwing his head back against the cave wall as he begins to stroke himself slowly, twisting his hand in all the right ways.

His other hand softly palms at his balls, and his eyes close at the intoxicating sensations of it all, but they pop open when unbidden, the sight of you from before comes to mind.

He shivers at the memory of your naked form, the way in which you had embraced him eagerly, and his mind decides to go down a forbidden path.

What if you weren't so kind? What if, upon Zhongli's unannounced arrival, you had presented yourself and demanded he perform an act of benevolence? What if you had ordered him onto his knees?

Zhongli feels his dick pulse at that last thought, as his breathing turns ragged as he continues to indulge his mind, dirtied by his lust.

He would've went, if told. Fallen to his knees. Introduce you to a world of pleasure you so clearly know or care little about. He wouldn't have stopped until he got his fill of your spend or of your sounds of enjoyment.

He imagines it. You, stood above him, using his mouth however you wished. You wouldn't have enough control to hold back your strength, so you would probably force yourself as far as possible into his mouth. In his lustful daze, Zhongli raises the hand that's not stroking himself and plunges two fingers into his mouth, sucking on them. Heat lashes throughout the archon, hard and fast, and he feels himself teeter totter on the edge of pleasure and relief.

He spreads his fingers as he loses himself in his fantasy where he's stretching his mouth wide enough to accommodate the large size of your two dicks-

"Mmph!" A tremor shakes the ground as the coil that's been binding in his stomach snaps, and he's gasping around the fingers in his mouth as his orgasm hits him and he comes and comes and comes-

Spurting into his hand, dick kicking in the air and Zhongli can't do anything but sag against the comforting stone of the wall as pleasure zaps and resonates within him.

He feels tired, yet lighter, even, and Zhongli stays there for a moment, breathing hard. He takes a deep breath and then rights himself, taking a handkerchief out to wipe at the... mess on his hand, and adjusts himself and his clothes.

Oh, for shame!

Zhongli hides his face in his palms for a moment, before regaining his composure. No one knows. No one would ever know.

//

Somewhere, a flustered Yaksha who sought to explore the source of an unexpected quake in the ground, zaps away back to the safety of Wangshu Inn. Adeptus Xiao had not caught sight of the person doing... that, but when he had gotten close in range, the sounds were enough to deter him.

Filthy mortals.

Such indecency.

He is grateful his archon is not around to witness such a sight.

//

Zhongli distances himself after the event, guilt and shame overcoming him whenever he thinks of visiting you.

And it had not even been the first time Zhongli had acted in a shameful manner towards you.

"Are there more of our kind, currently?" You had asked him once, and Zhongli hadn't known what you meant at the time.

"Our kind?" He repeated your words back to you, and you had nodded before elaborating.

"Dragons, dragonesses. Any one suitable to mate?" You ask him casually one day, biting into a Mora pouch he had made for you,

"Oh," Zhongli slightly coughs, covering his mouth so you don't see the scowl on his lips, "there aren't. As far as I know, I'm the last." The lie comes easily to his lips. He knows of the dragons that exist in Mondstadt, Fontaine and Sumeru, but they don't suit you. You're much better suited with someone else if you ever decided to mate.

(And really, who better as a suitable mate than an ex-archon?)

It had been so easy to do, and you, ever the trusting person you are, simply took him at his word.

Zhongli groans aloud into his hands. He can't even distract himself with work because he's been so wrapped up in his thoughts that even Director Hu Tao has picked up on his odd state and ordered he take some time off.

What is he going to do?

He watches Liyuens move around him, going about their day, and it makes him feel better. He sighs, when he feels a buzz go throughout him, making him stiffen as it elicits a response from his geo.

What was that?

He feels the buzzing sensation again, and he reaches into his inventory and pulls out a large Mora coin, the pair to the one he had given you.

His eyes widen with the realization that you are using the token he gave you to use if you ever needed his assistance.

Panic shoots through him as he imagines the worst, like Celestial officials holding you down and forcibly sealing you, or you being threatened by other enemies.

Zhongli races to locate the teleportation array you gave him, pressing on it insistently.

Hurry, hurry- he has to get to you in time!

He teleports into your domain, and he is instantly summoning his spear, absolutely ready to defend you if necessary when he freezes at the sight before him.

"Y/N," he gasps in shock at the sight of you in your humanoid form, leaning back on top of your pile of feathers while you stripped your two cocks lazily, clawed hand glistening with the slime concentrate he had given you two visits ago.

The spear falls out of his hand and makes a loud clattering noise on the ground.

"Zhongli!? What brings you here!?" You exclaim, sitting up, and as you do, the emergency token he had given you falls onto the ground.

Ah, it seems you had merely sat on it.

"You had hit the token I gave you," He slowly responds, eyes still trained on the sight of your hands around your cocks.

"Oh!" You say, and then you're reaching for the robe Zhongli had gifted you last time, placed to the side of the nest. But without even thinking about it, Zhongli is moving and gripping it, and you look at him confused.

"Do you want it back?" You ask, and Zhongli shakes his head.

"No, I-" Zhongli falters before he makes a decision, "I didn't want you to clothe yourself."

You tilt your head at him in confusion. Last time he seemed uncomfortable with your nakedness, going as far as running away from you, and now he's encouraging it.

"Explain," you say, and Zhongli looks down and sighs before steeling himself.

