dnd.

"Niiiice, right?" He hummed, while you were beginning to squirm from the new sensation, his fingers curling up before pushing inside and stretching you out for his cock.

You whimpered and nodded shakily, much to his delight.

His smile got wider, like a Cheshire Cat, before he kissed you again and thrusted his fingers further, going just slightly more rougher to hear you moan and whine against his lips. Your nails beginning to dig and scratch at his shoulders, legs twitching and falling apart.

He pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping and dazed, taking his fingers out and holding his hand out teasingly. Your essence dripping from his long, elegant fingers.

"Look here, you're already doing so well. So ready for me," he purred before leaning over again and nuzzling into the crook of your neck, kissing to distract you.

"Shhh, just breathe," he whispered.

You gasped and let out a strangled whimper when feeling the thick head of his cock rub against your pussy and begin to push inside. Your hands quickly reach out against his slender arms and scratched your way to his back, breath quickening and hitching.

"N-nghh.. f-flinssss.." you whined for him, while he slowly eased inside, before sighing against your neck and relaxing. "Shhh, I've got you, just relax, I swear it'll all feel better," he peppered your face with slow, soft kisses.

"C-can I pull..?" You mumbled softly, half lidded eyes looking up into his darkened ones. One of your hands were moving up, gently tangling into the long, luscious hair of his.

He didn't hesitate, nodding and smiling down at you sweetly.

Darkened, lustful eyes of his were glued to your tummy, watching the bulge from his thick cock grown and shrink as he thrusted in and out. He loved the feeling of being inside you, and got harder at the look of you squirming beneath him, and twitched inside you at your sweet little whimpers and moans.

As your hand pulled at his hair, his teeth bit into his bottom lip, the bed beginning to creak, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room.

His hips pulled back, before slowly easing inside again, and continuing those slow, sensual movements. Thrusting back and forth, just gently enough so that it wouldn't hurt. his eyes flickered up from your neck, watching your expression begin to relax and get comfortable with his slow, steady thrusts.

He pulled back, before sharply thrusting in one last time, making you squeak and whine, pouting up at him confused.

Your pout was met with a chaste kiss, "I'm sorry.. I couldn't resist. I'll go slow from now on, okay?" He pulled his hips back slowly, his thumb finding the little bud of your clit and rubbing it slowly.

"Just cum for me, alright, darling?"

ɞ⠀.⠀VARKA ﹗ ໒꒱۪

Varka was messy, and had no shame about it.

Slobbering and eating you out all messily, face buried in between your thighs, slurping loudly. Very much enjoying his meal. Groaning and moaning, while you were squirming, whining and covering your mouth shyly. You had expected him to be this big macho man and be all rough, to just make you take it.

Yet there he was, happiest when tasting and giving you pleasure, happiest when watching you cum on his face. His tongue eagerly licking up when you squirted out.

"So good, so good," he muttered and licked your pussy a few more times before pulling away with a sigh and wiping his dripping mouth. Your essence still dribbling down his chin and soaked into the bedsheets below, his tired eyes gazing into yours lovingly. "You ready?"

Your shaky nod didn't convince him, as you were still hiccuping and breathing heavily from your last orgasm. "I need a yes or a no, use your words," he said quietly, hand taking a grasp of your chin, gently making you face up at him properly.

"..yes.. yes please. I need you," you nodded and gasped, whining and already reaching out your hands for him.

He smiled happily before quickly covering your body with his much larger, muscular, scarred one. Completely overpowering you but making sure you had enough room to squirm and move, his lips meeting yours lovingly.

Those large hands of his pushed your thighs apart, before hooking your legs over his hips. Keeping you spread wide open beneath him, naked, sweaty, ready for him.

"You'll be okay, alright?" He nodded, noticing your nerves and shaky breathing, kissing your forehead. "It'll be just a small pop of pain, and then a world of pleasure.. just tap my shoulder and I'll slow down, or use the word and I'll pull out, okay?" He nodded, before furrowing his brows when you only nodded.

"Use your words."

"..I'll tap on your shoulder when it hurts and say the safe word when I can't take it anymore," you nodded to him, before sighing and smiling again when he kissed your forehead. "Good girl."

His head buried into the crook of your neck, kissing and finding your sensitive spots. Sucking hickeys and kissing down your jawline, while his hands were moving to spread your folds apart and stroke his thick cock. The base of his blond pubic hair tickles your inner thighs, before you felt it.

The large, demanding pressure began to build inside you when you felt the tip of it slide in. You had expected it to be big, but this big? You were already beginning to plan out your funeral, thighs twitching and squirming.

"Shh, shh, I'll be slow, just relax, I promise," he kissed down your jaw and trailed down the valley on your breasts, suckling a nipple into his mouth. Trying to get you to focus on the pleasure.

His cock was demanding your attention. Your brain couldn't focus on anything else, as much as you squeezed your eyes shut, whined, and squirmed underneath him. Your nails began to rake on his muscular back, adding to the scars with red lines of passion. It was so big, so thick, stretching you to the core

You were already so slick and drooling around him, drooling from both lips, before mumbling, "I-it's big.."

"I'm—… I'm not even halfway in," he muttered, pursing his lips and pausing for just a second before beginning to try and push in as far as he could, in a quick, painless manner. Not even halfway? You were already feeling his cock splitting you in two, what did he mean "not even halfway"?

It felt like something you had never known, finally clicked inside your head when he pushed in the last inch and grinned up at you, popping free of your nipple. "See! Nothing to it," he hummed happily, while you were drooling and cumming around him from just the size. Your tummy having such a lewd bulge from his cock.

"D-does it get any smaller…?" You drooled, whimpering and squeezing so tightly. You were definitely going to be spending majority of the time squirting and squirming on his dick.

“Smaller?” He scoffed and smiled, before kissing your forehead and then the tip of your nose. “Obviously not, silly. It can get bigger though,” he tilted his head to the side, all goofy.

Oh my archons, he was going to split you in two.

ɞ⠀.⠀DOTTORE ﹗ ໒꒱۪

"Oh come on, miss patient, you're not seriously backing out already?" Dottore pouted and mocked you, holding an empty syringe in his hands. The one he had promised would help you enjoy your first time with him infinitely more and not feel an ounce of paint whatsoever.

"Z-zandik—" you whimpered, eyes beginning to haze over, sitting naked on his experimental table. The light flicking above you both in the empty, cold room.

"Uh-uh, not Zandik, it's Doctor now, okay?" He smirked and pinched your cheek.

The air wasn't biting at your skin anymore, the fluids beginning to seep through your veins in what felt like a fiery fever. The blue haired menace's eyes were narrowing, watching your expression change, your eyes glaze over and pussy begin to glisten and seep uncontrollably.

"..doctor 'tore.." you mumbled, looking up at him, and pulling him closer by his shoulders. Eyeing his shirtless body up and down.

He smirked and cupped your cheek again, testing to see how much the medicine had stripped away your shyness and pain. "Tell me, how much do you want me? Where do you want me?" He purred, already moving his hands to the buckle of his pants, stripping eagerly.

You hesitated and thought, before laying back on the table and spewing your legs. "…need you a lotttt.." you mumbled, watching him crawl over you quickly and plant feverish kisses to your neck.

"Need you here.." you mumbled, moving one of your hands down shakily, and using your fingers to spreading your folds apart. Glistening and soaking wet, dripping onto the table below, ready and waiting for his experiment.

He hummed, smirking down at you and glanced down at your pussy, before kissing your forehead. "See? I told you the medicine would work so well with this untouched body of yours… didn't expect this much… fluid production, although," he hummed and was already mentally noting to edit the formula so that it wouldn't harm your body's natural production.

"You're alright to continue, miss patient?" He whispered down at you, before smirking at your confident nod.

"You're so filthy," he scoffed, smirking and spreading your legs wide apart, before slipping his fingers into your depths to test the waters. "They slide in so easily, tsk, you're so wet already," he huffed before brushing your hair out of your face. "Do you want me to move onto the next step in the method of this experiment?"

"P-pleaseeee.. d-doctor 'tore," you moaned, closing your eyes in pleasure as he fingered you, before gasping and pouting when he slid his fingers out again.

"If you're begging that much, you deserve something bigger, something harder," he darkly suggested, before smirking down at your dead face. The next thing you felt in your daze was the thick tip of his cock rubbing over your clit, collecting the slick, before it began to push inside your tight passage.

The feeling was numbing, more than painful. A small whimper escaping your lips, just clenching your fists, waiting for the initial stretch to wash over.

Only to open your eyes, half lidded, when you heard him snort. "Miss patient.. are you sleeping in the middle of my experiment?" He pouted and flicked your forehead.

It took you a second to realise he was teasing you, before you began to whine and argue back with him. "I wasn't sleeping! It just felt so numbing and c-cold—" you were arguing with him, before gasping and moaning, eyes rolling back for a split second.

That bastard had thrusted while you were talking, riling you up just to see you lose it in the middle of a sentence.

"You were saying?"

"Y-you're evil—" you were whining before quickly fading your arguments into needy moans and whimpers, arching your back and holding onto the shaky table as he began to rut into you. Fucking you at that steady pace, hips slapping against your ass. Balls heavy and waiting to spill inside you, to carry out another experiment inside you.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

It filled the room, while you began to drool. His breath finally hitching and adjusting, growing heavy from trying to not bust on the spot while you were squeezing him so tightly.

"Fuck.. you're so right. I should've made that fuckin' erection chewing gum too," he scoffed, eyes narrowing on your breasts.

ɞ⠀.⠀LOHEN ﹗ ໒꒱۪

"Pfft, look at you," lohen smirked, "not even name calling now?" He teased.

You were sitting on his lap. Naked, pouting and slowly rubbing your pussy back on his erect cock. His eyes half lidded, biting his bottom lip, watching you with lustful eyes. His hands resting on your hips, thumbs rubbing back and forth.

"You said you'd help me and be sweetttt!" You whined and grumbled down at him, before smacking his shoulder.

He groaned and pretended to be hurt, before pouting up at you playfully. "I am being sweeeet," he mimicked your whine, before smirking and pinching your hip. "I wanna see you ride me, it'll be fun, and I promise to help you get on," he nodded with a mock-serious expression.

You huffed, unconvinced before lifting your hips and scooting back just an inch, letting out a soft whimper when he grabbed the base of his cock, stroking it and guiding it to the entrance of your tight hole. "That's ittt, just slowly sit down," he mumbled, shifting on the bed slightly and guiding your hips down.

"H-haah.. s-slowlyyy.." you whined, easing your hips down, feeling his hard, thick dick begin to slide inside. The feeling of it twitching made you squirm and look more flustered, while his expression began to change from agonising pleasure to mischievous smirking.

His hands were slowly helping your hips down, as you relied on him to guide you, before he pulled them away quickly, making you squeak and plop down quickly. Gasping and whimpering, impaled on every thick, girthy inch of his cock.

A moan escaped your lips, tears pricking the corner of your eyes from the sudden, intense pleasure and pain mix. The room was filled whining and as you were smacking his shoulders repeatedly, "y-you're horrible! A terrible boyfriend! You pushed me down!"

"I did?" He pouted and played innocent, hands moving to wipe the small dotted tears at the corners of your eyes. "I think I'm a lovely boyfriend," he frowned, before genuinely asking, "you're okay though, right? Tell me if you want to stop, I'll stop, no teasing," he nodded to you.

You sniffled, before nodding and leaning over to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "I w-wanna keep going.." a small mumble by his neck.

He smiled, turning his head to peck your hair, before thrusting up into you gently. "You're the one who's supposed to be riding me, doll," he huffed and played with your hair, tilting his head to the side to lick the shell of your ear.

The lick made you shiver, before trying to slowly wriggle your hips up and bring them down. "I-I'm tryingggg! Be patient," you huffed.

His teasing smirk began to fade as the bed was quietly creaking, only your soft little moans being the sounds of pleasure in the quiet bedroom. "E-ehh.. nnh.. mmh…" you whimpered softly, learning how to slowly pleasure yourself on his dick. His eyes half lidded, viewing you with a cold, cynical look, before smiling again and thrusting up quickly into your soft, wet pussy.

"L-lohennnn.. this is too much work," you huffed, giving up and laying limp on top of him.

He hummed, before kissing the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you tightly, quickly rolling you both over so that you were flustered, naked, and underneath him. "E-eh..?" You muttered confused, while his hands were already spreading your legs.

"Just take it, okay? You know the word to say if you want me to stop," he smiled at you. Nervousness breeding inside your gut, already gripping the sheets to prepare yourself.

You were so fucked.

"I wasn't staring," you murmured, though your cheeks warmed instantly. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, focusing intently on organizing the plastic cases by genre. "I was just... checking the time."

"Right. And the clock is conveniently mounted right next to the front door," Cyrene teased, leaning her elbows on the counter. Her expression softened. "Why don't you just tell him?"

You froze, your fingers resting on a worn copy of a French drama. "Tell him what?"

"Oh, come on. 'Phainon, I think you're incredible. Phainon, I've had a massive crush on you since the day you showed up to practice with grease on your chin and played the most beautiful melody I've ever heard.' Something like that."

"It wasn't grease, it was bike chain lube," you corrected automatically. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and sat down on the high stool behind the register. "And I can't just tell him, Cyrene. You know how he is. He’s... guarded. He keeps everyone at a subtle distance, even Mydei, sometimes. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose everything. I lose the friendship, the quiet afternoons here, the way he looks up and smiles when I walk into the room."

"Or," Cyrene countered gently, "you win everything. Have you considered that? The guy looks at you like you hung the moon, [Name]. I watch him when you aren't paying attention."

You shook your head, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you. "That's just how he is. He's polite. He's a gentle person. He treats everyone with this quiet reverence... well, except when he's arguing with De about... which of them has the bigger biceps."

You reached down, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the smooth, dark surface of the disc.

"Besides," you added softly, looking down at your hands, "I don't even know how to bring it up. Whenever I try to steer the conversation into something more... personal, my mind goes completely blank. I get so guarded. I end up talking about movies or asking about his dog."

"Snowy," Cyrene smiled. "How is the little monster, anyway?"

"Phainon said he’s been acting strange lately. Eating weird things, hiding under the sink. He said he was going to set out some pest traps because he noticed rats, but he’s been so stressed with his final design portfolio that I worry he’s forgetting to take care of himself."

Before she could reply, the bell above the front door chimed sharp and clear.

Your head snapped up.

Phainon walked in, brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his eyes. He was wearing his usual faded jacket over a charcoal sweater, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted—dark circles smudged beneath his sharp, expressive eyes—but the moment his gaze met yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted.

"Sorry I'm late," Phainon said, his voice carrying that familiar, low, resonant timbre that made your pulse flutter. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down on the wooden surface. "Traffic near the campus was an absolute nightmare, and Mydei took twenty minutes just to choose a sandwich at the deli."

"It's fine," you said, offering him a warm, soft smile. "Cyrene was just keeping me company."

"I was actually just leaving," Cyrene said with a dramatic wave of her hand, grabbing her shoulder bag from behind the register. She flashed you a subtle, deliberate wink before turning to Phainon. "Don't let her work too hard, Phainon. She’s been re-sorting the foreign section for an hour just to keep busy."

"I'll take over," Phainon promised, giving her a small, polite nod as she headed out the door.

Once the bell chimed again, a comfortable, heavy quiet fell over the shop. Phainon stepped behind the counter, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the back room door.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Every detail of his presence was intoxicating to you—the faint scent of rain and cedar that followed him, the careful, deliberate way he moved, the slight furrows in his brow when he was lost in thought. You wanted so desperately to reach out, to smooth those lines away, to tell him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"How was your morning?" Phainon asked, pulling a stack of return logs toward himself.

"Quiet," you replied, leaning your side against the counter so you could face him. "Not many people coming in on a rainy Tuesday. Did you finish your rendering for the project?"

Phainon groaned softly, resting his forehead against his palm for a brief second. "Barely. My professor gave me a hard time about the structural proportions of the entryway. I stayed up until four in the morning redesigning the entire facade. It's still shit."

"You work too hard, Phainon," you say, your voice dropping into a tone of soft, genuine concern. "You need to rest. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense focus that made your throat catch. "I sleep fine," he murmured. Then, a rare, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I'd sleep better if Mydei stopped calling me at two in the morning to pitch lyrics that sound like they were written by an angsty middle schooler."

You laughed—a bright, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim corners of the shop. Phainon’s gaze lingered on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch.

Say it, a voice whispered inside your head. Tell him right now. Tell him you want to be the one he calls at two in the morning. Tell him you love him.

You swallowed hard, opening your mouth to speak, but the courage vanished as quickly as it had come. The fear of ruining this—this perfect, fragile closeness—paralyzed you.

Instead, you gestured to the record racks. "Are you... fine being on your own later? I'd like to leave a little earlier, too. I've got... stuff."

"Yeah," Phainon said, his tone shifting back to its usual measured composure.

For the next two hours, you worked side by side in a harmony built on months of shared routines. You organized tapes, chatted about trivial things, and laughed over absurd movie plot summaries. To anyone looking through the shop window, you looked like two people completely in sync.

But beneath the surface, you were drowning in everything you couldn't say.

You looked at him while he reached up to place a tape on the top shelf, noticing the slight strain of his muscles beneath his sweater. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to rest your head on his shoulder. You wanted him to look at you, not just as a reliable coworker or a sweet friend, but as the only person he wanted.

Tomorrow, you promised yourself, clutching your skirt until the edges pressed firmly into your palm. Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him.

.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--

II: A Gift of Dust and Promises

The rain had settled into a steady, persistent drizzle by the time you had left. The streets downtown glistened under the amber streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night stalls and old bookstores like smeared watercolors.

You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck as you walked down the cobblestone side street. Your mind was racing, your thoughts caught in a dizzying loop of anticipation and nervous energy. Tonight was supposed to be the night. You had spent the last two hours at the register rehearsing a simple, honest confession over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.

“Phainon, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

It sounded too plain.

“Phainon, you’re the most important person in my life, and I want to be more than just your friend.”

It felt too dramatic.

You let out a breathy sigh, a pale cloud of vapor rising into the cool air. He likes simple things, you reminded yourself. Directness. Authenticity.

Hence, you opted to navigate the narrow (and creepy) alleys instead of heading straight home. Phainon had a quiet, almost childlike fascination with old things—tactile remnants of the past that held history within their grain. His apartment was filled with vintage brass compasses, mid-century architectural blueprints, and worn leather-bound notebooks.

If you were going to tell him how you felt, you wanted to ground the moment. You wanted to give him something meaningful—a token to anchor the memory, to show him that you truly paid attention to the quiet details of his life.

At the end of a dimly lit alley, tucked between a closed tailor shop and a shuttered bakery, sat Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios. It was an obscure, unmarked antique store you had passed a dozen times but never actually entered. Warm, dim light spilled from its dusty bay windows, illuminating shelves packed with bizarre glass bottles, stacks of parchment, and tarnished silver frames.

You pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell overhead gave a dull, metallic clink, and the sharp scent of cedar, dried lavender, and aged paper immediately wrapped around you.

"We're closing in ten minutes," a dry voice echoed from behind a high wooden counter near the back.

You looked over. Sitting on a tall stool was an older woman with sharp, observant lavender eyes and brown hair swept under a huge hat. She was polishing a small bronze pocket watch with a velvet cloth, her movements deliberate and unhurried.

"I won't take long," you promised politely, offering a gentle smile. "I'm just looking for a small gift. For a friend."

The woman gave a short, imperceptible nod and returned to her watch, leaving you to wander through the labyrinth of crowded narrow aisles.

You browsed slowly, your fingers lightly skimming over the smooth brass surfaces of vintage pocket knives, intricate mechanical gears, and hand-carved wooden chess pieces. Everything was beautiful, but nothing felt right. A fountain pen felt too formal; an antique magnifying glass felt too novelty.

You turned into the rearmost corner of the shop, where the shadows hung heavier and the air felt curiously still. On a velvet-lined display shelf resting beneath a glass dome, something caught your eye—not because it was grand, but because of how starkly simple it was.

It was a small, minimalist box made of smooth, unpainted white paperboard. It sat entirely alone on the shelf, completely out of place among the ornate brass and dark mahogany surrounding it.

