LimeCherryade

“How was your day?” You offer, one hand curled around the door handle, the other gripping your towel above your chest. An answer comes in the heavy sigh that escapes him.

“It could’ve been worse,” Zayne says, hand still on his tie. He works the knot apart as he elaborates. “Rounds were clockwork, and I got no grief from any patients.” Pausing, he peels his tie away from his collar, standing to put it elsewhere, or maybe to get away from something unseen. “Then we had a transplant surgery.”

Zayne folds his tie, draping it over his desk chair with an almost gentle motion, staring at the long strip of fabric. Hands moving to unbutton his shirt, he speaks again. “Everything was going fine until a trauma patient came in in the midst of it. I had one hour left of surgery when they told me, and so straight after I scrubbed out, I was already scrubbing in again to help handle it.”

Button after button, his shirt comes undone, hands falling to brace on the chair’s back before he ever takes it off. “We all did what we could.”

Silence follows, but you don’t give it time to thicken. “I don’t doubt that.” 

Zayne smiles, rueful, sparing one last second to let the remnants of the day hang in the air before his gaze slips to you again. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice soft. Straightening, he rids himself of his shirt, like shedding the final weight pressing down on his rigid frame, slinging it alongside his tie.

He turns toward you, taking a step in your direction, broad chest lifting when he draws in breath, falling when he huffs. Zayne rakes a hand through his hair, and by the looks of it, he had done that a lot today.

“Are you going to come out?” He says, brow pinching, green eyes observing your position with slight mirth.

Fingertips tightening on the doorhandle, you push it open slowly, entering the bedroom swathed in a towel, hair damp. Zayne’s gaze flickers down once, assessing, as you walk up to him. The knuckles of his hand brush your cheek, a soothing gesture, and then he cups your face in his hands, thumbs smoothing over your skin.

“I don’t need to be there to know that you did well today, Zayne,” you say, quiet but reassuring. Free hand rising to grasp one of his wrists, you tilt your face into the hand, lips pressing into his palm. “You look tired,” you add, the words partly muffled into his skin.

Zayne nods before bowing down slightly, and you tilt your head to give him a brief, soft kiss. Pulling back, he lets out a breath of air, a small but content smile gracing his features. Hands slipping down to your shoulders, Zayne’s fingertips send shivers where they meet bare skin.

“And how was your day?” He asks, voice quieter now, settled. His thumbs make absent-minded brushes against your collarbone.

“Nothing special,” you murmur. Zayne’s gaze holds yours steadily. “I missed you.”

He keeps his eyes on you for one more moment, then they shift downward. Throat bobbing as he swallows, his tongue darts out to wet his lip. “I missed you too, my love.”

Humming, your stare drifts to the pale expanse of his bare chest, wasting little more time before pressing your cheek into him, over his heart. Your eyes almost fall closed. Zayne’s fingertips trail lower until he’s grazing the top of your towel, skimming them across the material. He feels his way to the centre of your chest, where your hand is bunched up and holding the towel together, letting his finger run just along the underside of your palm. Loosening your grip slightly, your fingers twitch, and he crooks his finger under your hand and into your palm.

You startle slightly when you feel the towel slipping from your grasp, but Zayne leans down, lips brushing over your temple.

“Take it off.”

For all of two seconds, you forget how to breathe. You let your hand unclench, curling around his finger instead, and he slips his hand into yours. Taking a step back, Zayne pulls you forward gently, and as you walk with him, the towel falls, crumpling onto the ground behind you with a soft thud. 

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, Zayne sits, tugging you his way until you’re straddling him, bare thighs draped over his clothed ones. Nose pressing into the side of your neck, he breathes deeply, wrapping his arms around you, two chests pressing together in the silence of the room.

“You smell like my soap,” Zayne comments, lips closing on the skin of your neck, planting a kiss there. You sigh.

“I… missed you,” you repeat, quieter. Arms draped over his shoulders, you nuzzle your face into his clavicle, smelling him and his soap and the antiseptic that had clung on all the way back from the hospital.

Zayne hums, arms loosening, fingertips coming up to draw abstract shapes and lines on your back. Your hands copy, dipping down to rake your nails lightly between his shoulderblades. He shivers, then does the same to you. You squirm.