"I quite like your naked form," he admits, "so much so that I was overcome with lust the last time I was here."

"Lust?" Some human terms were unknown to you.

"Mating. When I last looked upon your form- no, even now, I wish to mate with you," Zhongli answers, and you look at him and swallow hard.

Zhongli wants you? You're not used to being 'wanted'.

"I don't understand," you say, "but I am willing. Please," you reach out with your tail and wrap it around Zhongli's legs, "show me, dear friend."

Zhongli's expression brightens before he is stepping closer and peppering kisses all over your face, and then your neck, where he slows down but makes tingles erupt all over your skin. The kisses distract you from the fact that he himself is hurriedly disrobing, and you jump when you feel a hand gently graze against your hardnesses.

"What- !"

"Relax, Y/N, I'm going to make you feel so good," Zhongli says softly in your ear, "But I'm going to need you to lie down, alright?"

You nod, and lie on your back, and Zhongli straddles you, leaning over to pour out some of the slime concentrate he had given you over his hands.

He sits, his cock snuggled near the two of yours and the sliding motion makes you hiss before Zhongli is grabbing at you with one hand and hurriedly stroking you, at a fast and hard pace. One hand reaches behind him to do something- you don't know what -but you don't have time to focus on that when he's making you feel so good.

"Zhongli, ah," you moan, hips bucking and tail whipping behind you, and Zhongli's eyes, dark and intense, soak up your reactions. He's red in the face, making smaller noises in the back of his throat, and it seems that he too, is pleasuring himself as well.

You had thought he would go slow- you were wrong, and it's not long before Zhongli is lifting himself up on his knees and you feel yourself- both of your dicks being pressed against a furl of skin.

"Zhongli?" You say questioningly right before you're enveloped in tight, slick warmth and your brain is melting because Zhongli feels so good.

"Zhongli," you sigh, trying your best not to buck up as Zhongli slides down so slowly, because even you can understand it's a tight stretch for him.

But the static feeling of electricity only grows as he moves and finally takes you to the root, and you're itching with pleasure.

As for Zhongli? He's never felt so full in his life, speared on your cocks. He had practically fisted himself loose in preparation to take you but even that and the slippery slime is not enough for it to be an easy fit. The stretch burns, teetering between pain and pleasure as your cocks bump against every inch of him inside.

He tries to breathe through it, but there's no getting used to the sensation of being so fully impaled, and a whine escapes his lips when you shift, and he starts with little rocking motions, enough to make you and him both groan.

"Please, Zhongli," you raise yourself on your elbows and hold onto the other's hips, "Can I move?" You beg sweetly in his ear, and Zhongli could never deny you anything.

He nods, and with permission granted, you're digging in and fucking up into Zhongli with short, powerful thrusts, and Zhongli's vision flashes white.

"Y/N-" He cries out.

"Yes?" You ask, but your pace does not change.

"YlN, wait- I can't, I-" Zhongli tries to speak coherently but can't, mind only on the dicks spearing him.

"Am I making you feel good?" You pant through your thrusts, and your question is sincere, and all Zhongli can do is nod his head as he takes it.

"Yes, Y/N," Zhongli groans, and then he feels one of your hands leave his hips and begin to strip his dick, and it's too much, too fast, and Zhongli is coming hard, hole squeezing and clamping on your dicks.

His cum shoots out and you're groaning in his ear before you're following him soon after, cocks massaged by his pulsing hole and you're shooting shot after shot of thick come deep inside him.

The sensation is enough to make Zhongli's dick throb, and the both of you are breathing hard after you come down from your respective highs, although your wide eyed expression is enough to make Zhongli smile.

"How was that, Y/N?" He asks, tiredly, shifting around. Although you've just came, you haven't softened yet.

"Amazing," you say enthusiastically, and your hands come to rest on Zhongli's hips.

"Can we do it again? Mating is much more enjoyable than I thought it would be," you tell him with a grin, eyes roaming over Zhongli's body and he shivers in delight.

"Of course," Zhongli agrees, ready to be devoured. As long as he is the only one you focus on.

Fin.

~Three years later ~

Somewhere…

The sky is dark. The seemingly endless void of inky blackness only outshined by the brilliance of the full moon and the countless twinkling stars accompanying her. The calm, serene silence of the night and low whispers of the gentle breeze, rustling of the unkept grass at the border of the Gojo property, rhythmic chirps and noises from the creatures that call the moonlight home, makes for a perfect night…

Two young, lonely souls meet atop a hill, both guided to each other by an unexplainable pull. Two young Gods under the night sky, unaware of how they’re slowly falling.

“Hurry up idiot! We don’t have all night!” A 13 year old Satoru spoke with annoyance as he runs ahead of his best friend.

“Geez, I’m coming! Why do have to run huh!?” Questions an equally annoyed M/n, having to speed up to keep up with the energetic Satoru.

The two boys soon start running at the same pace, the wind whipping against their faces, making their hair dance with the breeze. Wide, carefree grins adorn their faces as the run turns into a race.

The still night air is soon interrupted by joyous laughter, so pure, so happy.

M/n speeds up, overtaking Satoru, he turns back to look at his counterpart with a smug grin.

“Too slow Satoru~” he teases, sticking out his tongue.

Satoru scowls and speeds up, easily catching up.