Curious, you reached out and carefully lifted the glass dome. You picked up the box, turning it over in your hands. Printed on the front in thin, charcoal-gray typography was a single phrase:

ONE WISH WILLOW

Break with intention. One use only.

Wishes do come true. Be careful what you ask for.

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A wishbone made of wood. It was absurdly poetic—the exact kind of whimsical, slightly melancholic oddity that Phainon would find fascinating. He would probably place it on his desk next to his architecture sketches, wondering what to wish for every time he looked at it, and in extension he would think of you.

You slid open the top cover. Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, was a single, thin willow twig. It was pale, delicate, and looked utterly fragile, as if a single press of a thumb could snap it into dust.

"I wouldn't linger on that one," a voice spoke softly from right beside you.

You nearly jumped, holding the box close to your chest. The shopkeeper had moved with impossible quietness, now standing at the end of the aisle, her sharp eyes resting heavily on the box in your hands.

"Oh," you said, steadying your breath. "Is it an antique? It looks... remarkably modern compared to everything else."

"It isn't modern," the shopkeeper replied, her tone flat and measured. "It's old stock. Older than this building. People buy things like that thinking it's a game or a clever conversation starter for a coffee table."

"And isn't it?" You asked with a faint, amused smile.

"A wish isn't a game," the woman said, stepping closer. The dim overhead light cast long, dramatic shadows across her face. "Intent is a dangerous force when given a physical form to break. Most people who buy those come back eventually, looking for a way to mend the wood."

You looked down at the delicate twig resting against the dark velvet. The shopkeeper's dramatic warnings felt like part of the store's theatrical charm, but there was a quiet, chilling sincerity in the woman's eyes that made your throat go dry.

"I'm not buying it to use it," you say softly, your thumb tracing the clean edge of the box. "It's a gift for someone special. He appreciates... unusual things."

"Someone special," the shopkeeper repeated, her gaze narrowing slightly. "A man?"

You felt a faint warmth climb up your neck. You nodded slowly. "A friend."

The shopkeeper stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with a look that felt less like suspicion and more like deep, weary pity.

"Twenty credits," the woman said abruptly, turning her back and walking toward the register. "Consider it a fee for curiosity. There won't be any refunds."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden transaction. The shopkeeper wrapped the box in a layer of brown butcher paper, tying it with a simple piece of jute twine.

You hesitated. It was absurd. It was superstitious nonsense. You believed you were a rational archivist, and you spent your days indexing factual historical data. Magic twigs in velvet boxes did not alter human emotion.

Yet, as you remembered Phainon’s polite, distant smile from earlier that afternoon—the agonizing distance that separated you even when you stood inches apart—your hand moved to your coat pocket for your wallet.

"I'll take it," you whispered.

"Remember," the woman said softly, sliding the package across the counter. Her voice lowered to a harsh, quiet whisper. "Desire makes people foolish. If you ever break that twig, make sure you are prepared to live with the exact words you utter. The universe has a cruel sense of humor when fulfilling a desperate heart."

.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--

The rain drummed heavily against the glass of your apartment windows. The flat was quiet, lit only by the soft orange glow of a floor lamp in the corner.

You sat on the edge of your bed, the lacquered box open on the table beside you. The willow twig was in it. After the ominous warnings, and your insomnia blurring your head, you felt it unsafe to gift Phainon such a thing. You could try using it, just to conclude it's genuine.

You simply wanted to satisfy your own burning curiosity.

You picked it up. The wood was cold—colder than the ambient temperature of the room—and surprisingly heavy for its size. Its texture was slick and unnaturally smooth, free of any natural grain or bark imperfection.

"This is ridiculous," you murmured into the empty room. "I am a twenty-four-year-old adult sitting in my living room holding a stick."

You made a move to toss it back into the box, but stopped.

Phainon’s face flashed in your mind. His calm, pale eyes. The quiet precision of his voice. The maddening barrier of his absolute self-control. What if you didn't have to spend years waiting for him to notice you? What if you could just... melt the ice?

You squeezed your eyes shut. You brought the white willow twig up between your thumbs and forefingers.

You pictured Phainon clearly in your mind: standing under the soft warm light of the archive lamp, looking at you not as a quiet colleague or a pleasant acquaintance, but with affection. Love. You wanted to be his priority. You wanted him to love you.

"I wish Phainon loved me more than anything else in existence," you mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You applied pressure.

CRACK.

The snap was loud—far louder than a twig of that size should have produced. It sounded like a sharp whip crack echoing through the small apartment.

A sudden blast of frigid air swept through the closed living room, causing the flame of the corner lamp to flicker violently. For a split second, you felt a bizarre sensation of weightlessness, as if the air had been vacuumed out of your lungs.

Then, silence returned.

The rain continued to hit the windowpanes. The lamp flickered back to a steady burn.

In your hands, the willow twig was broken cleanly into two jagged halves. The wood inside was strangely dark, almost charcoal-black at the point of the fracture.

You sat frozen for a long moment, waiting for... something. A sign? A revelation?

Nothing happened.

You let out a long breath, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. "Stupid. Absolute scam."

You tossed the two broken pieces into the trash bin beneath your bed, shut off the lamp, and went to bed, thoroughly embarrassed by your own desperation.

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

III: The Unraveling

The next afternoon, you arrived at the shop ten minutes earlier than your shift. The morning air was crisp, and the sky had cleared into a pale, brilliant blue.

Phainon was already there.

He wasn't working. He wasn't sorting the discs or checking the morning delivery. He was simply standing beside the door, his hands clasped loosely together, staring intently at the empty space where you usually sat.

"Phainon?" you call, startled as you hung your coat on the rack. "You're early today. Is there an issue with the morning delivery?"

Phainon turned.

The moment his eyes locked onto you, you felt a strange, electric shiver run down your spine. His expression wasn't his usual serene, polite mask. His eyes were wide, unnervingly focused, his pale irises bright and sharp.

"No issue," Phainon said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, breathless cadence. "I just... I couldn't stay at home this morning."

"Why? Did your heating go out again?" You asked, walking over to the desk and setting down your bag.

Phainon didn't step back to give you space as he usually did. Instead, he remained standing right beside your chair, his gaze following your every movement with absolute, unwavering tracking.

"No," he said softly, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your eyes, your lips, the movement of your breath. "I woke up at four in the morning, [Name]. And the only thought in my mind... the only thing that felt real... was that I needed to see you."

You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke or teasing. But Phainon’s face was entirely severe. There was no amusement in his eyes—only an intense, singular focus that made the air between you feel terrifyingly thick.

"Phainon... are you feeling alright?" You whispered, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.

"I have never felt more clear," Phainon replied. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between you until his knees brushed against the side of the desk. He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating in the air before gently, reverently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingertips were cold, but his breath was warm against your skin.

"I thought about calling you this morning," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetism that made you forget how to breathe. "I thought about walking to your apartment in the rain just to see you. Then, I remembered you'd come to work today."

Your head reeled. A heady mixture of disbelief, wild euphoria, and a faint, subtle prick of fear rose in your chest.

"Phainon," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly. "You... you've never spoken to me like this before."

"I know," Phainon admitted softly, his thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. The gesture was tender, but his grip on himself seemed remarkably fragile, like a dam holding back a violent flood. "I was blind before. I wasted so many months treating you like background music in my life. But when I woke up today... it was as if a veil had been torn away. You are the only thing that matters, [Name]. Everything else is just noise."

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

The transition from Phainon’s quiet admiration to complete, total fixation did not take months or weeks—it took less than forty-eight hours.

Phainon was everywhere. When you stepped out of your apartment building at eight in the morning, having skipped breakfast to catch a train to your college, he was already waiting on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in his dark wool overcoat against the morning chill.

"You didn't need to stand out here in the cold," you told him on the third morning, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck.

"I didn't mind," Phainon said smoothly, taking your satchel from your shoulder without asking and slinging it over his own. His pale eyes searched your face with a quiet, hungry focus. "The apartment felt hollow after five. Waiting here is the only part of my morning that feels real."

You smiled, brushing your shoulder against his as you walked toward the train. "You slept poorly?"

"Not well," Phainon admitted, his gaze drifting from the cobblestones to the side of your face with a steady, unblinking intensity. "But it doesn't matter much anymore. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for a proper start to the day."

You shook your head, a soft, amused sigh escaping your lips. "You're melodramatic, you know that?"

"How about this? I know what it feels to spend most time counting down the hours until I see someone again," he replied smoothly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours with every synchronized stride.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the approaching autumn and the rich aroma of the roasted coffee beans from the corner shop he frequented. As you reached the bustling station platform, the rhythmic clatter of the incoming commuter train drowned out the morning chatter of students and office workers.

Phainon guided you gently by the elbow—a polite, habitual gesture by now—steering you away from the edge of the platform toward a pair of surprisingly vacant seats near the center carriage. His fingers lingered against yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away to take the seat beside you.

"What are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched you take a sip. "Your schedule usually frees up by two, doesn't it?"

"It does," you said, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to wait outside my lecture hall with a sandwich this time?"

A faint, self-aware smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp angles of his features. "Only if you forgot to eat lunch. Though... I was actually hoping you might want to visit that bookstore near the station. You mentioned needing a new textbook last week, and I found the registry."

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

Cyrene pulled you aside near the breakroom kettle the next week.

"Okay, what happened?" Cyrene whispered, leaning in close. "Did he drink something strange? Did he join a cult? Six days ago, he barely said three words to you without clearing his throat, and now he looks like he'd jump in front of a moving train if you accidentally dropped a pencil in the street."

You stirred your tea, your gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "He's just showing how he feels, Rene. You were the one telling me he had feelings for me."

"I meant he had a crush, not that he was preparing to commission a marble statue in your likeness!" Cyrene hissed, casting a wary glance toward the open breakroom door as if expecting Phainon to materialize from thin air. "There's normal romantic interest, and then there's whatever... that is. The man memorized your class schedule. I saw him checking a color-coded laminated planner yesterday, and I'm eighty percent sure it was yours."

You stirred your tea again, watching the small whirlpool settle. "It's not laminated," you muttered defensively, though you had to admit the planner detail was a bit much. "He's just thorough."

"He's a golden retriever with the soul of a Victorian poet," Cyrene corrected, crossing her arms. "Just... keep one eye open, okay? Make sure he has hobbies outside of orbiting you."

"He does," you said, though you struggled to name a single one that didn't involve you as of lately.

Cyrene arched a single brow, waiting.

"He... reads," you offered weakly.

"Right. And what does he read? Historical accounts of people who stared at doors until their objects of affection walked through them?" Cyrene sighed, uncrossing her arms and patting your shoulder. "Just set some boundaries, alright? Before you wake up and find out he's legally changed his name to match yours."

Before you could defend him further, the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the door swung open. Phainon stepped inside, his dark coat dusted with a light morning mist, his pale eyes instantly locking onto yours with the absolute gravity of a compass needle finding true north.

"There you are," he murmured, his expression smoothing into a soft, devoted smile the moment he reached your side. "I brought you that pastry from the bakery across the street. The one with the raspberry filling you like."

You glanced sidelong at Cyrene, whose expression was a masterclass in polite disbelief.

"Thanks, Phainon," you said, taking the small white bag. "You really didn't have to."

"It's no trouble," he replied smoothly, already reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Nothing is, as long as you're having a good morning."

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

Phainon feels like he's drowning. Everything is muddled. It's like he's floating. But he's not. He can feel it. The scream bubbled up in his chest. 

Get out. Get out. Get out.

He sees it all through the eyes of another. It's his voice, but it's not. It's not his movements. He couldn't.

He screams inside his head. He pounds harder. He needs to get out. 

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

IV. The Glass Shatters

Loudly, you gasp and swoop down—frightening Phainon only a little—to smooth your hands over his dog's white fur. "Puppy!" you're borderline squealing in glee, and that's a new sight for Phainon, "So big!" You encourage the dog to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.

"Snowy," Phainon clarifies (as if you could forget), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under Snowy's chin, grinning when he starts barking in your coddling hold. 

"I love you, Snowy," you whisper to the dog, and Phainon sits on the floor beside you after figuring the dog won’t be moving on from you anytime soon. You’ve been looking forward to this since he'd promised to take you to his place, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded. "Didn’t know you liked dogs so much, [Name], I would’ve introduced you sooner."

"He looks like you," you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle the dog off, "And his fur feels so nice."

Phainon feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, he’s lugging you off the floor and towards his room. He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with his dog now locked outside the room. He wanted you to touch him like that. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of white hair.

Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Phainon's eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, "Do you want me to pet you?"

He nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms. "Okay."

You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.

Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.

This feels right. Crushed and warm.

Everything is right in this instance, in this world. But he's not sure he wants to. But not wanting to isn't exactly his job. His job is to make you happy. "I’m going to kiss you."

You go limp in bed and allow Phainon's hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your top before gliding his hands under those and resting over your midriff. He clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse.

The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head. "I don't want to..." Phainon's hands peel off from your body to stow in his lap. You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, "What?"

"This isn’t it," he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, "You’re not into it…" he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect). The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you don’t notice the flooding along his lower lashes.

What if you finally do have sex and realize you never wanted him at all? What good is he doing then?

The statement comes off more monotone than intended, but you read in his everything: the slight twitch of his brow, the light sweat starting to form on his forehead, the way his sight flickers to your neck and eyes for half a millisecond. 

You furrow your eyebrows at the way he tilted his head, and the slight anguish painted on his features. "I need you to shut up." He breathes, desperately, but does not relent when your hands dig into his shoulders. "Okay."

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

That night, you tried to establish boundaries.

You let him walk you home, but insisted on sleeping at your own apartment alone, refusing his offer to stay the night. Phainon had agreed without argument—his absolute devotion meant he complied with your every command, even when it clearly pained him.

"If that is what you wish, [Name]," he had said on your doorstep, his voice strained and hollow. "I will wait outside."

"No, Phainon. Go home to your apartment. Sleep."

"I will try," he said softly.

At 2:00 AM, you woke up with an unsettling prickle of ice along your spine.

The bedroom was silent. The city outside was drenched in a low, gray fog.

You got out of bed, pulling your shirt down to hide your skin from the chill, and crept into the dark living room. You walked over to the bay window that looked out onto the street below.

Standing directly across the street, beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlight, was Phainon.

He wasn't wearing a coat despite the biting wind and cold drizzle. He stood completely motionless, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his face angled upward toward your second-floor window.

He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking his watch. He was simply standing in the freezing rain, staring up at your darkened glass, waiting for the precise moment you would re-emerge.

You gasp, pulling back behind the curtain, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.

You ran to your front door, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. You sprinted down the two flights of stairs in your socks, burst through the glass front doors of the building, and ran into the empty street.

"Phainon!" you screamed through the cold night air.

He stepped out from under the streetlight, his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead, his skin pale and translucent under the wet light. As soon as he saw you, a soft, beautiful, terribly broken smile appeared on his face.

"You came down," he murmured, walking toward you with quick, eager strides. "I knew you would."

"What are you doing?!" You cry, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold arms. "You've been standing out here in the freezing cold for hours! I told you to go home!"

"I tried," Phainon whispered, looking down at you with pure, unadulterated adoration. "I got to the end of the block, and my body wouldn't move any further. Every step away from you felt like ripping my own flesh open. It was easier to just stay here and look at your window."

"Fine," you choked out, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You can... you can sleep on the couch. But do not come into my bedroom, Phainon. Do you understand me?"

Phainon looked up, his smile returning—bright, desperate, and empty. "I understand. I'll stay right there. I won't move an inch."

-.- - .. ... ... / -- .

V: The Anatomy of a Caged Bird

You did not sleep.

You lay in your bed with the bedroom door locked, the duvet pulled up to your chin, listening to the absolute, suffocating silence of the apartment.

Around 4:00 AM, you heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking outside your door.

You sat up instantly, your body locking with terror. You watched the narrow gap at the bottom of your door where the hallway light flickered.

A shadow blocked the light.

Then came a soft, rhythmic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Phainon was pressing his forehead gently against the wooden door panel from the outside.

"[Name]?" his voice drifted through the wood, paper-thin and hauntingly calm. "Are you breathing?"

You held your breath, tears streaming down your face in the dark. What the fuck?

"I can't hear you breathing through the door," Phainon murmured softly. "Please just make a sound. Just let me know you're still alive in there. If something happened to you... I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."

"I'm alive, Phainon!" You sobbed out quietly. "Go back to the couch! Please!"

"Thank you," he whispered back, his shadow remaining fixed against the bottom of the door. "I'll stay right here so I can hear you."

You buried your face in your pillows, trying so hard to catch the sleep that had completely evaded you.

-.- - .. ... ... / -- .

You'd asked him to go home the next day. "For Snowy," you tried to negotiate.

He called in an hour or two.

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Phainon finally spoke, his voice didn't sound like his own. It was hollow, flat, and completely devoid of inflection, carrying an eerie, mechanical weight that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"[Name]," he whispered quietly. "Snowy died."

The words hung in the space between you, heavy and unnatural, bleeding through the speaker of the phone with a strange, muffled resonance.

"[Name]," Phainon repeated, his voice dragging across the syllables like dry paper. "Snowy is dead."

For a long moment, you could only stare at the dark wallpaper of your bedroom, the shock of his behaviour last night instantly colliding with this cold, terrifying piece of news. Your breath hitched, your throat tightening as your mind struggled to bridge the gap between his earlier dismissal to your privacy and this sudden, tragic vulnerability.

"Phainon... what happened?" You asked, your voice trembling, all thoughts of your own humiliation washing away under a wave of sudden, aching concern. "I... I'm so sorry. Was he sick? Did something happen while you were here?"

On the other end, there was a long, suffocating stretch of silence. Phainon stood in the center of his dimly lit apartment, the cool glow of the refrigerator casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. He stared down at the small paper bag resting at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.

He didn't tell you about the pest control pellets he had scattered across the baseboards after coming home, entirely consumed by his spiraling thoughts of you. He didn't tell you how he had found the small white dog curled rigidly on the cold bathroom tile, his jaws slightly parted, or how the bitter realization of his own jealousy had hit him with the force of a physical blow. He didn't mention the numbing efficiency with which he had wrapped his small body in a towel and disposed of him, burying his own guilt beneath a rigid wall of silence.

"I... I don't want to talk about it over the phone," Phainon said finally, his tone flattening into something dangerously controlled. "Can you come over? Please. I... I just need someone here."

The vulnerability in his voice—so rare, so stripped of its usual guarded armor—shattered whatever hesitation you had left. His rejection to have sex with you from a day ago felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.

"I'm coming," you said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

When you arrived, you let yourself in with the spare key Phainon had given you months ago—a gesture that had once felt like a quiet milestone in your friendship. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark, save for a single lamp glowing dimly in the living room.

Phainon was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His hair fell forward in disarray. He looked hollowed out, drained of color and energy.

"[Name]," he murmured, not looking up as the front door clicked shut.

You hurried across the room, dropping your bag on the floor, and knelt down right in front of him. Without a second thought, you reached out, gently placing your hands over his cold, rigid fingers.

"Phainon, I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. "I know how much he meant to you. You don't have to go through this alone."

Slowly, Phainon lowered his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, dark, and hyper-focused. There was no grief in them—not the kind you expected, anyway. Instead, there was a raw, burning intensity that made the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It was a look of absolute, desperate fixation, as if he were a drowning man who had just broken the surface of the water and locked eyes with his only lifeline.

"You came," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

"Of course I came," you said softly, offering a sympathetic, reassuring smile as you squeezed his hands. "You called, and you're hurting. I'm always going to—"

You didn't get to finish the sentence.

Phainon moved with sudden, startling velocity. He leaned forward, catching you by the back of the neck and the small of your back, pulling you directly against him. Before you could process the movement, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn't a tentative or gentle kiss born of a mutual, unfolding romance. It was fierce, possessive, and suffocatingly desperate—driven by a manic undercurrent that felt less like affection and more like an anchor thrown into a storm. His fingers tangled frantically in your hair, pressing you closer, as if he were trying to physically melt you into his skin to fill the cold, hollow space left behind by his own catastrophic mistake.

You froze for a fraction of a second, your heart leaping into your throat. His behaviour over the many months—subtly stating that he didn't feel that way about you—flashed violently through your mind.

He doesn't like you, a small voice whispered. He didn't feel that way.