Hands idly tracing the divots of his back, you bask in the feeling of him wrapped around you, unabashedly. For a long time, you could only imagine yourself in this position if you were different—clean-shaven, prettier, a couple kilos less—but Zayne has never made you feel as if the things you lack make you lesser. Soon enough, you don’t even realise you’re leaning your whole self onto him, and he welcomes all of you with another kiss to the delicate skin of your neck.

“You can rest, if you’re tired,” he whispers, sounding close to sleep himself. “I’ve got you.”

Running a fingertip along his cheek, over the slope of his nose and down to his lips, you linger there for a second longer, giving him a short kiss before turning away. Your legs dangle over the edge of the bed as you stretch your arms above your head, still tired but wanting to do something nice for the man who never fails to put you first.

Some days you wonder how he isn’t completely exhausted juggling not only his demanding job but also his demanding pipsqueak. He must be hiding it.

Yawning so wide your eyes water, you blearily note the sound of rustling fabric. Caleb wraps an arm around your waist from behind, sitting up to rest his head on your shoulder. Maybe you should’ve tried to be a little quieter, a little faster to leave, but you can’t be upset about the way he clings to you—you love it too much.

“Where,” Caleb says, voice a low rasp against your ear, “do you think you’re going?”

Your fingers tighten in the sheets. His morning voice always gets to you. Yet, you sense an undertone of fragility.

“I was going to make you breakfast in bed,” you murmur, one of your hands skimming over the arm wrapped around your midsection.

Caleb huffs, amused. “And I ruined it? Whoopsie.” Tilting his head into your neck, he breathes you in, and your brows crease as you try not to let something so small draw a reaction from you. “But it’s too early for you to be startin’ the day. If you get up now, you’ll want a nap later.”

You sigh. Caleb’s right. You can already feel yourself relaxing back into him as he adjusts to pull you into his lap, your body easily slotting against his own.

“Let me help you with it later, though,” you say begrudgingly.

The muscles in his forearm flex against your stomach as he squeezes you, pressing a kiss to your neck that makes you stiffen. “Alright, alright. We’ll see.”

Tilting your head back, it rests on his shoulder. Caleb’s hands drift either side of your waist, thumbs pressing into your lower back in slow, circular movements reminiscent of a massage. Your hands find his wrists with a sharp inhale, but when he hums into your skin, you let yourself slowly slacken in his hold.

“Mm, that’s it,” he whispers, and your lungs stutter around a breath.

“What’re you doing?”

Caleb’s lips twitch against your skin. “Makin’ you feel all nice and relaxed. It’s working, no?”

As if to prove his point, his hands slide up an inch further, continuing his massage, and your back arches slightly in response. His lips graze the junction of your neck before he sucks lightly on your skin, and the mix of sensations are already dizzying.

“You’re making me feel a little more than relaxed,” you huff, hands slipping down his forearms, feeling the way his movements make for the shifting of muscles and tendons beneath his skin on one arm, the other unyielding metal. It’s anatomy, a basic principle, but somehow it fascinates you in a way, makes your cheeks heat further.

Caleb grins conspiringly, grip on your body tightening. “How so?”

He soothes his tongue over the small mark he made before kissing his way to the collar of your sleep shirt.

“I feel warm, and…” you lose your line of thought, or perhaps you’re too embarrassed to say more.

“And?” Caleb prompts, voice dipping lower, hands stilling on your waist. “If you’re warm, should I take your shirt off?”

Nodding, you pull yourself upright. It’s an excuse, but you both know that. He brings his hands to the hem of the shirt, raising it over your lifted arms and tossing it to the foot of the bed. Caleb hooks his chin over your shoulder, bringing you to lay back against him once more with a hand splayed at your stomach.

“Just look at you,” he murmurs in barely concealed admiration. He grips your jaw, taking a moment to place a smattering of kisses to your neck before coaxing you to glance downward. “Look.”

Caleb’s hand is a perfect fit to your waist—you wear him like he was made for you, or maybe you were made for him, and he can’t help but feel the same way as your supple skin molds to the shape of his fingers. Pressing his palm flat against you, fingers stretched wide, he lets out a breath that passes over the shell of your ear. 