“Slow? Who me? You’re the slow one M/n, try to keep up~”

Satoru ahead, leaving M/n in the dust as he heads to the tree on top of the hill. He runs and runs, the crisp air filling his lungs, his feet making no sound as he steps. He can’t hear M/n but he knows he’ll show up soon so he can’t slow down.

He finally gets to the tree, yelling victoriously. He turns around, expecting to see the defeated face of M/n but he sees nothing. No M/n. He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. He couldn’t be that far behind right?

Satoru tries to sense his cursed energy but unfortunately M/n has been training to hide his presence completely and apparently he’s gotten really good at it. Not even his six eyes can find him, Satoru really needs to train more.

He sighs, brilliant blue eyes that shine as bright as the moon scanning the fields. He quickly spins around, hearing a faint sound in the tree. His eyes examine the treetop, a playful smirk etched on his face.

“Oh so you want to play games my dear, M/n? Alright I’ll play your little game.” He muttered playfully as he slowly approached the tree, his six eyes active, using this as an opportunity to hone his skills.

As expected he gets no reply. He chuckles softly, his heart beating faster, excitement buzzing in every bone. He hears another rustle making him snap his head in that direction. He hums softly.

“You’re bad at hiding, you should just give up now.” He jests, hoping to rile M/n up and make him make a mistake. He stands directly beneath the tree, looking directly up into the foliage, thin streams of soft moonlight poking through the leaves but no M/n.

“Boo…”

Satoru freezes, his heart leaping out of his chest when he hears that soft voice behind him. When he feels his warm breath fanning his ear, when he finally senses that familiar presence.

M/n’s voice is as soft as the breeze and Satoru becomes hyper aware of their proximity causing a blush to creep up on his face.

He spins around and striking blue orbs clash with bright crimson ones and like every time the world seems to come to a stand still, everything fades into background noise and he finds himself drowning, like the air was stolen from his lungs.

M/n smirks, relishing in that dumbfounded expression he’s come to like so much. He loves catching Satoru off guard, slipping past the infamous six eyes. He notices the blush, confused at first but then it dawns on him how close they are. His heart speeds up, his breathing coming to a stop and he finds himself drowning, like the air was stolen from his lungs.

~M/n POV~

‘What’s happening to me? I feel frozen, like time stopped entirely. Why is my heart beating so fast?’ My thoughts race as we have a staring contest, neither of us saying a word.

Normally I would be able to read Satoru like an open book but I can’t read him now. That’s not his normal annoyed or shocked look. What is he thinking? Why isn’t he saying anything?

~Satoru POV~

‘My heart feels like it’s going to explode. His gaze, why does his gaze make me feel like this… this warm fuzzy feeling in my chest. When I’m near him it’s like my senses are dulled, like everything else becomes a blur… what is this?’

I feel goosebumps forming on my skin and I don’t think it’s because of the breeze. My heart pounds in my chest like a drum and I finally snap out of my daze and quickly turn away with a very awkward laugh causing M/n to do the same.

This has been happening more often, both of us just getting lost in each other’s gaze but we never address it. We just laugh and move on. I sometimes wish he didn’t move on, I sometimes wish we would address it but it’s probably nothing really.

~3rd POV~

M/n shoves Satoru’s shoulder, the awkwardness quickly dissipating into the blissful calm of the night.

“Come on, we don’t have all night.” M/n says as he walks to their spot on the hill and sits down in the grass.

Satoru glares at him playfully, making a mental note to get back at him for the push, but also mentally scolding himself for getting distracted. He approaches M/n and settles down beside him,

They both lay down, nestled in the soft embrace of nature. The grass is cool, their backs supported by the earth beneath them. They both gaze up at the celestial canopy that seems to stretch infinitely, adorned with a myriad of twinkling stars that paint the night sky with their radiant glow.

They settle into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. A calm retreat, a break from the busyness of their lives. In this moment they forget their destiny’s and simply exist. Their curious eyes trace the constellations that have adorned the sky for eons, they seem so small and insignificant compared to them but they known how significant they are, as significant as the stars themselves.

Like the stars they will both be shining beacons of hope, hope for humanity, hope for sorcerers.

“My father increased my training today, it was exhausting.” M/n’s whispers, his soft voice carrying a tiredness no 13 year old should have.

“Really? Again? Didn’t he increase it last week?” Satoru asks, his sympathetic voice providing a sense of comfort for M/n because Satoru understands.

“Yeah, he says I need to be stronger to face the evils of the world. He’s always going on about how special I am, how strong I can be. My potential. It’s annoying.” M/n’s tired voice has a bitter edge, the deep resentment he has for his father shining through.

M/n has never had the best relationship with his father and Satoru knows everything in great detail. He knows what a harsh man (f/n) Goto can be. He trains M/n to the point of collapse every day, claiming to be doing this for his own good.

“I’m sorry.” Satoru whispers, turning his head to gaze at M/n. He doesn’t need to say anything else, those two words spoken with such understanding and sincerity nothing else needs to be said. M/n knows he means it wholeheartedly.

M/n turns to gaze at Satoru, a grateful smile on his face. All the tension leaving his body when he gazes at those eyes. “It’s fine, I’ll get through it. How’s your training, I’ve noticed you using your infinity more often.”

Satoru smiles. “I’ve been learning how to keep his active for more than a few hours, I can manage it for around 3 hours without breaks. You should have seen my mother the first time I did it, she told everyone in the clan.”