Yet, here he was, kissing you with an intensity that bordered on frantic, trembling as though the world would end if he let go. The confusion was dizzying, but the warmth of his mouth, the familiar scent of his sweater, and the overwhelming desire you had harbored for months eroded your resistance. Your eyes fluttered closed, and slowly, hesitantly, you kissed him back, lifting your hands to rest against the solid wall of his chest.

When his shirt pulled free and up over his head, you ran your hands along the broad slopes of his shoulders and down dips and angles of his chest. He was cut, here and there. "What happened to you?"

His belt dropped and you hooked your legs around him, pulling him closer. His body pinned yours to the table. "I fell." When his hands found your back, you slid your legs apart, letting your dress scrunch above your waist. You quivered when his cock brushed heavy against you. "That's from a knife, Phai. What the fuck?"

He was rough and quick inside, and you arched into him, finding his mouth once again. His hands were at your back, your hips, your thighs and you felt something uncoiling inside of you. Something deep in your belly that made you clutch back at him as desperately. So long had you ached for warmth, for touch, for the tightening of your body against his.

Snowy died. And Phainon was hurting himself.

You came trembling around him, and he pulled back to watch you as you did. You laid back onto the table, open to him, his eyes locked on everywhere your dress no longer covered, even has he pushed into you over and over.

And then he pulled away.

"What the fuck? Get away from me," Phainon whispered, his voice breaking entirely as he stood up, and moved back, sliding down against the side of the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at you anymore. He couldn't bear to meet your eyes.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, staring down at the man you loved—now curled in a heap of self-loathing and terror on the floor. The warmth of the room was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute cold.

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

VI: The Fracture in the Archive

Saturday morning arrived without sunrise, drowning the city in a dense, leaden fog that pressed flat against the glass of Phainon’s apartment windows.

Inside, the silence was absolute—heavy, atmospheric, and terrifying.

Last night was one way to lose your virginity. The absolute worst.

You stood at the threshold of his bedroom, your hand trembling as you slowly turned the brass doorknob. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.

Phainon was sitting on the floor directly outside the door.

He hadn't slept. He hadn't moved to the sofa. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his back resting against the wall, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where the door met the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands hanging over his forehead, and his sweater was wrinkled. Yet his posture remained remarkably erect, devoid of the natural slouch of fatigue.

As soon as the door swung open, his gaze snapped to your face. A violent, brilliant flicker of relief flooded his expression, as though he had spent eight hours underwater and had finally broken the surface.

"Good morning, [Name]," he said. His voice was raspy from disuse, but his tone was smooth, almost melodious.

"Phainon... did you sit here all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your distance.

"Yes," he replied simply, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at you. "I wanted to stay close so I could hear you breathing."

"That isn't staying close, Phainon. That's... you sat on the floor outside my bedroom like a dog."

Phainon didn't blink. He offered a small, serene smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "A dog is loyal because it knows no other reality. I sit here because there is literally nowhere else in this universe I wish to be. Is that so shameful?"

He pushed himself up off the floor with effortless grace, stepping toward you. You instinctively took a step back into the room, but Phainon stopped at the doorframe, respecting the boundary you had drawn, though his pale eyes drank in every detail of your face, your messy hair, your tired eyes.

"I made coffee," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "And I bought fresh pastries from the bakery three blocks down."

You blinked, surprised. "When? I didn't hear you leave."

"At six in the morning," he said. "I ran the entire way there and back so I would only be gone for five minutes. I didn't want you waking up to an empty flat."

The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his devotion made your stomach turn. It was terrifyingly calculated—every action, every thought, stripped of self-preservation and redirected entirely toward serving your existence.

"Phainon, what the fuck? We can't not talk about your dog dying! And we had sex! And then pushed me away like I forced myself on you! Not to mention you've been slicing at your skin for God knows how long—"

"I didn't mean to scare you," he stammered, his usual composure shattering into raw, desperate panic. He sank to his knees right there in the center of his living room, clutching his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Please don't hate me. If you hate me, I'll kill myself. Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything to make you happy!"

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

Monday morning arrived with the suffocating weight of an impending storm. The air beneath the Grand City Archives was colder than usual, smelling faintly of damp limestone and stagnant rainwater that had seeped through the ancient brick foundation over the weekend.

You stood at the bottom of the iron spiral staircase, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. You hadn't slept in nearly two days. Every time you had closed your eyes over the weekend, the image of Phainon kneeling on his apartment rug—his pale eyes wide, empty, and entirely focused on you—had burned behind your eyelids.

He was already there.

Phainon sat at his long oak desk, surrounded by towers papers. But he wasn't reading them. He wasn't cataloging, writing, or cross-referencing. He sat completely still, his hands resting flat against the dark wood, his head angled toward the staircase as if he had been tracking your approach long before your feet had touched the stone floor.

When your shadow fell across the archway, his entire posture shifted. The terrifying, flat stillness melted away into a expression of sheer, desperate relief.

"[Name]," he breathed, rising from his chair so quickly that the heavy oak legs scraped sharply against the stone.

He stopped barely an inch away, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and faint rain drifted off his coat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just shy of your sleeve, as if he were exercising every ounce of willpower not to pull you into his arms.

"You're four minutes late," Phainon said softly. His voice lacked any reprimand; instead, it was laced with a quiet, breathless panic. "I thought you had taken a different entrance. I thought... I thought you had decided not to come."

"The train was delayed, Phainon," you said, keeping your voice as flat and measured as possible. You forced yourself to step past him, setting your coat and bag on the desk. "It's fine. It's just four minutes."

"Four minutes is two hundred and forty seconds," Phainon replied, turning with you, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. "Do you know what happens in two hundred and forty seconds, [Name]? A person's heart beats over two hundred times. A thousand thoughts pass through a mind. And every single one of mine was wondering if you were abandoning me."

You felt a cold knot form in your throat. You looked up, searching his face. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyes—proof that he, too, had barely slept over the weekend. Yet his skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous under the warm desk lamps, and his eyes burned with an intense, unblinking focus.

"Phainon, you need to step back," you whispered, looking nervously toward the main reading room. "Mr. Anaxa will be here any minute. I only came because you said you needed me to be supportive."

"Let him come," Phainon said instantly, without a moment's hesitation. "Let the whole world come. They mean nothing to me. If Mr. Anaxa rids of me today, I will sit on the front steps of your apartment building until you come out. It makes no difference where I am, as long as I can see you."

"Stop it!" You hissed, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into the shadows of the alcove. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his suit jacket. "Do you hear yourself right now? You are a scholar, Phainon! You spent four years getting your degree, you have three published papers, you care about this project more than anyone I know! You can't just throw your life away!"

Phainon looked down at your hand on his arm. A small, chillingly beautiful smile touched his pale lips—a smile devoid of all his former pride and intellectual dignity.

"I didn't throw it away," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost rested against yours. "I traded it. I traded a meaningless life of paper and dust for the only thing that actually matters. You gave me a reason to exist, [Name]. Why would I care about ancient history and arts when my entire universe is standing right in front of me?"

Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.

Mr. Anaxa—a severe man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—stepped into the central hall, holding a thick Manila folder. Behind him came the head architect, who carried a stack of catalog cards. The moment they saw you standing so close together in the shadows of the alcove, his eyes widened in deep concern.

"Phainon," Mr. Anaxa's voice boomed softly in the quiet vault. "A word, please."

Phainon didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained locked on your face, completely ignoring the head of the department.

"Phainon!" Mr. Anaxa repeated, his tone sharpening. "The board reviewed your quarterly report this morning. Or rather, the complete absence of your quarterly report. It was due on Friday afternoon. This is entirely unlike you."

You gently nudged Phainon's chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Go," you whispered frantically. "Please, Phainon. Just go speak to him."

Only at your command did Phainon finally tear his gaze away from you. He turned slowly, his expression shifting in an instant from desperate adoration to an icy, deadened indifference that made Mr. Anaxa freeze mid-step.

"The report is unfinished," Phainon said, his tone entirely flat.

Mr. Anaxa blinked, taken aback by the complete lack of professional deference in his most senior assistant's voice. "Unfinished? Phainon, that report dictates our funding for the entire wing! You’ve had three months!"

"Then revoke the funding," Phainon replied smoothly, stepping out of the alcove with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I am no longer interested in managing the wing."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the archive. You gasped softly, your knuckles turning white against his hand gripping yours. Mr. Anaxa stared at Phainon as if the younger man had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.

"Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Anaxa managed to say, his face darkening with anger. "If you walk away from this project, Phainon, I will have no choice but to place you on administrative leave immediately!"

"Then place me on leave," Phainon said without a single second of hesitation. He didn't sound angry, or defensive, or sad. He sounded entirely unbothered, as if Mr. Anaxa were discussing the weather. "I'll pack my desk now."

"Phainon, no!" You cried out, stepping forward, unable to contain yourself. "Mr. Anaxa, please, he isn't feeling well today—he's been under a tremendous amount of stress—"

"Do not apologize for me, [Name]," Phainon interrupted gently, turning to look at you with that terrifying, radiant warmth returning to his eyes. "If I am on leave, I don't have to spend eight hours a day doing useless art. I can spend all eight hours taking care of you."

Mr. Anaxa looked between the two of you, his expression morphing from anger to deep, unsettled pity and confusion. "Phainon... step into my office. Now. [Name], stay here."

"No," Phainon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously firm. "She stays where I can see her. I am not entering any room without her."

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

By noon, the disaster was complete.

Phainon had been formally suspended pending a psychological evaluation—a directive he had accepted with complete, terrifying serenity. He had packed his few personal belongings into a single cardboard box within ten minutes, spent another five minutes waiting while you tried to compose yourself, and had ultimately been escorted out of the building by security when he refused to leave without you.

You spent the rest of your time in a state of quiet shock. You couldn't focus on anything; the letters blurred into dark, meaningless scribbles. Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was standing right outside on the rain-slick pavement, waiting for you to come out.

"He's still out there," Mydei said softly, walking up to you with two cups of tea.

He set one cup down in front of you and took the seat beside you. The usual sharp, sarcastic energy that he carried was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding concern.

"How long has he been standing there?" You asked, your voice raspy.

"Since twelve-thirty," Mydei replied grimly. "It's pouring rain, [Name]. He doesn't have an umbrella. He's just standing by the fountain, staring at the basement window. Anaxa threatened to call the police, but Phainon didn't even react. He just told Anaxa that the police couldn't legally keep him from standing on a public sidewalk."

You buried your face in your hands, a jagged sob catching in your chest. "What have I done... Oh God, De, what have I done?"

Mydei leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, [Name]? This isn't your fault. Phainon has completely lost his mind. He’s acting like a textbook stalker. I don't know what happened to him over the weekend, but he is dangerous right now. You need to go home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until he gets help."

"I can't," you whispered through your fingers. "You don't understand, Mydei. If I go to your place, he'll follow us. He won't leave your doorstep. He'll ruin your life, too."

"Then we call the police."

"The police can't fix this!" You pulled your hands away, your eyes wild with terror and guilt. "You don't understand what's wrong with him!"

Mydei stared at you for a long moment, sensing the deep, incomprehensible panic in his friend's eyes. "Then explain it to me, [Name]. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a man who snapped overnight."

You opened your mouth to tell him—to tell him about the antique shop, the lacquered box, the willow twig, and the terrible, irreversible wish you had made in the quiet of your room. But as you looked into Mydei's practical, sensible eyes, you realized how insane it would sound. To the rest of the world, Phainon was experiencing a sudden, tragic psychotic break. Only you knew the horrifying truth: Phainon wasn't sick. He was cursed. And the cursed entity controlling his mind was your own foolish desire.

"I have to leave," you say abruptly, pushing your chair back and grabbing your coat.

"Wait, [Name]! Don't go out there alone!" Mydei called, rising to follow you.

"Stay here, Mydei! Please!" You pleaded, your hand on the staircase railing. "I need to fix this. I'm the only one who can fix this."

You bolted up the stone stairs, pushing through the heavy oak doors into the cold, rain-drenched afternoon.

The moment you stepped outside, you saw him.

Phainon was standing in the center of the stone courtyard, entirely soaked through. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose and chin. His dark suit jacket was drenched, clinging to his broad shoulders. Yet he wasn't shivering. He stood as straight and still as a marble monument, his pale eyes locked onto the main entrance.

When he saw you, his face lit up with that dark, breathtaking radiance.

"[Name]," he called out, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the rain. He took long, sweeping strides across the courtyard toward you. "You came out early. I knew you would."

You didn't run. You stood on the top step, watching him approach like a ghost in the storm. "Phainon... look at you. You're freezing. You're soaked to the bone."

"It doesn't matter," Phainon said, reaching the steps and looking up at you with complete, terrifying devotion. "The rain doesn't matter. The cold doesn't matter. Nothing hurts when I'm looking at you."

He reached up, taking your trembling hands in his ice-cold fingers. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, his breath hot against your skin.

"Where are we going now?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a pleading, childlike absolute trust. "Your apartment? Or somewhere else? Wherever you go, I will follow."

You looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of your own guilt pulling you down into the abyss. "We're going to a shop," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We're going to find a way to fix you."

…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .

VII. The Echo of the Antiques

The rain turned into a blinding downpour as you dragged Phainon through the narrow alleys on the edge of the city.

Phainon walked beside you obediently, matching your pace perfectly. He held your left hand in a grip so tight it left red marks on your skin, but whenever you tried to pull away, his fingers would clamp down even harder—not out of cruelty, but out of a desperate, instinctual refusal to let you create a single inch of distance between you.

"Is this where you wanted to walk?" Phainon asked quietly as you turned down the narrow street lined with vintage storefronts. "It's dark here. We should go back to your apartment. I can lock the doors, and we can stay inside where it's safe."

"Just two more minutes, Phainon," you breathed, your chest aching from the cold air. "Just two more minutes."

You slammed your hand against the wet glass of the shop window—Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios.

The shop was dark. The stained-glass lanterns were off. hanging in the small glass pane was a wooden sign flip-turned to red: CLOSED.

"No... no, no, no," you gasped, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it frantically.

The heavy oak door was locked tight. You leaned your face against the wet glass, peering into the shadowy interior. The velvet displays, the antique clockwork, the dried herbs—everything was still inside, but there was no sign of the woman in the big hat.

"It's closed," Phainon noted calmly from behind you. He pulled you gently away from the glass, his large hands resting on your shoulders, drawing you back against his wet chest. "It doesn't matter, [Name]. Whatever you were looking for in there, you don't need it. You have me."

"I need the shopkeeper!" You screamed at the door, hammering you fists against the wood until your knuckles ached. "Open the door! Please! Open the door!"

"Hush," Phainon murmured softly into your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist, locking you in an embrace that felt less like protection and more like a gilded cage. "Don't yell, my love. It's just an old shop. Let me take you home. You're wet, you're crying... it hurts me to see you like this."

You sagged in his arms, your forehead pressing against the cold, wet wood of the shop door. The bitter truth washed over you like the freezing rain soaking through your coat.

Even if the shopkeeper were inside, what could she possibly do? The warning had been written on the typed card in plain, unyielding English:

Wishes granted without condition cannot be revoked.

There was no magical counter-curse. There was no secret ritual to un-break the willow branch resting at the bottom of your apartment trash bin. You had asked the universe to alter a man's soul, and the universe had obeyed with absolute, indiscriminate precision.

Phainon gently turned you around in his arms. His face was inches from hers, his pale gray eyes shimmering with an intense, unholy clarity in the dark alleyway.

"Look at me, [Name]," he commanded softly, though his tone was entirely tender.

You slowly lifted your eyes to meet his.

"Why are you so afraid?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears from your cheek. "I haven't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I exist entirely to protect you, to love you, to give you everything you could ever dream of. Isn't this what you wanted?"

The question struck you like a physical blow.

Isn't this what you wanted?

You had pined for him for nearly an year. You had laid awake at night wishing he would look at you with passion instead of polite professional courtesy. You had wanted to be the center of his world. And now you were. You were his god, his ruler, his sole anchor to reality—and in making yourself his entire world, you had destroyed the man he actually was.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice hollow and defeated. "This is what I wanted."

Phainon smiled—a radiant, beautiful, terrifying smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Then stop fighting it. Let me love you."

…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .

By midnight, the rain outside your apartment had settled into a steady, rhythmic tap against the glass.

The living room was dark. You sat on the center of the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. You stared at the small wooden coffee table in front of you. Resting on the polished surface were the two broken halves of the One Wish Willow, retrieved from the trash bin and placed side-by-side like a corpse waiting for a burial that would never come.

Beside the table, kneeling on the carpeted floor, was Phainon.

He had changed out of his wet suit into a soft gray sweater and dark trousers. He didn't look tired. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his head turned slightly toward you. His eyes remained fixed on your face, tracking every rise and fall of your chest, every flicker of your eyelashes.

"You should sleep, [Name]," he said softly, his voice a low, melodious hum in the dark room.

"I can't sleep," you murmured, your voice stripped of all emotion.

"I can sit right here all night," Phainon offered, reaching up to lay his hand gently over yours on the blanket. His skin was warm now, but his touch carried the immutable weight of an iron chain. "I won't close my eyes. I will keep watch until the sun comes up."

"And tomorrow?" You asked, looking down at his hand on yours. "What happens tomorrow, Phainon? You don't have a job anymore. You don't have your research. You're going to get evicted from your apartment if you don't pay your rent."

"I'll sell my books," Phainon replied smoothly, as if discussing buying groceries. "I'll sell my furniture. I don't need an apartment, [Name]. I can move into your living room. Or I can sit on your balcony. As long as I am near you, material things have no meaning."

"And your friends? Your family? What happens when they come looking for you?"

Phainon’s expression flickered with a brief, chilling detachment. "If they try to separate me from you, I will remove them from my life. It is very simple."

You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

You looked at the broken willow twig on the table. The dark, charcoal-like core of the fractured wood seemed to stare back at you—a silent, permanent reminder of your own hubris.

You reached out with your free hand, picking up the two broken pieces of wood, and pulled them into your lap beneath the blanket. You had wished for his unconditional love, and you had received it in its purest, most monstrous form: an affection stripped of reason, humanity, and choice.

"Phainon?" you whispered.

"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, leaning closer, his eyes shining in the dark.

"Did you... Did you kill Snowy?"

The apartment seemed to hold its breath. The steady, rhythmic tap of the rain against the window glass was the only sound left in the world, stretching out the silence between them like a tight wire.

Phainon didn't blink. His dark eyes remained locked onto yours, completely devoid of the hesitation or shame that usually accompanied a shameful secret. The terrifying purity of the wish held him in a state of absolute, unbending transparency before you.

"Yes," Phainon answered, his voice smooth, quiet, and disturbingly casual.

A cold shudder rolled down your spine, despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stared down at the two halves of the Wish Willow resting in your lap, their jagged edges pressing against your palms.

"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the dark living room. "Snowy was your dog. You loved him. How could you just... how could you do that?"

Phainon shifted slightly, moving closer until his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa. His touch was tender, yet it carried the chilling weight of absolute detachment from everything outside of his singular focus on you.

"It was the day after you came over," Phainon explained, his tone conversational, as if he were recounting a minor inconvenience on his way to class. "I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my design layouts, but my mind wouldn't quiet down. I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about how easily you slip away when the day ends—how you go back to your own house, how other people get to talk to you, how much of your life is spent entirely out of my reach."

He paused, his thumb softly stroking your knuckles.

"Snowy kept whining," Phainon continued, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen as though he could see right through the walls. "He wanted to go outside. He wanted attention. He was loud, and he was taking up the space in the room that should have belonged entirely to the thoughts of you. He was a distraction from my purpose."

You felt a sickening knot twist tightly in your stomach.

"That, and you liked him," Phainon scoffed gently, looking back up into your eyes with an unsettling, beatific smile. "Everything that demands my attention away from you, and yours away from me, is an obstacle. That afternoon, I had left those pest control pellets on the counter. It took only a moment to crush a few into his food bowl and mix it with some meat. He ate it without hesitation."

He spoke of poisoning his own pet with the same chilling indifference one might use to describe throwing away a piece of trash.

"And when he died?" you asked, your voice trembling as hot tears prickled behind your eyelids. "Did you feel anything at all?"

Phainon tilted his head, considering the question honestly. He reached up, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had slipped down your skin.