His hands leave you momentarily before skirting over your wrists, drawing a slow line up your forearms, biceps, ending at your shoulders as he clutches them. 

“I want you to watch as I touch you, okay baby? Don’t look away.”

You crane your neck to see his face, and when you glimpse the way he looks so breathless as your eyes meet, it stirs something low in your stomach. “Caleb…” 

He simply catches your jaw once more and angles it how it was before. Anticipation makes your breath come short as you watch his palms smooth over your chest, catching your nipples in a way that makes you lean into the contact. His fingertips trace your sternum, moving lower as his hands wrap either side of your waist, sliding upwards and feeling along the bones of your ribcage. He makes it to your chest again, cupping your boobs, and you lean further back against him, the both of you trying to control your breathing.

“Please, Caleb,” you say, voice quiet and unsteady. Your eyes stay on his hands, mostly because he asked you, though the sight is hard to look away from in and of itself.

Caleb gasps, almost silently. “You don’t need to beg me, my pretty girl. I’ll always give you what you want,” he says, but you have a feeling he likes hearing you ask for it.

Caleb's fingertips skim your nipples, repeating that same little sweep of his fingers after you make a breathy sound. Just faint, drawn out touches of the pads of his fingers have you gripping his arms, the gentle, observant way he handles you making your heart flutter. You don’t even notice your eyes have closed, your body chasing his hands each time he pulls them away.

Fingertips closing around the buds, he rolls them, pinches them, does whatever will get you to go soft and pliant and needy under his hands. 

“How do you feel now?” He asks, head dipping down to meet your neck. “Still ‘warm, and’?”

Nodding, your nails bite into his skin slightly as he makes out with your throat. “Ah—It’s good, you feel good.”

“Oh—”

Squirming, your legs manage to part over one of his thighs, and the pressure against your core feels relieving to the ache that’s becoming more apparent. You sense Caleb’s gaze, his muffled moan as you rock your hips against his thigh, just a small shift in your hips that feels lewd to be seen doing.

When his thigh lifts beneath you, you whine, rolling your hips far more openly, and Caleb seems to be done with whatever it is you’d started doing, quickly pulling you closer and lying back on the bed with you both on your sides, him spooning you. Palm sliding down to your legs, he pulls the top one securely over his thigh before parting his own legs, and you’re forced open with him. You tense, instinctively trying to close up, but one is hiked high over his thigh and his other leg rests over yours, pressing it into the mattress when he feels you move.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” Caleb pants, and you can feel his bulge twitch against you, fingers teasing the waistband of your sleep shorts. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll make you feel more than just good, yeah? Anything you want.”

Muttering an utterly wrecked assent, you feel his hand slip beneath your shorts, rapidly seeking out your wet folds. You both moan as Caleb feels how soaked you are for him, your breath hitching at the first glide of his fingers through your heat.

“You’re dripping,” Caleb groans, stroking you slowly. 

Thighs quivering, you whimper, reaching to grasp at the closest part of him you can reach, which happens to be his arm again. You’re not disappointed. You call out his name under your breath.

Caleb slides the first digit into you, pressing up against your walls. The drag out is careful, and he pushes back in just as steadily, the depth alone reaching parts of you that your smaller fingers struggle to find. Pulling out, his finger makes its way to your clit, pressing down and making slow circles on the sensitive bud while you let out a faint sound into the thick air between you.

“Shh,” he says, lips attached to your neck, breathing you in. “Caleb’s gonna take care of you.”

“You’re so nice to me,” you reply, a little lost in his big warm hold.

A breathy laugh escapes him, reverberates through his chest into your back. “That’s right…”

And he does take care of you. After toying with your clit until you’re almost dizzy, slack against him, he lines two fingers up to your hole, pushing them in as deep as they’ll go. You moan at the stretch of him, clenching around him as he sets a fast pace, fingertips knocking against your walls, searching for that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

“Caleb, Caleb, ah—” you breathe, gripping his arm with vigour, rocking your hips into his hand as much as the position will let you. Caleb whimpers into your neck, watching the display, trying not to cum in his pants from how you’re grinding your ass over his boner each time you shift your hips. When you keen loudly, head falling back, he knows to keep angling his fingers right there, at the spot that’ll make you fall apart on his fingers.