M/n scoffs. “Of course she told everyone. You’re her little miracle after all.”

“Hey, I am a miracle and three hours is a long time, it still makes me exhausted.”

“Well mister miracle, I never said that it wasn’t impressive, it actually is.”

“Mister miracle? Really?” Satoru asks with a deadpan expression that soon breaks as he starts laughing at the ridiculous nickname.

Satoru’s laughter is contagious, making M/n burst into laughter as well. Both their laughs blending together in the purest of sounds, a symphony of joy.

Their fit of laughter slowly dies down, the echoes carried off by the breeze.

“You are terrible at nicknames M/n.”

“What? Would you prefer if I called you something else? Like Gogo, or jojo, maybe Jogo! Nah, Jogo sounds stupid.”

“Firstly no, secondly why are they all my last name?”

“Alright fine~ and they’re all your second name because I like your first name just the way it is, it’s perfect!”

Satoru looks at M/n like a deer caught in headlights, not expecting that. It’s stupid, those words don’t really mean anything yet they make his heart skip a beat. Perfect, his name is perfect…

M/n gets confused by the blank stare and silence, raising an eyebrow. He tries to tap Satoru on the shoulder but is stopped by a force. He frowns, looking down at his hand that’s mere inches away from Satoru but will never reach. Infinity.

“Oi, why is your infinity on? We aren’t supposed to use our techniques tonight. You’re gonna exhaust yourself and leave me to carry you all the way home… again.” M/n said in an annoyed tone, sitting up and crossing his arms over his chest.

Satoru also sits up, quickly pulled out of his fantasy. He smiles sheepishly, looking down to avoid M/n’s gaze. “Ah… well i just wanted to see if I can do it subconsciously… it is actually taking a lot out of me… even my six eyes is draining…” he mumbles nervously, knowing how M/n gets when he pushes himself too much.

M/n’s frown deepens, he scans Satoru from head to toe, noting how his infinity is still up, seeing the slight bags under his eyes, he was also running slower than usual. He didn’t even bring his glasses, he always forgets his glasses.

M/n doesn’t like Satoru’s infinity, when it’s on he feels like the gap between them suddenly grows and Satoru is out of reach, untouchable. M/n feels a spark deep within his soul, that same pull he felt when they first met. That voice in the back of his head, the one that told him to turn around, it’s telling him to reach out.

A part of him is telling him the gap between them isn’t as big as he thinks. All he has to do is reach out. M/n knows he can bypass Satoru’s infinity, it’s part of his inherited cursed technique. The Gojo and Goto clans are intertwined, and have been since the Golden age. They are extremely similar, both techniques bending reality in some way.

M/n knows of the technique to bypass Satoru’s infinity but he’s never been able to use it, he’s tried but alway failed because it’s too much of a strain on his eyes, his eyes like Satoru is an integral part of his clan. His eyes help control his inherited technique, without the Atomeye he could never hope to control his cursed technique. The cursed technique he’s been struggling with, Distortion.

M/n can distort the laws of physics, permitting the user to violate any physical law displaced in the universe. Everything that composes physics including space and time. Satoru’s infinity doesn’t actually stop things, it slows them infinitely, M/n can distort the space and time around himself, creating a barrier of complete nonexistent, nothing can pass this barrier because nothing can exist within it, not even Satoru’s infinity.

M/n takes a deep breath, concentrating his cursed energy into his hand, by focusing on one part of his body he could maybe sustain the technique for a while. He focuses on the feeling of non-existence, clearing his mind of all thoughts. He slowly reaches out, his movements slow and unsure.

Will he be stopped again? Is the gap between them only growing larger? Just a year ago they were on the same level. Now it feels like he can’t catch up. He can’t fall behind. He can’t be left behind. Not even infinity can stop him.

Satoru freezes when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. The touch feels like fire in his veins, it burns with an indescribable warmth, making his skin prickle with goosebumps. He is absolutely sure he had his infinity up, he was using it. Nothing can get past his infinity, only-

“Satoru…”

Satoru slowly turns his head towards M/n. That soft, gentle purr of his name compelling him, drawing him in. Like a damn sirens call and he’s helpless, unable to resist.

M/n forced himself to steady his voice, trying not to react when his technique finally works.

Their eyes meet and Satoru can feel his infinity slipping, exhaustion slowly creeping up on him and the way M/n looks at him isn’t helping. That soft look in his eyes that tells him he’s safe, that he can relax. It always manages to disarm him.

“Turn it off.”

Satoru finds himself nodding, offering no resistance as he turns his infinity off. His eyes slowly start to droop, a yawn escaping his lips without his consent. He doesn’t want M/n to know how exhausted he is and he doesn’t want to fall asleep when this is the only time they have together.

M/n sighs softly, turning his own technique off. He can tell how tired Satoru is so he won’t pester him with a lecture. Instead he slowly pushes Satoru back down on the grass, lying back down beside him. Satoru once again offers no resistance and quickly succumbs to his exhaustion.

He didn’t realise how tired he was until now. Satoru’s eyes flutter closed and he unconsciously scoots closer to M/n, craving his warmth. He lays his head on M/n’s shoulder, draping one arm over his chest, curling up to his side.