"I felt nothing," he murmured softly. "Except a sudden, wonderful quiet. The apartment was finally silent. And I could think only of you."

You pressed your eyes shut, the horror of the confession washing over you in heavy, suffocating waves. You looked down at the broken willow in your lap, realizing with terrifying finality that the monster sitting before you was entirely your own creation—and there was no waking up from it.

... .- ...- . / -- .

VIII: The Weight of the Room

Three months elapsed in a heavy, unnatural rhythm.

Autumn had settled over the city, striping the trees along the boulevard in shades of rust and decay, but inside your apartment, time had ceased to move. The days no longer possessed distinct boundaries. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator, the rain washing against the double-paned glass, and the perpetual, motionless presence of Phainon.

He had given up his lease entirely by the end of August. He had not gone back for his belongings; he had simply allowed the landlord to declare the unit abandoned, leaving behind his extensive personal library, his heirloom furniture, his winter coats, and the framed photographs of his family. None of it held any reality for him anymore. His entire physical universe had shrunk to the four walls of your apartment.

"You need to take a few steps, Phainon," you said quietly, your voice sounding raspy from disuse. You sat at the dining table, staring down at an untouched plate of toast. "You’ve been standing by the hallway arch for four hours."

Phainon turned his head toward you. His movement was fluid, yet eerily deliberate, like a clockwork mechanism that had been freshly oiled. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers—clothing you had ordered online for him because he refused to leave the flat even to buy garments.

"I am perfectly comfortable, [Name]," he replied smoothly. His voice was low, devoid of any harsh rasp despite his near-total silence throughout the day. "From the archway, I can monitor the front door, the fire escape window, and the table where you are sitting. If I move to the armchair, my line of sight to the hallway is obscured by three inches."

"No one is coming through the hallway, Phainon," you whispered.

"We cannot know that with absolute certainty," he said, taking two quiet steps toward you. He stopped precisely at the edge of the rug, his pale gray eyes searching your face with that wide, terrifying clarity that had never once dimmed since the day you snapped the twig. "And as long as there is a fraction of a percent of risk to your peace, my vigilance is required."

He knelt beside your chair, placing his long, cool hands over your knee. The gesture was outwardly affectionate—a posture of deep, reverent submission—but the pressure of his fingers was firm, an immovable anchor binding you to the spot.

"Eat your toast, my love," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against your fabric. "You’ve lost weight this month. I counted your calories yesterday. You are three hundred calories below your recommended intake."

You felt a cold prickle of sweat trace your spine. "You're counting my calories?"

"I keep a log in my notebook," Phainon said, gesturing vaguely toward the small leather pad resting on the sideboard. "Your sleep cycles, your water consumption, your temperature, the number of times you cry when you think I am in the bathroom. I record all of it. It allows me to anticipate your needs before you even experience them."

You stared at him, a sudden wave of suffocating vertigo making the room tilt. "Phainon... that isn't care. That's... that's a inventory."

"It's love," he corrected gently, leaning up to press a lingering, soft kiss against the side of your neck. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and iron. "A inventory implies I intend to trade you. You are my absolute. One does not trade an absolute."

... .- ...- . / -- .

The quiet was shattered at 2:00 PM by the sudden, abrasive buzzing of the apartment intercom.

The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. You flinched violently, knocking your knee against the table.

Phainon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his body shifting into a low, predatory posture between you and the hallway. His gray eyes narrowed, all warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by an icy, deadened hostility.

"Stay behind me," he said. The instruction was not loud, but it carried a terrifying, absolute authority.

"Phainon, it's probably just the building manager—"

"Stay behind me," he repeated, his hands coming up to guide you gently but forcefully into the corner behind the dining hutch.

He walked to the intercom wall unit, pressing the button with a single, clinical movement. He didn't speak. He simply held the line open, listening.

"[Name]?" Cyrene's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, tinny and distorted by static. "[Name], are you in there? Please pick up. It’s been three weeks since you called in sick. Boss officially filed the termination paperwork yesterday, but I don't care about the job—I'm worried about you. Your phone is disconnected. I brought the building super up with me. If you don't open the door, we're going to use the master key."

You gasped, taking a step toward the hall. "Rene—"

Before you could reach the speaker, Phainon’s hand locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—like a steel vise padded in soft leather. He pulled you back behind his shoulder effortlessly.

"Phainon, let me talk to her!" You pleaded in a desperate, panicked whisper. "She has the manager with her! They’re going to open the door!"

Phainon looked down at you, his expression entirely calm, almost beatific. "They won't open the door."

He released your wrist and stepped over to the entryway closet. He opened it quietly, reaching up to the top shelf where you kept a heavy brass tool set. He selected a heavy six-inch steel deadbolt bar he had purchased online two weeks prior, along with a cordless driver.

"Phainon, what are you doing?" You breathed, horror mounting in your throat.

Without a word, Phainon walked to the heavy oak front door. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he positioned the steel bar across the frame, alignment perfectly straight, and drove three heavy masonry screws through the steel bracket directly into the door jamb. The sharp whir-click-click of the power tool drowned out the sound of key turning in the lock outside.

From the hallway outside, the sound of a key sliding into the tumbler echoed sharply.

The lock turned. The door shifted inward a fraction of a millimeter—and then slammed brutally against the newly installed steel barricade.

"What the...?" the building manager’s voice muffled through the wood. "The safety bar is thrown from the inside! Hey! Is someone in trouble in there?"

"[Name]!" Cyrene screamed, pounding her fists against the heavy oak. "[Name]! Speak to me! Is Phainon in there with you? Did he do something to you?!"

You opened your mouth to scream, to cry for help, to tell them to break down the door—but Phainon turned to face you.

He didn't brandish a weapon. He didn't make a threat.

Instead, he slowly lowered himself back onto his knees right in front of the barricaded door. He took a small, silver folding knife from his pocket—the one he used to trim loose threads from your sweaters—unfolded the thin blade, and held it vertically against his own throat. The sharp point rested directly over his carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to draw a single, pinpoint bead of crimson blood.

"Phainon!" You shrieked, your hand flying to your mouth.

"If you call out to them," Phainon said, his voice entirely sweet, calm, and conversational, "if you tell them to break this door down, I will press this blade three inches into my neck before they can clear the frame."

"Phainon, please! Put that down! Put it down!" you sobbed, dropping to your knees a few feet away from him, your hands raised in absolute terror.

"I am not threatening you, my love," he explained gently, his eyes shining with an intense, crystal-clear devotion. "I am simply informing you of the physical realities of my existence. My mind, my heart, and my body only function to serve your sanctuary. If they breach this door, they will take you away from me, or take me away from you. In either scenario, my existence ends. The knife is merely a formality."

Outside, the manager was kicking the bottom panel of the door. "I'm calling the police! We're getting the fire department up here with an axe!"

"[Name]! Answer me!" Cyrene wept through the wood.

You looked at the single drop of blood trailing down Phainon’s throat. You looked into his pale, serene eyes—eyes that held no fear, no doubt, and no humanity, only the absolute, unyielding execution of your own wish.

You swallowed your own scream, strangling the voice in your throat until it died.

You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and stepped up to the door.

"Cyrene!" You called out, your voice unnaturally loud, tight, and rigid.

The pounding stopped instantly. "[Name]?! Are you okay?! Is he hurting you?!"

"I am fine, Rene," you said, staring directly at Phainon’s unblinking eyes as the knife remained pressed against his neck. "I... I am completely fine. I am not sick. I am not being held against my will."

"[Name], your voice sounds terrible! Let us in!"

"No!" You shouted, your voice trembling slightly before you caught yourself. "No... please. Go away. Phainon and I... we just want to be left alone. We don't want to work at the archive anymore. We don't want visitors. If you call the police, I will tell them you are harassing us. Please... just go away."

A long, agonizing silence descended on the hallway outside.

"[Name]..." Cyrene's voice was broken, small, and filled with a profound, terrifying grief. "...what did he do to you?"

"Nothing," you whispered against the painted wood of the door. "He didn't do anything. I asked for this."

Footsteps slowly receded down the carpeted hallway. The sound of the elevator doors opening and closing echoed faintly, followed by absolute, suffocating silence.

Phainon waited five full minutes after the hallway fell silent.

When he was certain they were truly gone, he folded the silver blade with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up with his index finger, dabbing the single droplet of blood from his throat, and looked at it with mild curiosity before wiping it onto his shirt.

He rose to his feet, stepping over to where you remained collapsed on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your body shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.

"You were wonderful," Phainon whispered, crouching down beside you. He gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and carrying you toward the sofa.

He sat down, placing you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin atop your head. He began to rock you gently, back and forth, back and forth, with the slow, rhythmic cadence of a pendulum.

"Now no one will disturb us," he murmured into your hair. "No friends. No jobs. No archives. No opinions. Just you and me. The world outside can burn away, [Name]. We don't need it."

You didn't pull away. You didn't have the strength left to fight. You lay limp against his chest, listening to the heavy, steady, unhurried thrum of his heart—a heart that beat not out of life or passion, but as a mechanical clock counting down the endless seconds of your self-inflicted sentence.

You looked across the dark room toward the small side table.

Sitting on the velvet cushion of the open lacquered box were the two broken pieces of the One Wish Willow. The charcoal-black center of the fractured wood seemed to glint faintly in the gray afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

You realized then that the horror was not that Phainon had become a monster. The horror was that he was still Phainon—his voice was still smooth, his touch was still gentle, his face was still exquisitely handsome—but the soul inside him had been replaced by a singular, unyielding directive.

He loved you. He would always love you.

He would love you when the food ran out. He would love you when the electricity was cut off. He would love you as you sit together in the pitch-black living room, surrounded by steel deadbolts and sealed windows, watching each other fade into nothingness.

Phainon leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath cold and sweet.

"I love you, [Name]," he whispered, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, bottomless light that would never go out. "Tell me you love me too."

You closed your eyes, letting your tears soak into the gray fabric of his sweater.

"I love you, Phainon," you whispered into the dark.

And as his arms tightened around you—locking you so closely against his chest that you could barely draw breath—you knew that you would be saying those words forever.

…. . . -.. .–. / — . …

Additional matters I'd like to address:

Yes the shopkeeper is Madam Herta. How she got her hands on the one wish willow is a story for another day </3

I was contemplating making Phainon kill either of Mydei or Cyrene (but we don't follow canon storyline of course (get it?)) and settled for Snowy in the end (not funny)

He off screens Cyrene for attempting to invade on y'all though (CANON)

It would make sense either way: Phainon using the wish on you or you on him because the former wouldn't be likely I feel like. Phainon's definitely not that type of guy in my opinion (I learnt nothing from watching the movie. In all seriousness, Nikki's behaviour is valid /j)

the floorboards creak in the otherwise quiet house, setting his nerves alight—praying that no one wakes up. the rickety lock remains broken. untouched. unchanged. lucky for him. it gives him the—easy—access he needs to see you, to smell you.

simply put, it's an addiction. you consume his thoughts like a thorn in his side.

to think all it took was seeing your smile sent in his direction would make him fall so quick, he's so pathetic that he just had to follow you—a desperate puppy craving your attention. an impulse decision to trail after you, hiding in the shadows to learn the street you live on, which house you reside in, and finally which room is yours.

mapping out your house was easy, a cake walk. he takes the familiar turns until he's outside your bedroom door, taking a deep breath before slowly, carefully twisting the knob. the door glides open, faint streams of moonlight peeking in through the curtains, highlighting your sleeping form beautifully. a true to life angel. he shuts the door, locking it behind him, ensuring that they'll be left alone. can't have anyone interrupting our bonding moment.

the bed dips as he settles in beside you, the way a lover would upon returning home; practiced and intimate, your cute nose scrunching up, twitching like a bunny as his scent wafts over you. a mix of a dark cologne, vetiver and oakmoss—the scent that clings to your sheets but could never find the source of—it wraps around you in the same way a snake would, tangling and twisting into a strangling grip.

for awhile he just watches you; the steady rise and fall of your chest, squirming in your sleep as you toss and turn. until his fingers start to twitch, a deep-seated need, burning hotly under his skin. he'll die if he doesn't feel the smoothness of your flesh under his fingertips.

"hi, doll." he murmurs softly, brushing his fingers along your jaw, watching in fascination as your lips part slightly.

his thumb toys with your bottom lip, dipping into your mouth and back out again. the digit glimmers in the dim light, he sucks your saliva clean off, suppressing a moan. whole body shuddering when he finally gets a taste—slightly minty from your toothpaste.

hesitantly, his hands ghost down hovering over your breasts, your nipples are pebbled, poking through the thin camisole like headlights. begging for his attention. his mouth waters, eyes scanning your face for any signs of stirring when he finds none his hands are on you; groping hungrily at your fleshy mounds, squeezing harshly until you squeak. a breathless little noise, almost a moan, your back arching off the bed.

his eye light up, glowing with tiny hearts, cock twitching in his pants. his touch gets rougher, greedier, palm sliding down your stomach, bunching your top up with an urgency. the most perfect sight greets him, your perky tits on full display and he has to bite his lip violently, almost breaking skin.

his dick is straining painfully in his shorts, freeing himself and hissing as the cool air hits his over-heated cock. lazily stroking up his length as he drinks in your figure, his free hand tugs at your shorts, pulling them down your thighs. fuck. you're not even wearing any panties, your folds shining in the moonlight, it's like you knew he was coming.

he lines himself up, rubbing the blunt head of his cock against your slit, collecting your slick as you squirm underneath him. he wonder what you must be dreaming of, it's too much to hope that your subconscious mind would choose him, but he wishes for it nonetheless. he'll make you remember him—one way or another.

your pussy flutters with every sloppy grind of his cock into your clit, gushing down your ass and staining the sheets. god, you feel even better than he imagined. so hot and wet. so perfect. he rocks against you with slow, desperate thrusts that has his cock leaking, pre-cum mixing in with your juices.

it sounds downright filthy, that squishy squelch of your bodies meeting in sinful tandem. his eyes watch the steady bounce of your tits, the way your face is screwed up tight, tiny gasps leaving those pretty lips of yours.

oh how he wishes he could see your eyes when you realize who's toying with your cunt.

his thrusts get quicker, digging his hips down to feel the throb of your clit, bucking like a wild animal to reach his release. he pictures it, your voice broken and needy as you cry out for him—the tight grip your sopping cunt would have on him as he splits open you wide. the way you'd claw at his back, arching into him like he's the only one who can make you cum. his sweet little doll, his to fuck and use as he pleases.

his eyes shoot open as he hits his peak, spurts his hot, sticky load land on your stomach and drip down onto your puffy folds. he adores the sight, awestruck like he created a masterpiece. you stir and he takes that as his cue to leave, hastily tugging your shorts back into place. he adjusts his pants, tucking his softening cock back into their confines, taking one last look at you before dipping out the window and into the night.

and in the morning you wake with dried patch of something clinging to your skin, confused as to how it got there...

⤷ touya todoroki, tomura shigaraki, hitoshi shinso, kazutora hanemiya, wakasa imaushi, rindou haitani, shinichiro sano, kenma kozume, suna rintaro, soshiro hoshina, narumi gen, bachira meguru, itoshi sae, solivan brugmansia (yes i had to add him) ++ your favsᝰ.ᐟ

God knew he couldn’t deny his sweetheart’s plea, not in a million years.

“Ichabod.” Okay, so there was some venom in his voice. Just a little. He had to hold back from not seething the name out like it was a slur.

You knew they didn’t exactly get along. Crowe was friendly towards everyone, but Sol seemed reluctant to be polite to him. Every time they were in the same space, you kinda wanted to die to avoid the awkwardness of the tension. 

“Crowe? What about him?”

“He obviously likes you.” And he knew you liked him back at one point, he’d been watching you for a long time. And though you've been a couple for three weeks now, the uncertainty of it all still hadn’t left.

He trusted you. Your best friend on the other hand…well, not so much. If only you knew how extreme his jealousy could be—you were lucky Crowe wasn’t six feet under already. It would only take one mistake for you to be attending a funeral. It’s fine, he’d be there to console you. Nonono, bad Sol, don’t even think about it. 

“What?! No he doesn’t!” Maybe you shouldn’t be raising your voice, he seemed upset enough as is. You sighed, muttering an apology before continuing. “We’ve been friends for years, I seriously don’t think he sees me like that. And even if he did…you’re my boyfriend. So he’d just have to deal with it, I guess.”

Oh. He liked that answer. Ichabod suffering emotionally because his dream lover was out of reach? It was a wet dream come true.

Taking a peek at him, you noticed the upturn of his lips. “That certainly made you cheer up.”

“You always make me happy, pumpkin. I just don’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t.”

“That’s not a good reason. He’s my friend and he’s important to me, so can you at least try to act civil around him? He always tries to talk to you and you just…glare at him.”

Now he was a little scared. Biting down on his lip, he mulled over your request. The last thing he wanted was for you to break up with him after he had finally won you over against all odds. “Fine, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” you held onto his hand and gave it a squeeze, one that he returned as you both started walking again.

Three blocks and a flight of stairs later, the comfort of your apartment lured you both to the couch, backpacks discarded onto the floor without care. He sat right next to you, and you curled up against him, pulling your phone out your pocket.

“We always come to my house, I wanna see what yours looks like too.” 

“I like your house more but…sure, just let me know what day.” Yeah, so he had time to hide everything he’d stolen from you. 

Ding. 

His eyes flicked to the notification with a certain someone’s profile picture. His expression soured, and he looked away with a petulant huff. Clearly, he wasn’t over it. Not that he’d ever be, but you thought it was just a phase that would go away with some reassurance. How naive of you.

“Sol…”

He wasn’t budging, nose in the air as he waited for you to read the message. Or well, that’s what he was expecting anyway. 

“You’re so stubborn.” With a sigh, you toss your phone aside and instead move to straddle his lap to get his attention. 

His shoulders stiffened immediately, and a certain area under his pants sprung to life like clockwork. He gulped, the tips of his ears turning red. He loved being under you, but that usually only happened in his fantasies late at night when he stroked himself with your undergarments.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Cupping his face with one hand, you let your thumb glide over his bottom lip. “I can’t have you getting jealous every other minute.”

“I can’t help it.” He murmured, arms finally relaxing and wrapping around your waist to tug you closer. Having you close wasn’t anything new, he was clingy to the core. It always felt different when you initiated it, though. 

“I know…I just don’t want you feeling bad or insecure. I like you, I want to be with you.”

He grinned. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

Godyou’resosweetandbeautifulandfuckIwantyoutofuckme. From 0 to 100. His mind was already running rampant. You were sitting on him so prettily, how did he get this lucky? His eyes were drawn to your lips, his stomach felt warm now. 

“Tell me I’m yours and that you’re mine.”

You really shouldn’t encourage his possessive behavior, but it was kinda…hot? You’d play along.

You leaned down, lips nearly brushing against his. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

His dick twitched. Before he had the chance to sigh dreamily, you kissed him. He whimpered pitifully and kissed back, already attempting to deepen it. 

He had thought about getting a tongue piercing, but he wouldn’t be able to go weeks without kissing you now that he’d gotten a taste of what it was like. Though, maybe that torture would be worth it if it meant being able to make you feel good in the future.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Then, a bombardment of kisses a day must keep the psychologist away, it felt like all your problems had been washed away the minute your tongue met his. 

His hands roamed your sides, squeezing whenever you tugged on his hair or bit down on his lip. In only five minutes, it went from slow and sensual to fast and needy. 

Your living room was only ever filled with TV noises and conversations. Now, it was nothing but heavy breathing, shaky whines, and the sound of clothes rubbing against each other.

And shit—no, no, no—he was close to making a mess in his pants. “Waitwaitwait, slow down,” he pleaded, voice a pitch higher as he held onto your hips. How embarrassing would it be if he came so quickly from simply kissing? Maybe you’d think he’d only last two fucking seconds in bed (he probably would the first time, and he knew that). 

“What’s wrong?” You ask breathlessly, eyes fluttering open to look at your boyfriend. 

“Nothing, just…” He sat up straighter so he could dip his head down and press his lips against your neck. It felt infinitely better than doing so when you were limp like a ragdoll. 

“Oh,” your eyes rolled back, your hand instinctively went to the back of his head to keep him in place. His cool piercings sent a shiver down your hot skin. Maybe if your mind wasn’t so busy spinning and seeing stars, you’d notice the ever so prominent bulge begging for attention against the side of your inner thigh. 