You squirm at his relentless precision, and Caleb’s other arm wraps around you, pulling your body the rest of the way atop his own, thighs spread over his as you lay fully against his chest. Your legs tremble in an effort to shut, and he uses his evol to hold them in place. A wave of arousal shoots to his dick at how easy it is to restrain you, how you don’t fight against it .

“Cum, cum all over my hand,” Caleb rasps, voice right beside your ear, sounding almost as undone as you are. “Cum for me.”

Bringing your hand to your mouth, you bite down on your skin, but Caleb is quick to remove it, replacing it with his fingers. He shoves them halfway into your mouth as your orgasm hits, and you moan around them, back arching sharply whilst he fingers you through it.

“Good girl,” you hear in the midst of it all.

Your hips slow their movements, and your hazy stare meets the ceiling. Caleb’s hand stops moving, remaining inside you as he pulls his fingers from your mouth to trail them over your chest softly, leaving a path of saliva in their wake. Still catching your breath, you sigh as he directs his attention to your boobs again, pinching one nipple softly, teasing the bud between his fingertips.

“When I’m lookin’ at you from here, I can see what you see,” Caleb murmurs, voice close. A pleasant tingle runs down your spine. “I can feel when you move, smell your shampoo, your perfume, your scent.”

He gives your nipple one sharp pinch before moving to the other. Your head falls to face the side.

“I feel you too,” you respond. Caleb’s dick is leaking a wet spot through his clothes and your shorts, pressing against your behind. You shift your hips over him and he grunts, hand coming to hold you in place.

“Wait, baby,” he speaks in a soft voice, and his fingers start moving inside you again, setting the same rapid pace as before. Whining, your hands slam against the mattress as you try to push up, but Caleb wraps an arm around you to pull you down again.

“Caleb, hurts—” you cry out at the overstimulation, body writhing helplessly.

“You can take it,” he says, holding you tight. “Unless you want to stop?”

“No!”

“I don't want to either.”

Caleb’s evol prevents your legs from kicking out, and you feel a little like a pinned bug when there’s nothing you can do to escape him. The sensations are overwhelming, painful, but still so good, and you’re not sure whether to chase them or run away. You’re given neither option, anyway. 

Eventually, you stop fighting, going boneless atop him.

“See? Knew you could do it,” Caleb breathes.

By the time he slows, you’re not sure if you want him to. He halts to a slow grind inside you, thumb finding your clit as you moan weakly. Then, he scissors your walls, and your body jolts at the feeling. A third digit prods at your entrance. You squeak as it joins the rest, a tight fit, but not painful.

“Squeezin’ my fingers so tight.” Caleb thrusts them into you shallowly. “Do you want me even deeper? Need you, pips.”

You fight the haze in your mind as you reply. “Been so good to me, Caleb. I want you to have it. Want you inside.”

Caleb nips the shell of your ear, shoving his fingers as deep as they’ll go before pulling them out, releasing his evol’s hold on your body to pull your shorts and panties down your hips. You move your legs to help him get them past your knees, kicking them off when they slip down to your ankles to the far corner of the bed. 

Grabbing an unoccupied pillow, he tugs it closer and flips you both over, slipping it beneath your hips. You let out a breath as your cheek meets the mattress, going lax as he cards a hand through your hair and tilts himself to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, but his smile is so soft, hair falling against a forehead beaded with sweat, face flushed.

“I love you,” he says warmly, pressing a kiss to your shoulderblade. “More than you’ll know.”

You watch him. He averts his gaze downward, shucks off his pants, makes a little sound as his dick is freed. Caleb adjusts the position of your thighs and slides his tip over your folds, using one hand to smear your juices all over himself, the other holding himself up, his thick bicep almost close enough to your face to bite. He starts to push himself in.

“I love you too,” you finally say, squinting at the stretch of him—it hurts, but it’s delicious all the same. “You’re… everything to me.”

Caleb looks up, gaze locking onto yours. His other arm braces at your other side, his face bowing to press a kiss to your cheek. Brows creasing, your hand finds one of his.

“Do it,” you whisper.