M/n’s breath hitches in his throat and he looks down at Satoru with wide eyes. His heart thumps wildly in his chest it feels like it’s going to explode. He tenses up slightly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air because he doesn’t know what to do, this is the first time this happened.

The longer M/n stares at Satoru’s peaceful expression the more relaxed he becomes. His arms slowly lower, one wrapping around Satoru’s waist and the other under his head. His heart calms down and he sighs, feeling the gap between them disappear.

M/n knows they can’t stay out here for long, both of them having to be home before anyone figures out they’re gone in the first place but he can’t bring himself to disturb Satoru and he’s also a bit tired himself. His eyes slowly flutter closed and he allows sleep to overtake him.

𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔. after he had left, you never expected him to retun to you. after all, his words remained in your head: "we aren't good together." at this point, you've come to the conclusion he said that to keep you away from him. to spare you from his actions. and yet . . .

a series of knocks sound on your doornin the dead of night. your eyes scan the '𝟷𝟸:𝟸𝟷' on your phone, sitting up in confusion as to who could be visiting you at a time like this. your feed pad on the wooden floors, surprising flooding your face at the sight when you open the door. there he was, as if he had never left—suguru geto. accept, there were two others. two little girls, sisters you assume, one with brown hair was hiding behind his legs—the other with blonde hair was curled in his arms. you wondered why he has children. much less, children who should be asleep at this time. "i need help."

he so desperately came to you, needing help with taking care of children, knowing you had experience with your siblings. two children at that. you should've shut the door and told him 'no.' but those adorable little faces made you step to side and let him in.

the little girls were small, and they most definitely had clothes that needed to be replaced. although, it was twelve in the morning, you couldn't go shopping. so cooked up something quick, handing them bowls of food that would fulfil them, promising to go visit your mother's and grab some of your sister's old clothes. "i thought "we didn't work," that you were leaving me," you mumble, hands scrubbing the dirty dishes—the two little girls were curled on the couch of your living room.

"im sorry," suguru whispers back, leaning agsinst the counter. "i thought that would make it easier . . . i— i'm set in my ideas, you can't change me. so if you want to kick—"

"those two little girls over there," you start, glancing at them. "nanako and mimiko, they need care. and you can't go in blind taking care of them. they're the reason i'm helping you . . . " suguru looks a bit shocked at your words, his lips part as if to say something, but he doesn't go through with it. instead, he smiles softly. "thank you . . . "

ever since then, you've helped him. turning a blind eye to his crime in exchange for helping with nanako and mimiko. as promsied, you took some of your sister's old clothes, giving the kids baths and fresh clothes. since then, suguru and you have gotten closer again. despite your distaste towards his ideals, you will forever continue to love him. watching him become a girl dad didn't help.

your days consisted of teaching suguru how to cook, because he burned everything he touched. helping get the kids into school, and asisting them with their homework. taking them to places and trips suguru couldn't—because he was a fugutive. giving nanako and mimiko the love and care they deserved after the trauma and abuse the village had given them. yes, the two of you got weird looks at times, being two men taking two little girls shopping, but regardless—the two of you were their dads. and you were always there for suguru, helping him with their milestones.

when they first learned to ride their bikes, there you were helping suguru teach them. surprisingly, mimiko was a much faster learner than nanako. you could say nanako was a bit of a late bloomer, she couldn't pick it up quite as fast as her sister. the poor girl cried at one point! however, she eventually got it with help of mimiko, you, and suguru.

and oh—the catastrophe that occured occured when the two of them happened to get their periods at the same time . . .

suguru ran—to you, dashed to you. his panicking, caused the kid to panic, and then you panicked for a moment before figuring out what was wrong. a sigh left your lips. "calm down, suguru . . . " you calmly told the girls to calm down, telling them it was normal. you took the risk and called shoko, telling her they were "your neices." she knew damn well you were lying, but regardless, she helped the girls. now you keep a bin of pads and hygiene products in the cabinet of your bathroom for the girls when they come over.

lets not start with the middle school crushes. you'd pick them up from school, suguru patiently waiting in the car . . . and a little boy would run up to nanako to say goodbye. as you got mimiko in the car, the two kids had a faint blush on their cheeks. you saw suguru's twitching eye in your peripheral. a sigh left your lips. "suguru, would you calm down. they're kids . . . " suguru grumbles, "i don't care. he needs to get away from my little girl!" you roll your eyes and call nanako to the car, the two kids parting. during the rest the car ride suguru was fuming.

every step of the way, you and suguru were taking care of them. nanako and mimiko had even started calling you "dad." mimiko started it first. it caused more pain in your heart when you realized the situation you were in.

suguru had declared war. your his two girls were standing behind him, refusing to look at you—perhaps out of shame?

you couldn't allow it. you couldn't allow the deaths of thousands at the cause of suguru, but you couldn't allow him to do either. it was such a great thing you were friends with satoru, and a special grade. it was a hassle to convince the higher-ups, yes. but the combination of yours and satoru's influence and power was enough of to convince them. if only you could convince suguru.

he wasn't afraid of you, he never was. holding things over his head was nearly impossible, but it was just that—nearly impossible.

his girls were now accomplices of his crimes. his family was in danger along with his life. he wasn't able to defeat yuuta, his goal would never be accomplished, even after everything he has given up. "please, suguru. it's enough, you've done enough." tears prick at your eyes at the sight of him, an arm missing and a bloodied face as he was slumped against the wall. if only you could convince. "the girls . . . " if suguru would just agree. "please . . . "

please. "okay . . . " he'd never admit it. but he loved those girls more than anything. he'd give up his life for them, he'd kill again and again for them. perhaps he had found what it truly meant to be a parent. "okay . . . "

this must be a dream. but if so, it's a good dream. shoko's reversed cursed technique had given him his arm back. he was healthy, he was here. no, his crimes couldn't be forgiven so easily. but suguru geto was back in your arms. him along with the now teenage girls, nanako and mimiko. the children you'd never admit you've always wanted with him.

ah, peace at last.

𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟴—𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗔𝗧 𝟴:𝟯𝟬, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗦𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗬𝗔!

"i— i don't think we are good together." since that day, suguru's words echo in your head. it was a lie of course, suguru would never say that—and his future actions prove otherwise. however, the fact that those particular words left his lips, the love of your life—it burned a hole in your heart that could never be healed.

you, satoru, and suguru. it was always—you, suguru, satoru, and then shoko. you'd swear the other two would forget she existed, but regardless— you were all prodigies of your year. three special grades and a cursed technique unlike any other. the four of you combined were an unstoppable team, but trios never work— why would a squad work? you and suguru were dating, he had stolen a piece of your heart and held it close to his chest. you truly believe it was love. and during that time, "the strongest trio" was a real thing. the teamwork and results the three of you produced made an impression on the jujutsu higher-ups. you were never without eachother, and it was fine!

never had you been so happy and satisfied like when you were with suguru. and then an incident occured when you were, for the first time, pulled away from the two. toji fushiguro and the star plasma vessel. it should've been a simple mission, but satoru and suguru were playing checkers—fushiguro was playing chess.

it was no longer alright. it was the two of them facing a deathly experience and failing—for the first time. suguru had become distant, and satoru had become obsessed with eliminating weakness as if he hadn't just truly become the strongest. "i don't think you're good enough for me." it was as if the world shattered, the world along with that beautiful diamond ring you had been waiting to put on his finger. he took a piece of your heart, one of which was like glass, and he threw at the wall with a force you couldn't bare.

when shoko called you, informing you and gojo where suguru was—your heart thumped in hope. however, the only thing you could hear was the sound of your duo collapsing and the cruel sound of his voice repeating: "you will never be enough for me"— replaying over and over in your broken mind. you couldn't bring yourself to go see him. your mind wouldn't allow your feet to move, to chase after him and beg. it was pathetic, really. you wished more than anything for his return, but you couldn't even chase after him? you sat slumped against your wall, fingers mindelssly rubbing and twisting that familar diamond ring. "suguru," you whisper into the air, as if hoping your call would manifest him to you. as if this were a dream and he'd wake you up with a kiss and soft smile.

but that wasn't reality, it was just a fantasy. so you wonder why you're in a bed with him? why did you destory that hate for him, only to hold him and fuck him in that hotel bed. why— why did you accept him back into your heart, knowing he shattered it? those thoughts could never beat your raw desire for him, your need to make love to him because he— is your soulmate. his existence is etched into your soul— and it cannot be removed by simple and conventional means.

and it only caused you more pain as you watched him slide down that brick wall. you had arrived to late to jujutsu high. satoru's students were beaten bloody, but yuuta okkotsu came in the clutch...by beginning the end of "the worst cursed user" suguru geto. those years of love were all for nothing as you decided to "curse him in the end," sparing satoru's feelings at the cost of your own.

at the result of your own hands, your own words and actions you had ended suffering, only causing more for yourself. but regardless, no more deaths would be caused that specific day. and the spirits of one-hundred and thirteen people (or way more) had been avenged. "the worst curse user" was gone, but suguru geto still resided in your heart with the wish that his soul was at peace. hoping that haibara would finally have familiar company after such a long time. however, nothing you wish comes to fruition. his could likely but resting...but— the soul cannot truly rest until its body has truly rested. learning that was likely the worst experience of your life. 𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟴—𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗔𝗧 𝟴:𝟯𝟬, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗦𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗬𝗔!

satoru gojo had completed a feat you were proud of him for. yes—you were a bit dizzy, maybe out of it from his domain, but you were proud. he truly was the strongest, and you were no doubt a close second. but being to strongest—having power, is not enough.

"yo!" he calls out your name first. although, it doesn't sound as sweet. its familiar, but it's not warm. the voice of suguru geto would always make you feel as if you were wrapped in a fluffy blanket. the sound of your name coming from his lips was magical. but there was no magic, and there was no love in it. "h-huh?" you stopped and stared at him, you wish you could will your body to move but you couldn't. the man you killed with your bare hands, the love of your live, stood before you in the flesh. "S-SUGURU!" it hurt to see his body have such a reaction to your voice. to see his hand twitch and attack is own neck, maybe the soul and body truly exist in tandem. you were so out of it. you'd barely realized globs of a red, flesh looking substance was binding satoru. and as if in instinct you'd jump to protect him, as if he were suguru.