“Does this feel good?” He asked before starting to gently suck on you. If he was lucky, he’d mark you up. For once, he was eager to see Crowe tomorrow. He’d be sure to wrap his arm around your shoulder and then lean down to press a kiss against the hickey you’d have after all this just to spite him.

“Uh huh…” Your sweet moans fanned against his ear.

He thought this would save him from cumming, but your reactions were just making it worse. There was no way out of it. His stomach was tensing, and his eyes were getting teary—this always happened. “Haa….haaa…”

For someone who usually had little to say, he was so loud. But you didn’t know what was happening in his body, not until it was too late.

“Oh fuck…” His forehead rested against your shoulder as his body shook, black nails digging into you like he needed you close to handle the waves of pleasure. Luckily for him, his words were unintelligible because of how fast he gritted it out. “Iloveyouiloveyoufuckiloveyou.”

You snapped out of your pleasure-induced dazed, hearing him pant heavily and slump against you. You stayed frozen, and moments later, he tipped his head back instead to get air.

“Did you just…” 

Pressing your hands against his chest, you leaned back to get a better look. He did. Fuck he was pretty. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Drool trickling down his chin. Brows furrowed. Eyelashes wet from tears.

You’d never been more turned on in your life. You hadn’t even touched him down there!

He opened his eyes, hiding his face with his shaky hand the second he saw you. “Fuck…I didn’t mean to. I was trying not to.”

You took his hand to pull it away, smiling at him. Geez, it was like you were proud of yourself, and he found it endearing rather than annoying.

“Um…I don’t think I have any spare pants for you. Or uh, you know.”

“…”

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“No, don’t leave yet.”

“I’m not leaving! The kitchen is literally right there.”

“Stay here.” He held you close, burying his head against your shoulder again and letting his temperature return to normal.

and maybe things would also be a little less distressing if his family would just accept him for who he is instead of expecting too much (or, actually, anything) from him, but the vice president is the only son of the family that owns the largest telecom company in the country, so his parents have a ton of huge expectations for him. his father, in particular, is clearly trying to prepare him to take over the entire business, something that the vice president clearly isn’t keen on doing, based on the many arguments you’ve had to sit through alongside the head secretary. the result is a lot of tension that’s only exacerbated by the vice president’s desire to avoid more conflict, which he does by suddenly disappearing from the office for hours — sometimes days — at a time.

so for as much medical, dental, and reasonably priced caesar salad as you’re getting from this job, you’re not entirely sure how worth it those things all are if they come with the task of you having to sit through twenty minutes of lecturing in place of vice president ajax himself.

“this is the last time,” the president roars — not necessarily at you, but at you, in your general direction, while you stand helplessly in front of his desk, your hands folded across your lap and your head hung low. you don’t really feel terrified or hurt — more than knowing that the president isn’t shouting at you for your incompetence, you’ve also gotten used to being on the receiving end of these weird, indirect lectures and have thus come to know the exact standard of ‘sorry’ that you have to look for it to be over as quickly as possible. still, you’re kind of annoyed that this particular spiel is taking up precious minutes from your afternoon break. then again, you don’t know what you’d expected to begin with when you’d come back from the cafeteria after lunch and found the vice president’s chair abandoned, leather cold, indicating that he’d been gone for quite a while. it’s about four o’clock now, and he still hasn’t come back, and all your messages to him have gone unread, as you’ve also grown used to. “you tell my no-good son if he isn’t back within the hour, he can live the rest of his life without my last name.”

you’re not sure if the implications of that will really sink into the vice president’s heart enough to trigger the guilt it’s clearly trying to elicit, but you know better than to voice your opinion. you nod once, then bow at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “yes, sir. i’m sorry, sir.”

“four years of this, and he hasn’t learned a single thing,” the president continues, completely ignoring your useless and vaguely insincere apology. “where’d he run off to this time?”

you don’t know. you never really know. since he actively tries to avoid all work-related things, he also actively tries to avoid you, something he does by never picking up the phone or telling you the details of his daily schedule anyway. you can only share what you do know, which is very little and, therefore, extremely useless, but you try to say it in a way that appears relatively helpful. “his schedule says he was supposed to have lunch with the foreign investors that are trying to connect prime video to the snezhnayan market, but it seems he didn’t show up for that.”

which essentially translates to: you have no clue. again, all parties in the room — inclusive of head secretary sandrone, who constantly has to bear witness to the many threats vice president ajax receives via you — know this isn’t your fault, but it doesn’t make the vein that’s about to pop out of the president’s temple any less pronounced, nor does it stop you from bowing and apologizing again when he says “get him back in here before five o’clock or tell him he’ll never be able to step foot in this building again!” even though you know that the threat would probably sound more like a gift than anything else to vice president ajax.

“and you,” the president points a vaguely accusatory finger at you. your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “if he isn’t back here at that time, you can kiss your job goodbye too. you go ahead and tell him that. let’s see if ajax will finally get off his ass if he knows someone else is going to have to suffer for his behavior.”

the only person who sees your jaw fall open is head secretary sandrone, who’s now leading you away from the president’s desk and towards the door; the president has taken to staring at this huge family picture of himself, his wife, and the vice president that’s hanging just behind his executive’s chair, all looking considerably happier than anyone in this situation feels. you hear him mutter something that sounds like “where did i go wrong with you, you punk?” before the door shuts close behind you.

“i’d say he doesn’t mean that, but we don’t actually know to what lengths he’ll go to get the vice president on board.” head secretary sandrone says flatly, lifting two fingers to gently shut your mouth, still agape. “if i were you, i’d figure out how to keep him on a leash. the fact that he’s never around is probably ninety-percent of our current problems.”

“i can barely get him to respond to schedule reminders,” you groan; your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose like this will somehow stop the oncoming migraine. “let alone get him to stay still. i was just about to put in a down payment for a car of my own, too.”

you’ve never really been considerably attached to this job, mostly because there isn’t much to actually attach yourself to, but if you think about it now, it really is better than most, and this economy isn’t really kind to people who get fired from their jobs. you feel like puking at the thought of losing the free unlimited coffee in the pantry and trading it in for a life behind a convenience store counter, which is probably where you’ll end up, pessimistically speaking.

you excuse yourself from head secretary sandrone, who has the heart to look a little pitying (the operative word being a little) as you trudge towards the elevator. you don’t even know where you’d start looking for the vice president, especially since he spends quite a lot of his efforts trying to avoid having to communicate with you. you don’t even know what his habits are, which means you can’t make educated guesses on where he might have run off to, so the only route to go is to look in the immediately surrounding area and widening your search diameter as time passes.

until five o’clock, of course — a deadline that, if unmet, will likely mean you also won’t be returning to the office either.

you start off at the nearby bookstore, extremely skeptical that the vice president would ever willingly go to a place that requires more effort even after you make a purchase. as expected, he isn’t there, but he isn’t in the nextdoor candle shop (also unlikely) either, nor do you find him in the authentic nod-krai restaurant next to that as well (you consider just getting a lakkaberry madame to go, just so that you don’t look stupid standing in the middle all those tables, scanning uncomfortable faces). you walk down the entire street for a good twenty minutes, pressing your face against the windows of stores shamelessly, to the ire of many startled and disgruntled staff and customers, trying to look for a familiar head in the small crowds in them, but to no avail. then, you think about calling him again, but when you pat the pockets of your jacket, you realize your phone is still on your desk, where you’d left it when you’d been summoned to see the president. with a loud groan and an annoyed clip clop of your heels as you stamp your feet on the pavement, you walk back to the office.

in your frenzy to find the vice president, you’d gone quite a distance, and your shoes simply aren’t made for long, aggravated walks; they start hurting your feet halfway back, and you’re pretty sure you have a blister behind the strap of the left one. pride would tell you to tough it out, but you’d thrown that out at the thought of losing your job at the expense of a single man, so you don’t even hesitate to take them off and run back to the building. the big digital clock above the elevators says you have ten minutes left to find your boss, and you start thinking about using that time for better things — like packing your stuff up neatly in a box for when you get sacked.

with the situation seemingly hopeless, you trudge to the first floor cafe, where the return counter has a pitcher of water and a stack of tiny paper cups. they’re tiny tiny, like the size of your thumb, so you have to keep refilling it just to start feeling a little more human despite the fact that having to sip water twenty times over feels a little humiliating.

you’re on your fourth refill when you hear a giggle come from across the space. the barista’s just finished laughing at what must have been an extremely hilarious joke, or she might be flirting with whoever’s leaning over the counter to talk to her — a whoever that seems to be the exact same height and build as the elusive vice president of this company.

you accidentally toss the paper cup in the plastics bin in your desperation to get moving, worried that if you’re not fast enough, he’ll disappear into thin air again. luckily, his attention’s completely focused on the barista, so he can’t go anywhere when you finally reach his side and huff, loud enough to interrupt what seems like an intimate-ish conversation between them.

“sorry, i was just — oh, it’s you.” the vice president’s smile fades when he sees it’s you, someone he can’t charm out of what they’re supposed to be doing. you don’t think you’ve ever seen the vice president smile at you in any capacity, anyway, except for maybe one or two slightly sarcastic smiles that are probably more fit to be classified as grimaces. “what do you want?”

“i’ve been looking all over for you, sir,” you say, stiffly and a little quietly because you still don’t want to embarrass him in front of the slightly confused barista. “you haven’t answered my texts.”

you don’t have any way to check, but you’re pretty sure this is a safe enough assumption, which is corroborated by the vice president bringing his phone out and checking the screen lazily before turning it back off.

“sorry. i don’t answer unknown numbers.”

you guess it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to save your number when he hates hearing about work, which is all you really try to communicate with him about, but it still stings considering it’s been two years and you’ve been using the same number since high school. it’s fine, you think, but not after counting to ten for the sake of your blood pressure. you really can’t expect much from him.

“well, your father’s been looking for you, too. he wants to meet you.”

“i’ll take a rain check, but thank you.”

“sir,” your voice quivers with poorly quelled exasperation. “this isn’t an optional thing. this is very serious.”

“i can see that, briar rose,” his eyes are trained towards your shoes, still dangling from your grasp, with a level of unabashed amusement. “did he summon me from deep within the woods, or is this a new casual friday look i should get in on?”

when his words are met with a stony silence, he sighs, pushing himself off the counter. his half-finished americano is collecting a small pool of condensation under it, and you offer him the little handful of tissues you had gotten from the return counter and had originally been planning to use to wipe your tears in case you cried after getting fired so that he doesn’t waste time looking for something to hold his cup. he takes them without even a word of thanks, opting to instead say ‘lead the way, miss.’ you don’t miss the fact that he meets the barista’s eye with a considerably more genuine grin, raising a hand in goodbye to her before he strides ahead — before you even get a chance to lead the way at all — towards the elevators with you, hobbling on one foot to slip your shoe back on, not far behind.

the president’s office must be sort of soundproof for instances like this. for the first time, you’ve been asked to wait outside with head secretary sandrone as the vice president gets chewed. it doesn’t matter; you don’t really want to be in the middle of yet another round of shouting that has nothing to do with you in the same afternoon, plus you also know how the conversation usually goes: the president making very agitated threats and talking about his heart condition (even though the medical reports from their private doctor say he’s in perfect health) that the vice president, who just spends the time looking boredly at his nails, will inevitably trigger. when you press your ear to the door for a minute, you actually hear something like ‘… strike you out of the will so that when you kill me, you won’t get a single mora!’, and you can imagine vice president ajax’s exasperated sigh punctuating the statement.

ten minutes later, the room has gone quiet, and you step aside just in time for the vice president to open the door and step out. you don’t even understand how he can look so unaffected after being ripped apart, but you suppose he’s also heard the lecture as many times as you have and is pretty much immune to all the insults. he doesn’t really have to make a show out of not caring, though, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed to allow him to whistle idly as he strolls down the hall to his barely used office. he’s been in it so few times that after long, inexplicable vacations, he sometimes forgets how to get there. you’ve always had to walk behind him just in case he gets lost or, worse, tries to make a run for it. you’ve never had to tackle him to the ground reciting the miranda rights, or anything, but he has faked left a few times just to give you a mild heart attack for the fun of it all.

this time, he just walks, not bothering to joke you into trying to create a human wall he could just as easily push away. when he gets to his office, he lazily plops down onto his couch, extracting the rubik’s cube he’d been working on for a few weeks now from underneath himself and spinning the top layer idly. he’s only ever finished the blue side.

you just stand there, kind of perplexed and unsure of how to start the conversation. he’s still whistling, and you’re not sure if talking over him will count as interrupting him, which isn’t something you’re supposed to do. thankfully, he stops after about two minutes of fiddling with the yellow side of the cube, looking up at you with a slightly surprised expression that somehow makes you want to cry.

“can i help you with something, miss secretary?”

“well, i…” you stutter for a bit, unsure of how to politely point out that he should be asking you for help with his job instead of the whole other way around. “because… i just thought…”

“you can always leave a message with my people if you need time to figure it out.” he grins. “oh, wait a minute.”

“sir, don’t you think you should… i don’t know. figure out your schedule, or something? prepare for… anything?”

“what’s that smell?” he lifts his nose to the air, suddenly curious, and because he looks so serious, you also start sniffing, but you can’t really smell anything out of the ordinary. “smells… fresh. very clean. a little like green tea.”

“oh.” you awkwardly shift your weight from leg to leg. “i think that’s my perfume, but i don’t see w—”

“you smell very expensive.” he sounds genuinely surprised that you do, like he’s somehow saying he hadn’t expected you to have good taste. you have no idea where this conversation is coming from, so you chalk it up to him wanting to derail you from talking about work. “i like it — very classy, not too strong.”

“sir, i don’t think now’s the time to be talking about perfume scents.”

“you’re actually quite pretty now that i’m looking at you from this angle.” he sounds genuinely surprised again, but this time, it stings a little more. “i’d never noticed that before. how come?”

you want to say that it’s because he spends most of his time and energy playing long-term hide-and-seek with you, but there’s also no polite way of putting that into words; even if there were, with the way you’re now bristling under his gaze, you’re not really sure you’d go the courteous route, anyway. you just decide to ignore the comment and question entirely, which you almost get to do.

“wouldn’t you like to take a look at some of our upcoming projects? for instance, we’re just about to start negotiating the terms of this new partnership with northland bank—”

“you’re pretty, but you’re also pretty tense.” he cuts you off again, now looking a little dejected at this newfound information. you can’t understand why this disappointment in you actually hurts your feelings a little. “i think the cafe downstairs serves some tea, if that kind of stuff helps you.”

“sir,” the one syllable is laced with weariness, and you knot your fingers together in front of your lap. it probably looks polite, but it’s mostly so that you can feel like you have some semblance of control over anything, even if it’s just your own body fighting off the urge to grab him by the collar. “please. if you could just take a look at your schedule — even just for tomorrow —”

“what’s the point?” his shrug is nonchalant, and he’s turning the cube over in his palm now, more interested in looking at it than witnessing your tired expression. “it’s almost six o’clock. i’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow, you know what i mean? if my dad finally loses his marbles, i’ll deal with it all then. in fact, i might actually be okay with losing this department if it finally actually gets him off my back. i’ll also deal with that when it happens, probably.”

another long, uncomfortable silence blooms as his words sink in; not for the first time today, the president has threatened the existence of your job, now alongside a good twenty other people’s, all for the sake of snapping some sense into the vice president. however, like everything else, it seems to just be backfiring; the vice president doesn’t seem to care about anyone else in this department, most likely because he’s barely interacted with anyone else. you’re surprised he even remembers who you are, considering he once called the department accountant ‘leslie’ even though her nametag clearly said ‘ekaterina.’

it makes sense that the threat of abolishment means absolutely nothing to him, but it doesn’t make the knowledge of that any less distressing. he watches you curiously as you tug back at your ponytail, like it’ll once again stop the crawling migraine.

“sure a cup of chamomile tea isn’t in the cards today? i think i have the company card in here somewhere, although i can’t be sure that it hasn’t been cut off, based on my dad’s last threat—”

“i’m fine; thank you.” you mumble, checking the clock. he’s wasted what’s left of the hour anyway, and the lack of change in his position just means he’s not going to change his mind for the rest of the time. “at least let me give you tomorrow’s agenda.”

“boring, but okay. give it to me, then.” he yawns to make a point, and you offer him the tablet you tote around with you everywhere you go, just in case vice president ajax finally decides he wants to do his job. to clarify: that’s veritable years of you carrying that heavy thing around, with the vice president only having touched it a handful of times. you’re mildly shocked that he actually opens it to check, because he barely does even that, but that all goes away when he yawns again, his expression glassy as he scrolls down aimlessly. “this is a lot. can’t you just clear my schedules tomorrow? actually, if i can make demands for real, i’d like to clear out my schedule for the rest of the year.”

he stretches when he stands, ignoring your slightly agog expression as he pats you on the back, smacking his lips sleepily. “good day’s work, miss secretary. want to grab a beer? have ourselves a little intra-department party? i’m pretty sure ‘intra’ stands for ‘us two,’ or am i wrong?”

you sincerely hope he doesn’t mean a goodbye party, but with his attitude right now, that might very well be. you shake your head, and he shrugs, like he wasn’t really expecting you to agree in the first place. “no thank you, sir. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

he’s already halfway out the door, waving dismissively with his back turned to you. when you peek out of the space he leaves by opening the door, you can see about half the entire department’s watching, not even bothering to pretend to scurry back to their seats as he saunters out of the office. he calls out to you, his voice ringing clear even though he’s already out of sight.

“we’ll see about that.”

you come up with a master plan, but not before you scope potential jobs.

you actually stayed an hour overtime at your desk looking for positions, but all of them pay lower than average or are about an hour’s commute away from where you live, so none of them seem worth it. the search ends when some people from the department come over to say goodbye and see your computer open to the local job search, at which point they connect the dots and start to panic about their insurance. you shut your monitor off and spend another useless twenty minutes calming ekaterina, who’d started having a mild panic attack.

in that time, your resentment builds. why can’t vice president ajax simply get his act together? you suppose that there’s some indescribable burden to being in his position, but between him, a rich heir who owns two sports cars and lives in a paid-for house, and you, a public-transport-using, pays-by-the-month nine-to-five worker, you can’t really understand why he would be having it worse than everyone else who works under him. if he worked even just half as hard as everyone else did here, he might scrape by.

you can’t know if the president’s anger was only short-lived or if he actually meant to downsize the company by getting rid of your department entirely, but you also know that if he’s serious, then there’s nothing much you can do about it, short of terrorizing the vice president into stepping into bigger shoes.

so, that becomes your master plan.

it isn’t very refined, mostly because you think about it on the bus home, but the heart and spirit are there, and those are probably the most important things anyway. it’s that heart and spirit that motivate you to get up an hour earlier than you usually do, dressing quickly for the day before taking the company car from your place to downtown. you usually don’t take it on days that vice president ajax doesn’t come into work, which is practically every other day, but this time, you’re determined to see him into the office. the ride with pavel, his official company driver, is quiet, save for the question he asks when you roll up to the vice president’s driveway.

“are you sure about this?”

“no,” you admit. he’d probably seen you chewing down on your thumb, some of your confidence taking a hit when you belatedly realize you could be shot with a huge trespassing lawsuit if this doesn’t go the way you plan. but you do know a lot of secretaries that do the morning calls for their superiors, so this should be fine. not that you’ve ever heard from those secretaries ever again.

vice president ajax’s laziness seems to extend to all aspects of his life, including the fact that he doesn’t ever change his door’s passcode; it’s still the same numbers as it had been when he first bought the house a year ago and had you install his lock while he was missing in action from work, yakking it up with some farmers up in mondstadt. he likes to do that — ‘see the world,’ or whatever, even though his wanderlust makes everyone else’s lives very difficult. at least it makes your life easy now, and you step through the door and walk quietly across his unnecessarily large living room.

you’ve never been in here exactly, and you only realize very belatedly that this house’s design would be very frustrating for a break-and-enter criminal because nothing seems to be where it’s supposed to be. you learn the owner’s suite is actually on the basement floor, so all the climbing of those slippery stairs with your stocking-clad feet was all for nothing.

vice president ajax’s bedroom is bigger than your whole apartment, which also means he has a sizable bed and, thus, is completely out of sight under his gigantic covers. the only indication that he’s even still in there is that they’re rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. you stand by the edge of the bed, on the side he’s closest to falling off of, clearing your throat at the tuft of bright hair peeking out from under the comforter.