Shuddering, his hips slam into yours, filling you all the way, your body being pushed against the bed. Neither of you look away from each other. The sound you make is high pitched and a little pained, and Caleb summons all his restraint to let you adjust, grinding into you gently and singing your praises between breathy whimpers, even as your nails dig into his skin.

At some point, your eyes drift shut. Tension and pain bleeds out of your body, world narrowing to the warm air and your combined breaths, Caleb’s dick nudging a place high, high up inside you, his voice next to your ear. You forget everything besides him, remember nothing but the present, pulled into a world where your growing, mounting pleasure is all you can feel. You are light, warm, held.

“Oh, honey,” Caleb rasps, deepening his thrusts. “You feel good?”

You don’t know what your face is doing. The press of his hips against your own is heavenly, the sounds you make together are lewd, and through everything you find that you can’t respond to him. Caleb loves you, is making love to you, and you love him so much, too.

“Mmh, you’re so cute,” he says, expression fond. Then his breath hitches, and he sighs into your hot skin. “Sucking me in. Never wanna leave you.”

Caleb drapes his body over your own, fucking you in earnest, and you take it, grinding back against him without realising, back arched sharply. The pressure of his body against yours still accommodates both your rapid breaths. Feeling him so deep, so close, makes your heart feel full and warm. Your body parts around his dick, lets him in, accepts every inch, all he’ll give.

Your legs start to tremble as your orgasm approaches, little tremors that, alongside your pulsing walls, tell him you’re on the brink of falling apart.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum baby,” Caleb moans. “Love you love you love you…”

You don’t know who cums first, so inextricably entwined in this moment that it’s anyone’s guess. Caleb thrusts into you until you both have matching tears of overstimulation, until he physically can’t keep going on. Then, just before you pass out, he lays himself beside you and pulls you into his arms.

—

You wake up redressed in warm pyjamas, clean and pleasantly limp, to Caleb stroking your cheek. He gives you one of those smiles that make you want to keep him in your arms for an eternity.

“Hey, how are you feeling? I made us pancakes,” Caleb says, helping you sit up. When you immediately cling to him, he laughs and hugs you back.

“I’m feeling hungry,” you pout. “And I need to pee. But… I thought you said you’d let me help with breakfast?”

Caleb hums in consideration. “Oh, really? I never heard such a thing.” Leaning down, he kisses your forehead. “Besides, when have I not taken care of you? Making breakfast is a piece of cake.”

Huffing, you try to turn away from him, but he only pulls you closer. “You spoil me.”

“Yep, and I’ll have you know Caleb’s got a lot more love where that’s comin’ from, Pipsqueak,” he says, lifting you up and walking you to the bathroom. “That’s for sure.”

Slow breaths come from beside you—Phainon at rest is a rare and beautiful sight. Surely you can tilt your head a fraction to have him in view? Though, if you are going to move, it might as well be to a place you can deal with this feeling.

You spend a short amount of time deliberating, only to prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at the man cosied under the duvet, hair splayed over a plush cushion. Ambient light casts enough radiance through the curtained window to gently set aglow his features. It’s instinct to reach over and tuck a few strands behind his ear, and the softness of it—of him—helps for a moment.

Perhaps, as you run your thumb over his cheek, you wish him to wake. Likely, the larger part of you, the one fostering a growing emptiness, hopes for the opposite. Naturally, Phainon encourages you to reach out when you start spiralling; it’s all in vain.

When you were sick as a child, you used to wait outside of your mother’s room until you found it quite unbearable to deal with the pain. Waking someone only to burden them with a problem you can handle feels both embarrassing and selfish. Then, there was your mother’s morning grumpiness. Truth be told, where there were inches between you and her, never did the space close the way you wanted.

So, you look at your little sleepyhead like the child that you were, are, and always will be. Hesitancy, conflicting feelings and a bridge you toe the line at before walking away, looking back periodically as if you expect the scenery to change. Slowly, you sit upright, hair falling over your shoulders as your feet dangle over the side of your bed.

If you listen closely, there is a buzz airborne in silence. You wonder what true silence sounds like, if the drone is just a part of it. You watch your palms as they turn face up in your lap.