"ah, ah, ah!" from the black pit in the ground of the subway station arose a curse to stop you. you quickly exorcise the curse and he calls your name again. except its familiar this time. its warm— and you can feel a hint the magical tingle you get. someone must be screwing with you! this can't be real, he can't be real.

the 'stops's from satoru start to sound muffled as "suguru" walks towards you. stop? stop what? you think to yourself, accepting the touch of him. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. this can't be real—but he feels so warm. your soul is telling you it isn't him, that the man before you isn't suguru, but your head is spinning and you can't seem to focus properly. and suddenly his lips are against yours. you can hear satoru yelling, you certainly can—but you're not listening to what he's saying. suguru's lips are soft as they move again yours, tasting his tongue again was like a glimpse of heaven. you didn't process the words: "prison gate, close" from "suguru." not until gojo was suddenly gone in your peripheral and there was just a floating box.

the dark red box floated to suguru's outstretched hand, turning as grey as stone when it touches his palm. "wha—" you feel suguru's lips against yours again. "don't pay attention to that, just me," he whispers. it was a shame how quickly you gave into him. suguru chuckles when you become more forceful with the kiss, the box falls from his fingertips as he wraps his arms around your neck.

perhaps the kiss was just to distract you, perhaps he was going to far in his plan. but it seems that this body longs for you a lot more that kenjaku had thought. or perhaps kenjaku himself was longing for something he hadn't experienced in quite a while. but regardless of that, he felt himself becoming wet— turned on from simply a kiss. your relationship with suguru geto was certainly something! he thought to himself as he allowed you to push him against a concrete column of the subway, used for foundation. it seems mahito was correct when he said you could mix business with pleasure.

non-sorcerers stand scattered around the station, mindless from satoru's domain. they probably couldn't hear a thing even if they wanted to. kenjaku allowed you to touch him like that, to desprately pull off his clothes. he even laughed at how furiously you ripped off the gojogesa, perhaps a bit angry possesive that he was wearing something carrying gojo's name. even in suguru's memories, you were quite possessive of him, needing to keep a hand on him no matter where the two of you were. fuck—he was getting ridiculously turned on by your actions! his hands desprately grip your shoulders, his eyes fluttering as your kisses trail from his lips to his neck.

no, this isn't him. just like a few minutes ago, for the first time in centuries a body has acted on it's own. just how much did suguru love you? it was a stupid question, he thought seconds later. kenjaku knows how much suguru loves you.

for all of those years, despite what he said to you—you came back. he's seen suguru's memories. he knows how much you made love to him, especially during those ten years of him being a fugitive. whether you'd fold him over or held him in your lap, your kisses—were suguru's weakness. a pleasured shiver racks his body as you kiss and kiss him, his clothes falling to the ground as you kiss further down. "ah...a-ah!" your lips wrap around one his perky nipples. your tongue swirls around the pink nub, sucking on it lightly. suguru's back arches, surprise filling his eyes. kenjaku is aware how sensitive suguru's body is, although this was a little surprising. his cheeks flush as you move to the other one.

moans pathetically leave his lips, legs wobbling from your actions. he feels as if he could cry just from this, suguru geto really was lucky to have you. you pull away and watch his chest rise and fall, "suguru's" eyes widened and tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"you look surprised," you kiss up and down his chest as you speak. "im sure you know how much me and suguru made love. i know him and his body more then he does himself." your voice is soft but there's a hint of anger in your eyes. some part of you hates this—but your heart thumps as you see him. you can't help but pick him, stripping him of the clothes on his lower body as you push him against the concrete foundation peice again. you glance down between his legs, slick painting his inner thighs. your kisses move down to his inner thighs licking your lips at his taste. bending down on the less than sanitary subway floor, your put your face between his legs, giving kitten licks to his clit.

your tongue swirls around his clit—dipping in between his folds for a true taste of him. your nose bumps his clit as you do, a gasp leaving kenjaku lips. your tongue slips inside of him and he involuntarily leans forward, putting one leg onto your shoulders. your hands cup his ass, keeping him this position.

this is a feeling kenjaku hasn't felt in a long time. specifically, the last time he was a woman. the feeling he had then—and the feeling he has now it similar, but it's different, more intense. and he knows why. his body—suguru's body, it feels so hot. he can't help but melt into your touch, fall in your arms and let you have your way. he can't tell if its muscle memory, or if it's suguru's soul interferring—but what's clear is this body loves you. the second he saw you, he felt something. the second he kissed you, he felt a pulse in his groin. suguru truly did belong to you—mind, body, and soul. the moans he was letting slip, higher octave and even whiny, that wasn't him. his body leaning into you, putting his leg on your shoulder, that wasn't him. and the way he humped your face with an eagerness, that surely wasn't him. kenjaku would never be so desperate. but it did feel fantastic.

"ah—fuck!" his eyes roll back, tongue lolled as he grips onto your hair. "ngh—! a-ah...mphf—fuck!" your erection strains in your uniform as he whines and moans. his eyelids flutter and his thighs tighten as he feels it. your mouth brings him to an orgasm as he's practically sitting on your face. you lap up his cum with your tongue, moaning into his cunt at the taste.

suguru kenjaku stumbles off your shoulder, hitting that same concrete column where his clothes rest below. before he could slide down and fall, he feels your hands on his hips, lifting him up as his shaky legs are unusuable. you flip him around and his chest and face are pressed to the concrete. he grabs the concrete column, at an attempt to ground himself before he feels your thick tip press against his pussy. he feels the tip push into him, a loud moan leaving lips. he's quite thankful for satoru's domain, or else the people hear would be getting quite the show. it was smart of him to send the curses away aswell, imagine what they'd think if they saw him— "ngh—AH! fuck— i...please! mphf!" he's panting as your cock slides in, kenjaku slaps his hand over his mouth, ashamed of his noises.

with no mercy you move once you've pushed into his cunt fully. the wet slaps of his pussy fill kenjaku's ears. oh how the memories are returning.