“sir? it’s time to go to work.”

your voice has been tempered down by years of this professional work, and this is easily the loudest and most demanding you’ve ever heard it. you’re not even sure you can do it again, but the muffled groan from under the covers is all the motivation you need to try.

“sir, you have a ten o’clock meeting with our inazuman team. the president also asked that we contact northland bank right away to reschedule the deal.”

“how,” his voice comes out first before he does, squinting up at you, completely disoriented. “the hell did you get in here?”

“sir, i’m your secretary.” you sigh, skimming over the fact that you’d walked into his big kitchen twice through two different entryways before coming into his bedroom. “i’m supposed to be able to get in here.”

“except this is a first.” you think he’s about to get up, but he just shifts his weight, rolling over so he can cocoon himself tighter into his blankets. “goodnight. there are eggs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“i’ve already eaten, like a normal, functioning human being with a very important job that starts precisely at nine o’clock would.”

“this seems like a very targeted comment, miss secretary. i’m not sure i appreciate it.”

“since we’re already having this conversation, i’m guessing you’re conscious enough to get dressed.”

to your relief, he actually does throw the covers off of him, leaning up on his elbows. you try not to balk at the fact that he’s shirtless, although you’re also not sure why this should surprise or bother you to begin with. he doesn’t even seem to mind; he just yawns, wide and unashamed, as he looks over at the clock.

“it’s seven-thirty. this is insanity.”

“no, this is a wake-up call.” you offer him a neatly folded towel that he eyes suspiciously. “we need to get you in the office on time.”

“there’s really no point,” he sighs, scratching his head idly. “it’ll just be another boring day of talking to people i don’t care about. someone who cares about it should talk to them. you care about it, don’t you?”

“i won’t talk to them for you, sir.”

“why not?”

“because, frankly, i don’t get paid enough to be doing that.”

he once again stares at the towel like he’s trying to will it to evaporate, but in the end, he only sighs louder and takes it from you, kicking his blankets off completely. you look up at the ceiling, not in prayer but to avoid the more embarrassing fact that he’s only in his boxers after all. well — it’s embarrassing for you. he doesn’t even seem to care.

“something’s different.”

“usually i don’t wake you up,” you offer the painfully obvious. “or come here. or talk to you.”

“yeah, all that stuff,” he says dismissively, halfway through a yawn. “did you have a life-changing experience recently?”

“something like that.”

“couldn’t it have been one where you decided to leave me alone for good instead?” he grumbles, more to himself instead of to you. it doesn’t matter, anyway; you already see he’s up and fishing socks out of his drawer, so you’re marching out of his room to avoid having to hear more of his complaints (and, quite frankly, to avoid looking at his broad and weirdly toned back).

however, the day thereafter doesn’t go as planned. you thought that waking vice president ajax up for an early day of work might shock him into doing something with the knowledge that it was urgent, but you’re not sure why you didn’t anticipate a scenario in which he’d fall asleep in the car on the way to work and you’d have to shake him into waking in the stuffy parking lot. he spends the rest of the morning out of sorts, ignoring you point blank when you try to brief him on the meeting. the meeting in and of itself doesn’t go any better, with him excusing himself fifteen minutes in by saying the pitch doesn’t seem all too exciting and innovative. you didn’t even know he knew the word ‘innovative’ and, by the shocked faces of the inazuman team, they were of the same mind.

by lunch time, you’re more exhausted than you’ve ever been, and a part of you is wondering why you wanted vice president ajax in the office in the first place when you’re already used to the much simpler routine of getting up, working, eating lunch, geting yelled at, and working again. sometimes, on slow days when the vice president is completely out of town for the week and the president is out of things to yell at you about, you even get to just sit back at your desk and play the snezhnayan times crossword puzzles from their weekend archives.

now, you’re basically handholding him, but the weight that keeps him down is so heavy that you’re being dragged down, too.

“you mean people do this every single day?” he shuts the folder with a contract that requires his signature that you’d given him just now, not even bothering to peruse the first page, much to your rapidly increasing ire. “this is ridiculous. working at a desk makes no sense.”

“all employees come to work to do that, sir. it’s literally what makes up half their lives.”

“except it shouldn’t,” he sighs, like this is a true global issue and not a problem of his own making. “everyone needs to be able to do what they want and live life to the fullest.”

“not everyone can,” you point out flatly. “some people don’t have the luxury of time even for that.”

“then, they should. the more i’m in this situation, the more it feels like it might be better for everyone to have a little work break for — i don’t know. the next year or so.”

vice president ajax has his arm outstretched, handing the folder back to you. you don’t know if it’s what he says that causes your blood pressure to rise, or if its the completely unconcerned look on his face, or if it’s the fact that he’s holding the folder so lazily that the papers are starting to slip out on your end, requiring you to use two hands to keep them all from falling apart and creating a mess you’ll end up having to clean up anyway. whatever it is, you snatch the folder from him with a little more aggression than necessary (or that you’d even care to admit). even though it’s out of place, you can’t help but feel a small sense of triumph at the slight surprise in his eyes.

“did i say something wrong?”

“no, sir.” you pause, mostly because you can tell he doesn’t believe you — vice president ajax is nonchalant, not stupid — and you want to give yourself a little bit of time to grapple with your pride before you admit the truth. “yes, sir. it isn’t fair to your entire department for you to talk that way.”

“i’m saying the entire department doesn’t have to work this hard. it’s senseless. how are you supposed to live a good life if all you’re doing is sitting behind a desk?”

“like i said, not everyone has the luxury of living your life. if they want even a little bit of that comfort you enjoy, they have to work very hard for it first.”

“then they should at least do something they enjoy. if this department goes down the drain —”

“if this department is abolished,” this is your first time interrupting a superior, and it already makes you want to throw up. “then people will have a very difficult time finding a job in this market. more than that, a lot of people enjoy working for this company — quite genuinely, in fact. i don’t think it’s right to think that they’ll be happy while they’re jobless and floundering in this economy.”

“so you’re happy like this? you really want this job — this whole working under me situation?”

“well…” you trail off, your voice taking on a slightly thoughtful tone. it’s been a relatively long time since you’d entered this job, but you do faintly remember the feeling of excitement at getting this position — the desire to want to learn from the best in this industry, the anticipation of being able to meet and network with interesting and important people. your first few weeks of work had involved wanting to spend as much time in vice president ajax’s shadow, in case you could pick up some important business tidbits from an entrepreneurial master… until, of course, you realized there wasn’t much you could stand in the shadow of to begin with. “these days, it isn’t ideal. but this job is a really good thing for most of the people who work here.”

“then it sounds like you have more to gain from me working hard than i do.”

you can’t contain your disapproving frown, and your voice comes out a little sharper than you intend. “doesn’t it bother you at all, sir? knowing almost twenty people could lose their jobs in the blink of an eye? think about all the people who look up to you and rely on you — they’ll have to suffer because of this. they might never find a job that matches their needs, and a lot of them have families to take care of, too. if you can do something to make sure they have these good lives you keep talking about, why not do it? i know you’re capable of that. you’re capable of doing much more than what you’ve been doing thus far.”

the vice president is quiet for a moment before leans over on his desk, lacing his fingers into a loose combined fist and putting his weight on his forearms. one of his forefingers detangles itself from the pile of digits and curls inwards, beckoning you closer. your grimace is probably obvious, and you lean in a little warily. he lifts himself off his chair slightly so he can whisper in a low voice, as if you two aren’t the only people in this wide office.

“if you care about it so much, then ask a little more nicely.”

your light breakfast almost makes a reappearance, and you draw back in mild shock. he also leans back, significantly more relaxed than you, looking unperturbed as he settles back against his chair. you two engage in a very uneven staring match, until he gestures for you to proceed, looking expectant.

“you want me to beg for my job?”

“not what i meant, but i could accept that,” he hums. “i just think you could throw in a please while you’re guilting your boss, at least.”

gawking probably doesn’t suit you, but you do it anyway, wondering how you managed to find yourself in this position. this morning, you had been strictly guiding him through what to do, and now you’re paralyzed in front of the vice president, feeling very foolish for saying so much out of turn. you couldn’t even get through a whole work day before seeing your grand master plan slip down the drain.

but there is, at least, some small comfort in what he said — the part about guilting, which, if you squint hard enough, seems to be implying that this conversation has left him with a small amount of guilt. you don’t think it’s that much, but it’s a miracle he feels it at all, so you take the horribly subtle win and inhale deeply.

“please, sir.” the words are very thick and reluctant, unsticking from your throat. “this department really needs you.”

he stares, very unnervingly, without saying anything, but there’s something in his gaze that makes you vaguely certain he’s actually thinking about it. in fact, he actually looks a bit serious, which isn’t anything you’d ever think you’d be able to characterize him by. that impression easily falls apart when he claps his hands, once but very loudly, startling you into jumping a little.

“ah, how could i turn down such a nice request?” vice president ajax is grinning from ear to ear, something you’ve never seen him do in the context of the office, much less a few feet away from you. his smile is actually kind of nice, if you don’t think about the fact that it seems to be smug at your expense. “since you asked, i guess i’ll have to try my best, or whatever it is people do in this damn company. i guess that means you owe me now, so you’re very welcome.”

the silence that once again blooms as you stand, motionless, in front of vice president ajax is suddenly interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping back all at once. the floor vibrates a little as the entire department troops out to the elevator area so they can go to lunch. you only watch stupidly as he also stands, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it over the back of his chair. “see you, then.”

“where are you going, sir?”

he looks a little surprised that you even ask. “to lunch. do i have to ask for your permission for that, too?”

“are you… coming back?”

“you want to come along with me and make sure i don’t run away?” he smiles even wider, which you didn’t even think was possible. it makes you awkwardly uncomfortable to know he’s taking a lot of pleasure in joking around with you, mostly because you were kind of hoping you’d get him to take things seriously in a serious manner, not in a … whatever this is that’s making you feel like you’ve lost a game manner.

“a little bit.”

“ask a little more nicely, then.”

“never mind,” you mumble. “have a good lunch, sir.”

he snaps his fingers a little comically before turning to the door, flinging it open so he can join the now thinning throng of people leaving the floor. “thought i almost had you there. well, if you need me, you know where to find me. or not.”

in the end, to your utmost relief, vice president ajax does, in fact, stay inside the entire time he has lunch. you’re not sure if this is the product of you sitting two tables away, trying to will an imaginary chain to his wrist so he doesn’t bolt off or because he’s still feeling a little affected by everything you said earlier on, but whatever it is, it works. he just eats his club sandwich in peace, picking off the crust easily and double dipping the fries that come with it in his ketchup. at some point, he looks up and notices you burning holes into his torso, so you quickly have to avert your eyes in shame. you think he laughs at this, but you can only see out of your peripheral vision at this point, so you can’t be sure.

you’re supposed to have one hour for lunch, but he eats quickly and gets up before the whole hour is over, so you end up throwing your half-eaten wrap and following him. again, you’re not sure what’s funny, but he’s chuckling to himself as he holds the elevator door open, waiting for you to run in next to him.

“relax, miss secretary. i already said i was going to do my best.”

“no offense, sir, but i don’t know what that looks like, so i have to be careful.”

“fair enough.” he hums, letting the door close on its own. “but you should still take it easy. you’re pretty t—”

“tense. you said so yesterday, sir.”

“that’s two times you’ve cut me off in a single day.” he doesn’t sound very annoyed about it; in fact, he’s still got that amused, inside joke tone to everything he’s had all morning. “if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you were gunning for an insubordination report.”

you don’t think that’s fair for him to say, especially since you haven’t really had much of an authority figure to be subordinate to for most of your career in this company, but you keep your mouth shut since saying so is exactly what would be on the first line of an insubordination report.

when you arrive back at his office, you take the time to discuss what you should be doing from now on. it’s an extremely messy exchange, with you two grappling between terms you can’t agree on. for instance, vice president ajax thinks that it seems only fair that he should really only be coming in after one o’clock, but you’re insistent on making sure he gets to work on time, since most important meetings happen within that time period (a fact he already seems to know but chooses to ignore anyway). you end up agreeing on bringing him in for the standard nine-to-six for as long as he never has to work overtime. you also find it necessary to iron out the fact that if he has lunch outside, he has to actually come back, a statement he once again finds very amusing for some reason, as if you’re the weird one in this conversation.

and to his credit, he tries to stick to his word. it isn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially not during the first couple of weeks, but you suppose that habits are very difficult to break when they’ve been so easy to acquire and nurture over many years. more than once, you’ve arrived late to meetings to the disapproving gazes of head secretary sandrone and the president. however, the latter finds he has less to say these days because vice president ajax’s presence in said meetings had, before this time, been nothing but a pipe dream for everyone.

you also notice he starts taking the time to ask about things he doesn’t understand, as opposed to his initially brash or sometimes completely unresponsive approach, which has turned out better results when it comes to business lunches with investors and potential partners. even the northland bank people, who are extremely wary of him during the callback meeting, come out of their next encounter with the vice president looking vaguely more satisfied than they did the last time (the bar isn’t that high, considering they’d left disgruntled previously, but you’ll still take the improvement).

of course, with all the time you end up spending with, chasing after, and vaguely lecturing (only when the need truly arises) vice president ajax, you also learn some things about him that you hadn’t expected, like how he doesn’t really like milk in anything he drinks (but especially coffee) and that every third sunday of the month, he meets his old college senior zhongli, the guy that owns half the residential high rise condominiums lining liyue harbor. apparently, they play badminton together — he had told you that when he’d caught you wondering about the super out of place little kid’s karate trophy among other more adult, official ones in his living area. the trophy goes to whoever wins the match of the month, and according to the vice president, he’s been ‘wiping the floor with that bastard’s handsome face for half a year straight.’ although you can’t verify this by anything more than the slight blanket of dust on it, you think it takes nothing out of your pride to applaud him like this is an amazing thing. it also does you no harm to see him swell with misplaced pride about a kid’s karate trophy.

you also notice that despite how healthily he eats at the office, he has a bad habit of craving deep fried food in the afternoon, which is why, over the last few weeks, you’ve been accompanying him to the nod-krai corndog street stall two blocks away, a few days a week. he’s even had to borrow loose mora from you a few times to because he always forgets that no street vendor accepts a card as black and as daunting as his, but you just let him have it; his heart’s in the right place when he orders an extra one for you without even asking. you realize that he has a fairly good memory for as long as he’s concentrating, and that he likes to spend late nights watching the shittiest horror movies ever known to man (his words, much to your bemusement), and that when he listens attentively to you telling him about the day’s agenda, his left ear twitches a little when your voice hits it.

somewhere along the way, you realize that vice president ajax is a charming, outgoing, and fairly capable person, and in doing so, you also realize that he seems to be, for lack of a better word, your style.

you can’t really believe it either, and you’re not even sure when it started. in between sitting with him in the company car and handing him forty-page agreements he has to look over carefully (very carefully, as you’ve taken to reminding him, so often that he starts saying it before you do now, in your trademark cadence, which has only somehow endeared him further to you and not annoyed you the way you were sort of hoping it would), the small non-work related part of your consciousness had decided that it needed a more complicated situation now that things were going relatively well.

to be fair to yourself, liking him isn’t a huge distraction; most of the time, you’re both so engrossed in something you desperately have to finish that you don’t even have time to think about it. instead, it kind of catches you off-guard, like when he’s double dipping his french fries into his ketchup, or when he smiles at you (politely to him, probably, but overwhelmingly charmingly to you) before he leaves the office, or when his brow’s furrowed in (a total shocker) concentration as he reads.

then again, everything about vice president ajax seems to be catching you off-guard these days. this much is proven by the fact that instead of the normal silence that you’ve grown accustomed to being greeted by when you enter his house, there’s a lot of noise coming from one area that can only mean either that someone had broken in to mug him or for some reason, he’s up before you need to wake him.

it’s nothing you have to call 911 for, but it still paralyzes you to see him, surrounded by opened jars and a particularly dirty bread knife as he stands in front of his fancy toaster, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently.

“if you have a minute to spare, could you bring my laptop into the car?” he asks without turning around. his hand, still holding the bread knife, points towards the bar counter on the far end of the kitchen, where the laptop is still whirring away.

“of course, sir. um,” you gingerly shut the monitor, putting the laptop to sleep and tucking it under your arm. “were you… working this morning?”

“no, i was playing a riveting game of bridge against the computer ai.” he turns to you, grinning. “of course i was working, miss secretary. what do you think i’d be up this early for?”

you try to think of an answer, but nothing comes to mind — vice president ajax hasn’t ever woken up early for anything to your knowledge, anyway — so you just nod and bolt, unwilling to bear witness to his smile this early in the day. when you come back, particularly less red in the face, you find him topping one of two sandwiches with the last slice of bread to complete it. he takes one, as you expect he would, and you stand there, trying to look polite as you essentially observe him eat.

this isn’t something very unusual; ever since the first time you’d done it, you’ve been watching him out of habit. so far, only the motivation’s changed from you wanting to make sure he doesn’t bolt to you simply enjoying the view of his profile when he eats. of course, he probably doesn’t know this, but he’s also just gotten used to you watching him and probably finds it funny — as suggested by his perpetually amused expression — that you still think, after all this time, that he’s going to make a run for it. you don’t actually mind it; you get to watch him for free, and he has something to laugh about, so everyone kind of wins.

he’s halfway through the sandwich when his expression turns quizzical. “aren’t you going to eat?”

“eat,” you echo hollowly. “eat what, sir?”

“a delicious, handmade, gourmet peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.” when you don’t move, he pushes the plate with the untouched sandwich forward towards you like he thinks you can’t understand anything he’s saying. “what? are you allergic to something?”

“no, but…”

“but?”

there’s no but; you don’t have a good reason to decline other than the fact that accepting it feels weird, but refusing him when he’s looking at you this expectantly is just as awkward. you rub the back of your neck as you walk over, not missing the look of triumph that crosses his face as you pick up the sandwich and take a bite. it’s good, but you don’t really think that has anything to do with his culinary skills, based on what it is; still, he looks like he’s patting himself on the back for this feat.

“thank you, sir.”

“my dear secretary, i hope you can count this as a momentous occasion for the both of us.” he chuckles. “you get free breakfast made especially for you by your direct superior in the comfort of his own home, and i finally get to learn what all the settings on my toaster are for. between you and me, i think mine’s the better achievement.”

you’re still in the middle of eating when you laugh, and you hastily raise a hand to cover it — only vice president ajax catches your wrist halfway through, so quickly you vaguely choke on the bread that’s only partially down your throat.

“i’ve never seen you laugh,” he looks as surprised as you feel, although probably for a different reason. “i don’t even think you’ve ever smiled at me, specifically.”

“oh.” you need time to respond, mostly so you can swallow but also because you need to collect yourself from your shock. there seems to be a lot of that going around this morning. “sorry. should i do that more often?”

“i mean, if you ask like that, it’s kind of disingenuous,” he laughs. “but i like it. i like knowing you’re not just in a constant state of stress because of me. feels even more momentous than the toaster thing.”

he loosens his hold, and you manage to take your hand back, now refusing to meet his eye. “i’m not… stressed by you.”

“not anymore.”

“not anymore,” you agree, and he looks particularly delighted when he sees the corners of your lips turn up again. “not for a while. and not that my opinion matters, but you’ve been performing above expectations, sir.”