Just a single blade, the nails on your fingers, the burning cherry of a cigarette. The hot metal of the spoon you use to stir your coffee. Scars brand your skin. You wonder what you would look like without them sometimes, though you can only ever add more to the array now. When something is already ruined, it must not make much difference. Bandages will always come with a soft pressure and the feeling that you did something good for once in your life.

But what do you do when it all comes crashing down? What do you do when people can’t take it anymore? Hiding things doesn’t work when you have someone so close to you. You haven’t decided whether this fact is reassuring, frightening, or a completely deplorable thing for you to ever rely on.

Instead of leaving, you sit on the floor, hard wood of the bedframe against your back. It’s uncomfortable, though maybe the cold would force you back into bed. Your thoughts flit from one thing to the next as you rest your head on your knees.

—

“Hey.”

Gently shaken awake, your eyes meet Phainon’s chest first of all—he is kneeling at your level. His lips twitch into a small smile, hand on your knee.

“I can’t imagine it was comfy to sleep there, hm? What’s up?”

On second look, Phainon’s hair is still mussed from sleep, stifling a yawn as he rubs his thumb over your kneecap. You’re feeling pretty bleary yourself, just the echo of your earlier feelings leaving you to frown slightly.

Straightening, you rub your eyes and take hold of his hand. Phainon is quick to pull you close, humming in amusement as you cling onto him. 

“You’re so cute when you’re all tired,” he says, voice low enough to blend seamlessly with the quietude. “C’mere princess, back to bed.”

Phainon lifts you up—the weightlessness soothing—and sets you down in the centre of the mattress, which yields softly under your body. Sighing, you stretch out your stiff limbs and sink into the comfort gratefully, eyeing Phainon. It could be considered very early morning, if the light is anything to go by. He tugs the blanket over you both as he lies beside you, propped up on an elbow as his lips brush your cheek. Pulling back, he gives you a soft look.

You start talking before you can regret the words, wanting to speak to him truthfully. “I woke up last night.”

Phainon waits for you to continue.

“I don’t know why I was so upset. It feels kind of stupid now.”

Blinking down at you, Phainon shakes his head, then kisses your temple. “It’s not stupid,” he says, holding your gaze. “But why the floor?”

You avert your eyes, unsure if you’re willing to admit how close you were to harming yourself. And over what, exactly? Ironically, the shame is enough to cultivate the beginning of another spiral. Would it even matter, though? It’s not as if you actually did anything.

Phainon taps your cheek, prompting you to look at his frowny face. Your lips tick up sheepishly. 

“I guess I didn’t want to wake you with all the cogs whirring,” you end up saying, gesturing vaguely to your head.

Phainon hums and leans closer, something slightly analytical about the way he watches you. “Don’t be worried about that, alright? I’d much rather you let me hold your hand through it than have you sleeping on the floor.”

He rolls on top of you, thighs bracketing your waist. “Not to mention that I hate waking up without you next to me.”

Phainon’s fingers trail up your jaw. His hair brushes your face as he kisses your forehead, and he draws back as if reluctant to do so. You look at him with this slightly awed expression, one that makes him grin.

The parting is brief. Phainon’s nose brushes yours, his half-lidded eyes flitting between your own before your lips are pressing together—a few light, fleeting kisses that turn deep. Your hands crawl up to his shoulders, fingers finding the soft cotton of his shirt, grasping like they ought to stay there. 

After pulling away, Phainon licks your lips, then kisses your chin. He nips along your jawline, all the way to the base of your ear, and then he sighs, all shaky and pulled from the back of his throat. It is a beautiful sound.

“I adore you,” he whispers, fingers tilting up your chin, and you are pliant. Phainon’s teeth scrape the delicate skin of your neck and his hand cradles your face as if it’ll always slot perfectly into place right there; he is all you can think of. “So warm…”

Gulping down something sickly sweet, your fingers tangle into the strands of his hair, pulling gently at every butterfly that flutters about your gut. Your pulse beats thick and hot, fierce enough to be seen just under the skin, felt by lips that hover about like they don’t know where to plant themselves next.

Phainon slips his hand from your cheek to the collar of your nightwear, tracing the fabric before tugging it further down the slope of your shoulder. Mouth following the movement, he peppers kisses along your collarbones, the sound echoing among your collective breaths in the quiet morning.