"fu—fuck!" the voice crack in his voice was pleasant as he tried to keep his moans quiet. he was so warm. his body rocks with your thrusts, feeling your fingers delicately knead his ass, rubbing the sore skin from the harsh smacks of your hips. his eyes cross and eyelashes fluttering as your balls mercilessly slap agaisnst his already swollen clit. kenjaku was enjoying this a bit too much. his hand couldn't help but fall— the curses and moans finally being set free. "good boy," he hears you coo. he'd be disgusted by it—maybe even hit you. but suguru's body isn't in tandem with what kenjaku may value. you feel the warmth around you tighten—your cock being swallowed by his pussy.

he couldn't help but arch his back, sliding his front just a bit lower for your cock to reach just a bit deeper. "aAH! ngh—" my, suguru was one lucky man. kenjaku is sure his cheek is red from the sliding, your rough treatment that made him rock helped none.

kenjaku is enjoying this too much. and believes he knows why. the memories of jin itadori were fresh on his mind. it wasn't too long ago that he experienced a woman's view of life— pregnancy, and the pleaures that could be given through the means of a vagina. it wasn't that long ago that he took cock into him, masquerading as a loving wife to conceive yuuji itadori. it wasn't that long ago that his eyes were rolled back and his head was pushed into the cushion as he was plowed into from behind. this wasn't new. it's almost as history repeated itself. his back bent and curved to take a man's cock deep inside of him. the pleasures women could perceive was a godly experience. as if his cursed and wretched soul were blessed to experience this.

up on the tips of his toes, his knees knock inward as you reach a particular spot within him. the spot that could get suguru cumming in seconds—and you spongey tip continued to plow directly into that particular spot. his eyes fluttered closed as he came with a cry on your cock. you slide your cock out quickly, cumming on the back of his thighs. the sound of your rough and pleaured panting aparent to his ears as you hold his bottom half up. you turn him around against the concrete column, panting as you speak. "one more— hah...one more time."

kenjaku couldn't help but reluctantly comply, the heat between his legs continued to grow—never had been so needy. "one more time," you pant into his ear as you hoist him up. a whine leaves his lips as you push one of his legs to his chest. suguru was always flexible, it was one of the things that made sex so enjoyable with him. you allow that leg to rest on your shoulder—holding the other one up with your hand to the back of his knee. it was such an interesting position, a breeding one had the two of you been on the floor, but kenjaku was sure he'd be given the chance to be fucked and filled again. perhaps to the point of cultivating another child?

a loud moan left his lips as you unexpectedly drop him on your cock. this entire time, you've used him as nothing more than a sex toy. a pussy to use to your satisfaction. did you truly love suguru? kenjaku wishes you would allow him his thoughts, but your cock was such an attention stealer! "fuck, this pussy was made for me," you hiss into the skin of his neck, rutting your hips against his.

pathetic girly whines and moans leave his suguru's lips. it was embarrassing how easily suguru's soul could slip in, how he could make his body do things kenjaku wouldn't even dream of doing. but it seems there was no choice at this point. two minds, body's, and souls were lost in the feeling of you. who knows was making the noise at that point. you felt so deep—how did suguru handle this all these years? kenjaku think to himself. your cock plunging over and over into his cunt was a pleasurable experience. your girth stretching him—length filling him to the brim. "i see why he loved this so much," kenjaku whisper aloud in the middle of you fucking him.

it seems you had ignored him, but he meant it. he understands why suguru was so cock addicted with you. he wonders what could possibly be going on in your head, wondering if your thinking through a pussy addiction.

and in one way you are—you're acting on a pussy addiction. an addiction reserved only for suguru. however, your mind was all over the place. your sure the other sorcerers are rushing, running around to get through the barriers. your sure they're getting hurt, but here you are—a special grade sorcerer—fucking the enemy. but the enemy felt so good! it was exhilarating to finally feel suguru once more. and if this was the last chance you would get to see him, you'd do it. you'd do in a heartbeat a thousand times. your cock plunging in and out of his messy pussy. wet and squelching noises fill your ears as he drips onto the floor—a white ring around the base of your cock.

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. the words left your mouth like a prayer. his pussy felt so good! the only thought was cum and filling him up, your sure his mind was on it aswell. and it was. the thought of you breeding him seemed to be so pleasant. perhaps because it was suguru's body, but who wouldn't want your cum.

kenjaku felt the signs, and it seems you did too. a grunt leaves your lips, a whine leaving his as you both cum. his pussy wraps tightly around your cock, milking you for what your worth. a gasp leaves his lips when you slip out of his leaking cunt, more cum sputtering from your tip and now onto his face since you've dropped him on the floor. his naked body rested on the subway ground, your cum leaky pleasantly from his pussy—face decorated as well. it was bad. terrible—that you gave in. but this sight, the sight of your claim on suguru was enough to make up for it your head.

no matter what, suguru was the most important piece in your game of chess. it was unfortunate that the king—satoru gojo—was not.