“you’re right,” he hums, taking the plate and putting it in the sink — a problem he seems to be saving for later. “it doesn't matter. but i like it, all the same.”

you’re willing to chalk the morning off as a wonderful anomaly, especially since the rest of it passes as it normally does, with a generally quiet car ride (you’ve also learned that vice president ajax likes to listen to rap music on days when he wants to avoid falling asleep in the backseat, which is equal parts amazing and amusing) and a fifteen minute briefing of what he has on his plate today. he disappears for the better part of the morning and even the whole lunch hour, but you expect this because he has a business lunch with the representatives for some fontainian appliance company that’s looking to break into the snezhnayan market. you can’t imagine many people want a state of the art rice cooker alongside their monthly internet bill, but it’s polite for him to go anyway, and the prospective partner seems very on edge about company secrets. it’s one of those meetings you aren’t allowed to come along to, which means that you’re missing out on a few hours of vice president ajax trying to iron details out with a couple of old guys.

while you eat, you’re once again struck with the random notion that it feels weird not to be around the vice president. you’ve been working together regularly and in a very close capacity, which basically means that you’re always in his shadow. it’s the life you were kind of hoping to have at the beginning and were deprived of for a good two years. now that you have it, it feels weirdly natural — so natural that it’s unnatural to not have his voice ordering you around in that easy tone or his aftershave lingering in the air directly above you.

you throw the tissue you used to wipe the residue from your egg toast off your mouth onto the table, crumpled and wilted.

you miss him, which is ridiculous considering you don’t even know what there is to miss. your relationship, while admittedly lightyears ahead of the starting point it had been at back then (again, not a great standard, considering you didn’t even have a relationship before this period of time), is nothing close to the point of being what it should be for one to miss the other.

and yet, you look forward to seeing him, watching him do something from afar, helping him whenever he needs you. you like the fact that he still sometimes fakes left when you’re accompanying him back to his office, and you do this thing where you pretend to be annoyed even though it makes you happy to know he won’t go anywhere. you like the little sounds he makes when he eats his super unhealthy corndog as if he’s eating it for the first time every single time (see: very unnerving and slightly disturbing but altogether amusing mmmmmmmmmms). in fact, if you didn’t have a vivid memory of telling him off from way back then, you feel like you could easily convince yourself that things had always been like this — that you two had always been together, happily at work.

you’re not surprised that he isn’t back from his meeting even when you get back to your desk after lunch, but you do feel a pang of dejectedness that lasts for a few more hours — time which you spend lazily looking over a contract he’d signed yesterday that needs a fair amount of amending and re-signing. it’s hard to pretend to care today, for some reason, especially since your mind keeps going back to peanut butter sandwiches and some ridiculous — maybe even delirious — vision of vice president ajax standing in the middle of your tiny studio apartment’s kitchen area.

your reverie’s broken when an envelope falls onto your desk, covering the page of the contract you’d been glassily staring at for the last hour and a half. you’d drawn the same circle about twenty times already, and the paper’s all dented from your efforts. when you look up, vice president ajax is staring down at you, grinning from ear to ear.

“miss me?” he drums the envelope, the paper muffling the noise of it all. “oh? i was joking, but it looks like you actually did. that’s twice in a single day, miss secretary. you’re setting a very high record.”

you try to tamp down the smile on your face upon seeing him, clearing your throat so that you have an excuse to press your lips together. you guess it doesn’t work because he just keeps smiling, anyway, or maybe he’s just in a really good mood. “did your meeting go well, sir?”

“is the flagship the national fastfood chain of snezhnaya? too bad i don’t work for anyone because it kind of feels like i deserve some kind of reward.”

“could we say that this partnership is its own reward?”

“it doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he sighs. once again, his forefinger taps the envelope, calling your attention a little more clearly to it. “i know we’re on a tight schedule for this, and i hate to ask this so late of you, but —”

“of course, sir; i’ll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow.”

you’re already gathering it up along with your other (vaguely unfinished) paperwork when his whole palm comes down, trapping the envelope and everything else you’d been intending to carry under it. your hands go up like you’re being held at gunpoint, your eyes wide.

“on second thought,” vice president ajax muses, a little too serene for someone who’d just scared the living daylights out of someone else. “how about i take care of the northland bank deal you’re looking over, and you can handle the fontanian contract?”

“i haven’t… really made a lot of headway with it, if i’m being honest.” you’re hoping he doesn’t ask you why because you’re too embarrassed to come up with a lie on the spot and will inevitably have to confess your random attraction to him under these terrible circumstances if he does. luckily, he just shrugs.

“all the more reason to split the work, then.”

the still mildly stern part of you is begging to point out that he’s giving you a whole new set of documents to look over anyway, so it’s not even like you’ll have less to do, but the larger, more endeared part of you tells it to shut up and mind its own business. “i thought the crux of our agreement was that you’d never have to work overtime.”

“because i look like such a stickler for the rules, don’t i?” he snorts, waving you in with the same envelope, and you concede.

working next to vice president ajax isn’t anything new to you; you’ve been doing it everyday for a while now, especially if he needs you to be quick on call. ever since you’ve realized his presence makes your heart beat a little faster, you’ve promised yourself not to let that fact show at all when he’s around, something you’ve been quite careful about perfecting.

something’s different, though, when it’s after official hours. maybe it’s because the floor is quieter than it is during the day, so there’s nothing you can listen to but the sound of pen scratching on paper and the vice president’s steady breathing. the only real interruption is when pavel knocks on the door to ask if the vice president is going home; the look on his face is panicked and confused, like a puppy that’s just been dropped off at the mouth of a dumpster site, when he’s told that vice president ajax will drive himself home, so he can just leave the keys.

maybe it’s also because it’s pretty dark outside, and while you’ve worked into the night a few times, it’s usually alone or with some other poor sap that has even more backlog than you do — it’s never been just you and the vice president, who seems supremely unperturbed by the fact that he isn’t at home doing… whatever he does at home after work. you can only guess at it (or wish you knew).

that makes one of you that’s keeping busy, although you know it should be two. the fact that you’re distracted by his presence all of a sudden is only exacerbated by the mutually exclusive headache that the paperwork you’re looking over gives you. you don’t know why you had expected it to be in snezhnayan, but you and your intermediate level fontainian struggle to keep up with all the little things you have to look through. sometimes, you can’t tell if the clauses are actually confusing or if you’re just the poor product of your middle school education. it strikes you more than once that vice president ajax had gone through this, somehow, himself — talked to people in a completely different language, probably with ease. you can at least be proud of yourself for being right: for as long as the vice president puts his mind to something, he’s able to do it — perhaps even well.

what shocks you after an eternity of silence is the hand that extends towards you, forefinger lightly nudging your chin. you sit up straight like a bolt of lighting had gone through you, meeting vice president ajax’s thoroughly and inexplicably amused expression. your jaw slackens in shock, but his finger just stays there, like it isn’t invading your personal space — like it just belongs there.

“what are you doing?”

“what—” you splutter, bemused at the fact that you hadn’t asked the question first. “what are you doing?”

“you keep moving your mouth. what — are you praying or something?”

“no, i —” you gesture at the contract page you’ve been trying to stumble through for the past twenty minutes. “no, i’m just… i’m reading?”

“you’re…” the start of a laugh escapes him, and you really don’t know what’s so funny. “you’re reading aloud?”

“i wasn’t making any noise, i think,” you grumble, sounding a little more defensive than you’d care to admit.

“you read silently aloud, then.” his eyes twinkle at this information, although why it should elicit this reaction also completely escapes you. “why? because it helps you memorize it or something?”

“my fontainian isn’t that great,” you admit begrudgingly, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “sometimes i need to mouth the words to understand it.”

and he does the most outrageous, inexplicable thing: he gently cups your chin, making sure you can’t turn your head to look away in embarrassment. now you have to look at him, red in the face and close to exploding.

“don’t you think that’s a little too much, miss secretary?”

you can’t ask what; your voice isn’t working. you just open and close your mouth around the syllable, and after a couple of attempts, he starts copying you, evidently having a better time than you are based on the grin stretched across his face.

“what, what? that you’re doing something this cute in front of me is what i mean. you’re obviously going overboard, and i don’t think it’s very nice.”

he retracts his hand as quickly as he’d used it to close the distance between you, and your hand immediately comes up in its place, almost cupping your jaw like he did. it definitely doesn’t give you the same tingly feeling, so that’s an obvious bust.

you and vice president ajax have a sudden staring contest with amended rules: you blink a hundred times a minute at him while he laughs quietly, leaning back on his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. it confuses you and kind of enrages you, but you also find your heart thumping away in your ears like it’s trying very hard to remind you that your boss makes you feel alive.

“i— i just—”

“coffee? i could use some coffee. you look like you could use some too.” he stands, buttoning his blazer with one hand like he has someplace important to go. you’re still so shell-shocked that you don’t even try to stand up to help him, a fact which he notices very clearly. “oh no, i’ll do you this favor. you sit tight and read your contract. i’ll be back. keep doing that cute thing with your mouth.”

vice president ajax finds you exactly as he left you: still wondering if you should be offended at his teasing or enamored by his touch and, more importantly, what the hell his deal is. you have a million questions that need answering, but the only thing you blubber out when he comes back is “why?”

“because you’re amazingly fun to tease,” he responds simply. “and because it’s true. i find it extremely cute. i find you very cute, miss secretary, in a kind of good girl, cool girl kind of way. it’s a little confusing to me too, but i think this slightly stern but overall gentle aesthetic of yours is actually growing on me a little.”

“sir, i—”

“while we’re taking a break,” he interrupts you. you guess it’s probably the right time for a break considering there’s no way you can work in peace now. “do you constantly have to call me that?”

“what else would i call you?”

“my name,” he suggests, taking a sip of coffee. you ignore the ‘shit, that’s hot’ that comes out of him as he puts the paper cup down gingerly on his desk, looking a little bit betrayed by his drink. “ajax. many people call me that.”

“people who are close to you, you mean. like your family or… your friends.”

“are you saying you don’t think we’re close? or that we aren’t friends?”

“sir, i work for you.”

“so by that alone, we simply can’t be friends? et al?i think you really are being too much now, miss secretary.” he folds his arms across his chest, tutting disapprovingly as he leans back on the edge of his desk. you try not to think too hard about the fact that he does it very close to you, at an angle optimal for viewing the leanness of his form. “after all those times you broke into my house—”

“to get you ready for work.”

“— walked into my bedroom—”

“only whenever necessary—”

“— gone through my things while i’m half naked in bed like you’re trying to organize a charity drive—”

“because you need to get dressed, not because i have some perverted agenda —”

“—eaten the food off my kitchen counter, too—”

“you told me to!” you get to your feet, the contract slipping from your lap in your enthusiasm to defend yourself. “you offered it to me!”

whatever happens next is completely out of your control, and you know this because the room spins without you moving by your own will. vice president ajax must have been an expert dancer in his past life, or something, because after that one dizzying moment, you find yourself leaning against the edge of the table he had been just a second ago. warm hands are on your waist, tucked under your cardigan, the heat bleeding through your shirt.

and the vice president’s smile is inches away from your face, still mischievous but much gentler than any other time before.

you’re not sure if you’re paralyzed or if you just don’t want to move, but the reason doesn’t affect the outcome: all you can do is stare up at him, once again dumbfounded after a small outpouring of words that ends in some kind of forced defeat. except this particular surrender doesn’t feel so sore, for some reason.

“even when you’re angry, you’re still pretty, you know that?”

“i wasn’t… angry,” you mumble under your breath, afraid that talking louder will scare him off. you don’t even think he’s listening all that much to you, considering that all he does is tuck your hair behind your left ear and completely change the topic.

“so, tell me, since i’m so curious. is this still a situation where we’re not close at all?” he pauses for a moment, probably to let you answer, but you don’t say anything. you’re pretty sure your swallowing nervously is the only true sound you make. he seems to be eager to do a lot of the talking anyway, which is absolutely fine by you. “or have i completely misread all your cute little signals?”

“well — no, but i didn’t send any signals.” obvious ones, at least. you’d been pretty sure you had tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but you’re starting to realize it’s a little possible you’re not as great at pretending as you think you are.

“not on purpose, probably. although you really almost got me with the one-man show vibe you have during lunch hour.”

“i… didn’t think you knew, if i’m being honest.” honesty is the only thing you have right now, anyway, especially since vice president ajax has pretty much confirmed, in his own way, that he knows about how you feel. now you can only wonder if he’d noticed before you even came to terms with it yourself, and the thought of that being a real possibility urges you to grab the still-steaming cup of coffee and douse yourself with its contents.

“for a while, i was pretty sure you were messing with me. i would never,” he adds just as you say it too, mimicking your astounded tone up to the lilt. “which is why i started thinking about why else you might be looking at me so intently. you weren’t sitting there objectifying me, were you, miss secretary?”

“sir, i would never,” you repeat, and he mouths the same words again in his amusement, although silently this time.

“i think i would have been okay with it if you were. or would be, even until now. for the record.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you sure? no shame in it. totally fine. not sure about anyone else, but i’m totally okay if someone else thinks i’m eye candy in the privacy of their own minds. i am, i think, a fine specimen of a human, if i do say so myself.”

“i really wasn’t, sir.”

“you should have, then. lost opportunities.”

“i could argue that i was just worried you’d leave and not come back.”

“you know i wouldn’t do that to you,” he hums. “not anymore, anyway.”

the ‘to you’ is what stumps you into another silent spell, but this time, vice president ajax doesn’t attempt to fill in the void. he just starts running his eyes over your face, like he’s trying to read something there or maybe memorize your features, or something. at some point, you start thinking about how this kind of silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, contrary to your expectations and with interesting consideration of the fact that he’s still holding your hips. apart from the idle skimming of his thumb over the curve of your pelvic bone, he doesn’t move — nearer or farther, which is probably for the best since you don’t know which one you really want more at this point.

again, when you gather some part of your wits, the only thing you still know how to ask is “why?”

“because,” he replies immediately, simply, like the answer has always been very clear and you’ve just been too ignorant to figure it out. “you said that i could, not that i had to.”

it’s hot. isn’t it hot? you don’t know what he’s talking about, but your body already reacts on principle, and you have to stand-half-lean there with your entire face burning and the vice president’s body heat washing over yours like an electric blanket.

“i don’t know what that means, sir.”

“it means i didn’t do this for my dad or just because you told me off in the comfort of my own office.” he bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from laughing (yet again) at you as he witnesses, from the best seat in the house, your face turning almost purple with the effort of keeping down your embarrassment. “although that played a bit of a factor in it. i couldn’t tell if it was rude of you to say so much or kind of cute that you did despite knowing you were being rude. but that’s besides the point.”

good, you think. if he manages to hit you with another ‘cute’ in this timeframe, you may easily cease to exist.

“you know firsthand, anyway, what my dad always says. you must take on the responsibility you were born with. you have to do your job. you must remember that you owe your life to my achievements.” he mimics his father’s gruff, booming voice amusingly well, to the point that you can’t stop yourself from laughing. his facade breaks easily, and you think you hear him mumble ‘cute’ under his breath again, although you choose to ignore it so your knees don’t buckle completely (something that you think would be very embarrassing with you so close to him). “i don’t think he’s ever once said an encouraging word to my face. and if there’s anything i can confidently say i won’t do, it’s doing what people only say i need to do. it’s my life, you know what i mean? i’ll do what i want.”

“you’re saying you suddenly wanted to work because i said you could?”

“more like i wanted to see if you were right.” he muses. “i was pretty sure i didn’t have the personality for it. or the attention span. or the skill, either.”

“i think a couple of those things are still up in the air, sir.”

“one compliment and you’re already gunning for another insubordination report.” vice president ajax’s voice is a low, casual hum, but you notice the grip around your waist tightens for a brief moment. “at first, i figured i’d just show up to get everyone off my back, but i realized along the way that i’m pretty good at this being at the helm business. i’m sure you’ll agree. hopefully because you want to, not because you also have to.”

“i do agree.” your reply is wholehearted, and the vice president’s smile widens. your chest swells so much that you think you might explode right in front of him. “because i want to.”

“please don’t misunderstand me, miss secretary. i’m not attributing all my successes to your impulsive words.” he teases, although his eyes stay gentle despite his tone. “the efforts were still all mine. however, i’m not too proud to admit i had a very responsible first mate by my side, for whom i am very grateful. although i hope this doesn’t mean she’ll pluck up the courage to ask for a raise considering how well i pay her. i think. does she get paid well? maybe i should ask miss ekaterina from accounting.”

“she won’t,” you laugh softly, not missing the fact that he’s finally learned her name. “and she’s not really doing this for the salary, even if it is a nice bonus.”

“what’s she doing it for, then?”

as a job, this was really mostly about yourself — or it was, in the beginning. you’d terrorized vice president ajax to some degree because of the innate tendency towards self-preservation, and when that felt a little one-sided, you also considered everyone who might lose their jobs if the department got cut. it had been, for the most part, an act of pure desperation, so strong that you were willing to point fingers and raise your voice (only a few decibels, because you’re not a crazy person) at your boss. now… that isn’t really part of the equation anymore. maybe you had gotten used to the fact that the vice president wouldn’t be going anywhere, so you’d stopped worrying about your and everyone else’s jobs, which all seem to be on a smooth path alongside the captain of the ship.

but if you had to be honest to yourself, part of the reason you’d grown a bit complacent about thinking about the fate of the department also had to do with the fact that you genuinely enjoyed being next to the vice president. mornings spent helping him prepare for work were regular highlights in your week, and the looks of approval you received from him every time you helped him finish a particularly difficult task were second to none. always being close to him, always being the first and last to see him in the day, simply being able to look at him — silly as that all sounds, they now play an undeniable factor in your desire to wake up and go to the office every single day.

“i did it for you.” you answer, and because the answer’s honest, it feels completely natural to say. a pause slowly lengthens between you two, though not nearly as tense or borderline uncomfortable as you thought it might be this time around. a slow smile stretches over the vice president’s face, but his words don’t easily take the straightforward route this time, either.

“should i take up with the human resources department the fact that you’re outright breaching the terms of our contractual workplace relationship? how am i?” he says in tandem with you again, your voices overlapping. you can’t help it; you laugh at the absurdity of how well he’s come to know your responses, from the word choice to the lilt in your voice that signals some level of affront. when, exactly, did vice president ajax start committing the things you said and did into memory? “you’re seducing me, miss secretary. before you say you’re not — you are. you are, without even knowing it. you’re winning me over, telling me all these sweet nothings to tickle my heart — i believe in you, ajax. i love working with you, ajax. i did it all for you, ajax, because you’re obviously the best in the whole world, ho ho ho.”

“i never said it like that.”

“you might as well have.”

“should i stop believing in you so that we can avoid a scene, then, or is the damage to your good standing too far gone?”

“rather than stopping something already in full motion, i think it might be better to make certain amendments to our current agreement.” vice president ajax reaches for the pen tucked into his breast pocket — the gold clip catches the fluorescent light and momentarily blinds you as he brings it up between you. he brings it to one side, then to another, and your eyes follow it, amused but also admittedly a bit hypnotized.

“what kind of trance are you putting me under, sir?”

“the kind that gets you to stop calling me that,” he chuckles. “among other, more important things on my agenda.”

you have an excellent view of vice president ajax’s stellar smile from the back of the meeting room.

the deal he closes three days later goes even better than expected; not only does he bring northland bank into the fold after weeks of (surprisingly consistent) hard work and no small amount of beguiling charm (owing to the fact that he’d offended said northland bank representatives earlier on in his still relatively short-lived career), but he also manages to snag the fontainian appliance company’s participation. as an already existing subscriber to the company-provided phone plan, you’re pleased to find out that you’re entitled to twelve guilt-free months of reel ad-venture video as part of a new promotional deal, which you can now enjoy on nights you aren’t working overtime — something you’ve racked up more of as you’ve found yourself striking more of a work-life balance, thanks in large part to the vice president’s steadily active involvement in all things on the ‘work’ aspect of the scale. your first goal is to finally get past the first episode of an animation everyone in the department is raving about (but that you haven’t seen more than five minutes of, in actuality, because the horrible subtitles and sluggish 144px stop motion-esque have, until recently, adamantly deterred you from enjoying anything about the story).

standing a fair distance away from the executives, you wait for the flurry of handshakes and accompanying congratulatory statements to die down; it takes quite a while, considering the sheer volume of people, and the thickest throng has come to gather around vice president ajax. at one point, all you can see of him is the slightly unruly lick of hair that’s sticking out above the rest of the considerable crowd of balding men around him (the sole red crow’s feather a mountain range of gray). all their voices overlap, and you’re only able to catch key phrases — brilliant young mind… knack for business! … just like the president… bright future ahead, you know?

fifteen minutes of conversation and bellowing guffaws pass before vice president ajax emerges, adjusting the front of his blazer as a result of too much handshaking. behind him, still speaking to one of the marketing executives, is the president, who shoots his son a surreptitious look you’ve never seen him wear in your considerable number of years in the company’s employ — one of triumph and pride. the vice president, however, is intently loosening his tie and scanning the room, stretching himself just a fraction taller above everyone else to get a better view throughout.

you wait, wondering if he’s looking to speak to someone, lost in that host of black and gray suits — the fontainian media director, perhaps, or the in-house designer that also seems to be trying to catch his eye, for some reason (you sense the needy greed for a sudden promotion that seems highly unlikely in such a setting), but even though his vision passes over them, however briefly, vice president ajax doesn’t seem satisfied.

that is, until his eyes land on the corner of the room you and head secretary sandrone have backed yourselves into to allow the higher-ups room to mingle.

one beat later, and the corners of his mouth are pulled up — a soft, knowing smile directed in your general direction. you glance at the head secretary, maybe out of instinct, maybe somehow out of panic — as though you worry she’ll somehow come to chastise you, but she’s too busy trying to re-buckle her thin coat belt with rapid-fire tsks. she seems acceptably preoccupied, so your eyes flit back to the vice president, whose eyebrows are now slightly raised, the telltale signs of a growing grin now playing on his lips as the front of his teeth begin to peek out from the seam. another cock of his eyebrows, lifting them higher, tells you he’s waiting for some kind of message — an indication that you see him too, maybe, or… perhaps, oddly, any sign that you’re as proud of him as everyone else in the room is.

you can’t help it — you laugh, louder than you’d have originally liked to, a hand coming up over your mouth as head secretary sandrone’s head snaps up from her waist, bamboozled at your quick but sudden outburst. she throws you a look that suggests she firmly believes your mind has snapped, quite like a stale breadstick in a derelict italian restaurant, but it’s worth it; vice president ajax looks satisfied at this — though, why he would be, you haven’t a true clue.

as the managers and members of the board file out of the room, both you and head secretary sandrone inch closer to your respective direct superiors; you both stand a few steps away as the last of the executives drag their feet, still hoping to share one last handshake with either of the two, until an elderly mrs. agapov’s surprisingly firm grip is finally shaken off by your now understandably sheepish president. he turns to his son, who’s still hosting the remnants of a genial smile on his lips, clearly poised to say something. for some reason, you expect the senior to berate the former, simply out of sheer habit, but he does nothing of the sort.

“ajax,” his voice is gruff but not at all begrudging; it’s a low rumble of triumph. “who’d’ve thought? my boy… you brat…”

“don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now, dad,” the vice president teases, to which the president chortles heartily.

“old men like me have the right, much more than anyone else.” you’ve never seen the president wear an expression even remotely close to softness, but you see it in his gaze now; it strikes you, then, that although you’ve always known the two to be related, this is the first time you can confidently say they resemble each other to the cores of their being — a view of happiness, somewhat mirrored in each of them. “i’m proud of you, son. you did everything i hoped you would — no, no… more than that, even.”

“i’ll take most of the praise, thanks,” vice president ajax replies with his characteristic cheek. for a moment, so quickly you think you may have missed it, his eyes flicker to you. “but i can’t say i could’ve done it alone.”

“punk,” thef president snorts, yanking on his son’s earlobe; you and head secretary sandrone have to avert your eyes with expert speed to avoid being caught snickering at the slightly juvenile “ow, dammit,” that the vice president groans out. “one big closed deal, and your head’s this big? i better not catch you floating away to a sumerian casino after all this.”

“give me some credit; i’d at least visit the desert first.” this time, when the vice president glances at you, his father’s head turns too, and you stand up straighter at the unprecedented onslaught of attention. “besides, i’ve got someone here to keep me anchored now.”

“good work, secretary,” the president offers you a rare smile that truly has you feeling like the world has turned upside down: the president in an agreeable (almost ecstatic, though you’d never say that out loud) mood, the vice president doing his job not just in general but actually commendably well, and not a single strand of baby hair sticking up from out of your ponytail. inconceivable.

you bow, murmuring a thank you, and secretary sandrone quickly follows suit for the formality of it all before she strides over to the president, who’s leaving his son with one last thunder-like clap on the back before he’s leaving the meeting room, still jovial when he catches up with the suspiciously lagging figure of mrs. agapov by the door.

vice president ajax starts to follow suit, walking towards the other end of the meeting room; you quickly scurry behind him, still clutching your tablet, which is beeping a low battery warning, to your chest. you’ve come to grow accustomed to the ‘secretary’s pace’ over the last few weeks as well — always close enough to help, never too close enough to step on a superior’s toes.

but in the moment you fumble to silence your device, you end up stepping into someone’s shadow; glancing up at the vice president, you find yourself looking at not the familiar view of his back but that of his side profile (one you’re actually also familiar with, though you refuse to admit to the level of familiarity). he’s slowed his pace considerably, allowing you to naturally fall into step with him, and even this, he expects a response from you somehow — he asks for it with yet another wiggle of his eyebrows. you laugh again, shaking your head, and yet, inexplicably, it seems to be exactly the reaction he hopes to see.

the department floor erupts into applause when the two of you pass through the glass doors; a flash of mollification crosses the vice president’s features before he’s back to his signature light humor, raising a palm up in receipt of praise. ekaterina from accounting is clapping with only her left hand smacking the side of her mug, a few drops of coffee streaming down the handle side on impact. one of the team managers rushes forward, eager to shake vice president ajax’s hand, and, even though you hadn’t really done anything significant, also yours, pumping it up and down with so much vigor that you mumble a quiet ow behind a strained smile. only the vice president’s hand on your shoulder, steering you away, saves you from what feels like possible dislocation.

he’s still waving at them like this is a pageant and not his day job, even as he guides you towards his office door; you have to use your elbows to push it open and effectively help you both avoid ramming into frosted glass. the applause dies down as your somewhat conjoined figures disappear through the doorway — you first, albeit convolutedly, your heel still holding strong in the job of keeping the door wide open enough for vice president ajax to saunter through before you let it swing shut to a now relatively silent office floor.

his hold on your shoulder doesn’t let up, though; it’s still urging you forward, towards his desk, and you open your mouth to say something along the lines of i’m gonna break my hip if we keep going this way, but just as your throat conjures up the first syllable, he turns you around, letting you rest light against the edge of the table.

in a pattern reminiscent of three days prior, vice president ajax’s hand finds its way to your waist, utterly comfortable in a way that mystifies you; he acts like it belongs there, as natural as the smile that’s still playing on his lips.

“sir, you realize it’s the middle of the day?”

“you realize that we had a deal,” he corrects you, brow furrowing in feigned sternness. “hold up your end of it, miss secretary.”

“only if you stop calling me that.”

“now, that absolutely was not part of the contract.”

when you laugh this time, he chimes in; there’s a harmony in your voices that has your posture softening. you feel airier, your heart much lighter, and when you look up at him, you can’t help but flush at his expectant gaze.

“you realize it’s the middle of the day,” you repeat, carefully, the words suddenly somewhat unfamiliar on your tongue — the next two syllables, most of all. “a… jax.”

odd as it is, you’re rewarded with the pleased look that takes over his features; he takes a moment to exaggeratedly revel in this new occurrence.

“better. much better. you could still be a bit more comfortable with it, i’d say, but… baby steps?”

“please re-prioritize your day, si— ajax.” the terse tone you’re going for is brutally marred by your blunder, which has his shoulders shaking from laughter. “someone could very easily walk in.”

“who’s going to fire me?”

“i can think of one person.”

“you heard him. i’m proud of you, ajax. you’ve completely exceeded my expectations, ajax. you are the light of my life — my favorite son, ajax, ho, ho, ho.”

“you and i both know that’s not anything close to what he said, sir.”

“we had a deal,” he repeats, and there’s a laughably childish air to his words. “i’ll… file an insubordination report. breach of contract as well. tsk, tsk, miss secretary. not on such a momentous occasion.”

“some might classify this as threatening behavior.” your eyes are soft, though, when they meet his humored gaze. “if you want a reward… ask a little more nicely.”

a soft snort — his fingers dig lightly into your waist, and the next second, he’s lifting you off your feet and settling you lightly atop his desk. his palms never leave you, even after you’ve been placed; they’re increasingly warm beyond the fabric of your top.

he murmurs your name so naturally that you could almost believe he’s referred to you as nothing else for as long as you’ve known him. “kiss me.”

your own hands find their way behind his neck, but he does most of the work in closing the gap anyway; you’re not even sure who, between the two of you, gave that first sigh of longing, of relief. perhaps it was both of you, all at once.

ajax still tastes like the coffee you’d given him this morning — not a trace of richness, but a bittersweet and earthy twang that’s signature post-americano. there’s even a hint of mintiness from the nervous handful of tic tacs he’d had just before the meeting started; you find that out the moment his tongue swipes against yours, leaving behind the invisible bite of menthol. and then there’s you, a clean taste that settles against his teeth, subtle first but growing stronger until you’re satisfied with the notion that you may linger there for some time — even after you pull away, slightly breathless.

“congratulations to me,” he breathes out, trademark grin flashing bright again. “so what happens if i close next month’s deal?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer; his hand’s already skimming down, over your hips, following the path of your thigh. your hand reaches out on instinct to stop him, but he’s oddly more aware of his surroundings than you give him credit for (or maybe, you’re just that predictable to him). he meets your palm, fingers lacing into yours and allowing him to lift your wrist to his lips. there, you feel the warmth of his kiss again, and he uses his hold to bring himself even closer, until he’s able to press his face into your neck.

“sir—”

“ajax. you call me ajax from now on, remember?”

“sir.” you’re adamant. “it’s work hours.”

“you’re not tense.”

he doesn’t move his head; in fact, you feel him burying his face further into your shoulder. in this position, there’s no real way for you to pull away — there’s also no real desire for you to do so, anyway.

“no, i’m not.”

“good.” warmth again on your skin — his lips leave an invisible mark just above your collarbone. “i like you best like this.”

“what? not tense?”

“happy,” he corrects for accuracy. “happy that you’re with me.”

you fall silent, not because you’re not sure of what to say, but because you don’t need to tell him that he’s right.

moments later, his fingers find their way into your ponytail; the index hooks into the elastic, bringing your hair down. you feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, he’s inhaling your perfume again.

“green tea. something floral. jasmine? maybe a little bit of citrus.” he lifts his head but stays close, warm breath washing over you. “it’s so you. fresh. pure. beautiful.”

the gap between the two of you doesn’t last for too long thereafter; he kisses you again, and your heart lifts to find that your taste still lingers somewhere there. it’s longer because it’s slower — less playful and more exploratory, until he pulls away to a much more breathless you. how he finds the air to talk even after is miraculous to you.

“be mine, miss secretary.”

you blink — once, twice, at his serious expression, wondering if it will break and give way to more humor. but he waits, unwavering, until the last piece of resistance you’ve clung onto is washed away — the last thing that made you, for a second, deny that you were in love with him.

his smile slowly mirrors yours as it grows.

“like you could ever get rid of me, ajax.”

"Sorry, m'love, what was that?"

Your insatiable husband was bullying you. Both with his thick and long shaft that continuously rammed through your overly sensitive cunt without falter, and his mouth as he pulled apologies out of you left and right.

"'m sorry, I swear," the whine spilled from your lips pathetically, a hint of irritation at the continuous need to apologise slipping through.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your bare collarbone in acknowledgement. All while thrusting into you with long, steady strokes.

The second the two of you had returned from the gala, Tartaglia wasted no time in throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you upstairs to the bedroom.

You didn't complain, you never did. Matter of fact you enjoyed being manhandled like that, and your husband knew it too.

By now you had orgasmed more times than you could count, and despite being two rounds down and halfway through round three, Tartaglia showed no signs of tiring.

"You made me leave s'you could flirt with another man, was that it?"

You tried to let out a huff in response, but it turned into a gasp of pleasure instead as the tip of his dick kissed your cervix just right.

"Ah, fuck, Ajax..." your nails dug into his back and your toes curled on the wrinkled sheets with every rough thrust.

He let out a low groan in response, his grip on your hips tightening.

"That's not an answer, woman," he leaned down to nip at the junction of your neck. By now, you were surely littered in marks from his grip and love bites, Tartaglia was extremely proud of his work as he looked down at you.

You were too fucked out and overstimulated to think of a coherent response.

"No, no, no..." you rambled, "That's not what I was doing."

He chuckled. "Damn right, you're only my woman."

Heat pooled further between your legs at his words, something about the possession in his tone arousing you even more. He noticed that too.

"Ya like that don't ya? Being mine," he had a smug grin on his lips, watching you nod frantically in your sex-dazed state. "Fuck baby, you're squeezing me so tight..."

"Ajax," you moaned his name again. He hissed, ramming into you a little harder and faster now.

"L-love! Slow down... t'fast..." you whimpered, letting go of his neck to grip the sheets instead.

"You can take it, love, I know ya can," he replied, not letting up with his pace. He leaned down and captured your left breast into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pebbled peak, making you mewl out in pleasure.

One of his hands left your hip and went between where the both of you were joined together, using your oozing slick and the sticky fluids from previous rounds to work on your sensitive nub.

Your mind was blank with pleasure, you could hardly think. It felt too good. It was almost too much.

"Ajax, I'm gonna cum..." You could feel your climax slowly nearing, getting so close and unbearable until-

You whined in utter frustration as your husband came to a complete standstill. You were still full of him, your pussy clenching around his cock as if begging for him to move, but he didn't and kept you there. His hands, his tongue, everything came to a stop.

And he did it all with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You opened your eyes to glare up at him, your eyes still glazed over from the pleasure.

"Why'd you stop, asshole?"

You tried to move your hips, to get any sort of movement, but he was quick to grip your waist with both hands again to prevent you from shifting, his grip equal to weight of iron.

"Tch, so impatient baby," he teased. "You can't cum yet, not unless I say you can."

You grumbled in annoyance, and he let out a chuckle.

"I can feel you squeezing around me, your pretty pussy trying to coax my cock into making her purr again. You want me that bad, huh?"

"Stop teasing me, AJ, your being s'mean..."

"Oh? I'm being mean, am I?" he leaned down closer to your face. "Who was the one that was happy to listen to another man flirting with you while you knew I was standing two steps away?"

He clicked his tongue in faux annoyance. "But I'm the mean one, is it? Oh well, you like it too, don't you, love? You like me being mean. You like me being rough. You like me jealous so I can fuck you like this, don't you?"

His playfulness was making you wetter, and his words didn't do anything to help.

"You're mine, baby. All fucking mine, you know that? This pussy, this body, you. All of you, all mine."

He closed the gap between your mouths and pushed you deeper into the mattress as he kissed your lips. It was rough and passionate, full of desire but also love. His tongue danced with yours, and he lightly nipped your lip before pulling back.

"Say you're mine, lyubimaya."

"Yours, lyubimy."

"Fuck."

And then he was pulling out of you all the way, your puffy lower lips clenching at nothing in the air. You nearly whined at the loss of him, but before you could complain, he slammed into your gummy walls, bottoming out in one go, knocking the air from out of your lungs.

A sweet moan spilled from your lips.

He gradually increased the speed of his thrusts, setting it to the same pace he had beforehand.

"Say it again, love, say your all mine."

"'m yours, Ajax, 'm all yours!"

He kissed your lips again, his finger returning to rub your sensitive clit. When he pulled back from your lips, a thin line of saliva stretched between your mouths.

"S'good f'me, baby... taking me so well, like you were made f'me... mm, perfect girl, and all mine..."

He pumped in and out of you for a few more moments before you felt that familiar fire return in your gut.

"Honey, I'm close, I'm so close..."

"Cum f'me love, cum on my cock, let me feel you." He thrusts picked up a little more pace. "Cum. Now."

His command didn't have time to settle because as soon as the words left his mouth, white hot pleasure burst through you and your fingers dug into his arms as you moaned out his name. Your body convulsed around him as he continued to thrust, riding out your climax.

He followed behind soon, his hips stuttering once, then twice before he creamed into your pillowy cunt, thick white spurts shooting out as he softly groaned.

He stayed inside for a long second, basking in the moment. He looked down at the pretty sight before him.

You looked positively debauched, claimed, marked. And you were all his.

He committed every bit of this moment to memory. Then he carefully pulled out, watching his seed spill out of you without his cock to plug it in, mixing in with your own sweet slick.

Tartaglia leaned down and gently pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You closed your eyes and melted into it, your body feeling like jelly.

He lay beside you, pulling you into his warm chest as he nuzzled into your neck and kissed the smooth skin.

"You're all mine, you know that?"

You turned around in his arms to look at him with a soft, satiated smile on your lips. You lightly kissed his nose. The curve on your lips widened as you couldn't resist teasing him just a little.

"And all this because you got a little jealous, hm?"

"He tried to sway you from me."

"He was talking."

"He was flirting."

You let out a soft sigh, lightly shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"Still married to me, though. So you love it, don't deny it." He replied easily, a smug smile on his lips.

You smile despite yourself. "Unfortunately."

His expression softened too, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. The gesture was tender and sweet like sugar.

But his next words weren't quite all that warm.

"Keep calling it unfortunate," he murmured, his mouth lingering against your skin.

You looked up at him. "Or what?"

His blue eyes gleamed with a renewed hunger as he looked over your bare body. You were exhausted, but that didn't stop the goosebumps rise in anticipation from his heated gaze. Your stomach fluttered.

"I hope you aren't planning to sleep just yet, sweetheart," he grinned as he moved up to hover over your body again, his eyes tracing over your figure beneath him.

"We've still got a long night ahead."

ʚɞ author's note //

hi sweet angels, I hope you enjoyed my first work on this platform with my favourite character ever! please feel free to leave comments and feedback, I'd love to hear from you. if i missed anything in my warnings, let me know, and I hope u have a blessed day, xx.

© @slimm-bxby I reserve the rights to my own work and under no circumstances shall it be translated, copied or fed into ai.

You were both members of the Knights of Favonius. Although serving under the same system, your jobs differed greatly from one another.

You were more of a white-collared worker compared to Lohen. Being the Grandmaster’s secretary, you were constantly being bombarded with the immense amount of paperwork that Varka refused to handle. While he was away, Jean did do his job. Therefore, ridding you of having to suffer alone, at least for a little while. But ever since Varka had gotten back from Nod-Krai, they had just continued to multiply exponentially!

Always being under such a copious amount of pressure and worrying about seemingly endless deadlines, you couldn’t afford to miss a day of your job. Even when you were sick, you’d still force yourself to clock in. That was how serious you took your job.

But with a grown man clinging to you like a koala, you could barely lift a foot off the ground. Let alone make it out the door.

“Lohen, I really don’t have time for this. You’re gonna make me late…”

Your words fell on deaf ears, Lohen’s grip only got tighter.

“…Nuh-uh. I don’t want to be alone today.”

Well someone’s in a mood.

“Lohen, please!” you plead, making an attempt to move your leg, only for it to stay stuck.

It was comical, really. Lohen rarely got sick, he has the immune system of a bat. So when he does get something like a minute fever, he milks that opportunity dry.

“You’re really going to leave me alone? While I’m practically on my deathbed? You’re too cruel, angel.”

His pout deepens. Then shifted into a feverish grin as he kissed your leg once more. His flushed skin felt warm against yours, and you couldn’t help but shiver.

“…Stay with me,” Lohen murmurs, staring up at you. His eyes glistening from the inflammation to his sinuses.

“Please?”

Damn it! He knew you could never resist whenever he looked like that.

“But…Lohen, I can’t. Gods, I wish I could. But I just can’t afford to miss work.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve already turned in your PTO. Jean reviewed and said you can take today off.”

…Huh?

Your face contorted. Going from confusion, to excitement, then back to confusion once more.

“Wait, what? When’d you—what? When did you turn it in? How—”

Lohen shushed you before you could get another word out. Bringing himself up to your level. You can feel his hot breath fanning against your face with how close you two were.

“That’s not important right now. What is of importance is you being here, and taking care of your deathly ill boyfriend.”

His voice was low, sultry, with a gravelly sound from the cold. A hand cupping your face, as his thumb swiped lightly across your bottom lip. Your eyes widened, face flushing at his subtle tease.

Gods, he’s still a sly little bastard. Even when suffering from sickness.

“How’s that sound?”

You bit the inside of your mouth. Trying to contain yourself, yet you find your resolve beginning to melt under his gaze.

“…Fine, you win!”

Lohen chuckled. His free hand pulling you in, then kissed your temple.

“That’s what I thought. C’mon, you have to take good care of me today.”