Continuing their path, his nails trace lightly down your sleeve. Fabric ripples, all too gratified to be crumpled beneath such earnest touch, all until his palm meets yours. Phainon sits up, thighs either side of your waist, eyeing your relaxed, supine form. He loves when you start to melt beneath him, that pretty blush bridging from cheek to nose to cheek like some celestial pathway.

“You know,” he starts slowly, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “Sometimes, you get this shy little smile when you’re lying.”

Phainon tilts his head, an insistent push of his cheek against your inner wrist, nuzzling your arm.

“And it's okay, alright? It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, if last night was really nothing for me to worry about—I might be misinterpreting, but I’m… I’d never be upset with you, only ever happy that you’re by my side.”

And he kisses the scars on your wrist, because they are you and he loves every facet of your being. It is foreign. Without really meaning to, your arm starts to withdraw from his grip. Phainon holds onto the limb like he won’t let this pass, eyes gleaming with resolution. You look at him, your limp arm, then the ceiling, briefly. Contemplating whether to say what comes to mind.

 “Someone touched my scars before. Recoiled in disgust. Said they felt gross,” you admit, pausing for a second to consider the memory. “You don’t have to do so much for me, Phainon.”

“Yet I will never see loving you as a chore, not in my life,” Phainon says, voice a sure murmur against your skin. His brows draw low. “I have scars, too. You know this, and you’ve loved them dearly. What makes yours so shameful?”

You halt. They’re shameful because they shouldn’t be there, shameful because you caused them, shameful because they demand attention. They’re shameful because they frustrate and they are loathed and sometimes it all validates you in this truly abhorrent way.

Phainon says your name—part plea, part steely, laced with a slight roughness. 

“You’re not shameful.”

Instinctively, you open your mouth to refute the words. For a large part of your life, that has been your only truth. Your existence is for shame. 

With a brief, unapologetic sort of smile, Phainon presses a finger to your lips, settling for a moment and pulling away when it passes.

“It is fact. No room for questions.”

He gazes at you, all silent vehemence and sturdy muscle. A time ago, such imposing strength wouldn’t invoke the warmth it does now, but he makes it so easy to feel safe in his arms. You really don’t deserve him. You wonder what he sees in you, if anything.

The ceiling is wide and bland in its stippled paint, light clawing where the curtains do not shield. As you watch the dappled sunlight, you think to say something that isn’t a jab at yourself. But, ultimately…

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t speak. Let yourself feel—it’s why the body cries,” Phainon says simply, pressing his forehead against your shoulder. “I’m here.”

He’s here, and it’s half the war in your mind; for better or for worse (you know it is for better, deep down), you let him triumph. Shallowly, you seek salvation in another once more, anticipating that moment of terrible reckoning—the moment they pull away. How many times has he been there for you in your distress, and you the same for him? At what point does that sort of connection bloom into unwavering trust?

When is it time to let go of your reservations, to fall into another’s comfort so inextricably? He has earned that, at least. 

It all feels stupid. The barrier you spent so long constructing has served you naught but more internal conflict. Being aware of the faults in it does not make it easier to tear down in the least, for it is a safety net in the discomfort of vulnerability. Still, his love is patiently eroding that which holds you back from him, like he can’t stand space, no matter the distance.

Phainon flops over and rests beside you, arms encircling your body and pulling you chest to chest, holding you tightly. You were both so touch-starved when you met.

“Thanks, Phainon,” you mumble into his collar, tears stinging your eyes before they fall. “For the closeness. For being a constant. For being you. For choosing me. I… I really love you, okay? More than I know how to express.”

The moon is full and large, yellowish and bright behind the branches of a tree. The church is backlit like some kind of grandiose temple, though you barely see anyone enter or leave anymore. The night is eerily quiet, and you even wonder absently if you had crossed over to the other plane yourself.

Not a moment passes before the lantern’s flame dims, and you think that maybe this will be the end of things.

A crushing sensation wracks your whole body, something you recognise as your soul being touched and grasped in something like a large fist, and you clench your teeth to focus on rebuilding the protective barriers around it. Souls are something you’re innately aware of, and you strongly desire for yours to remain your own.

Kicking out a leg behind you, you can feel it go through a body so viscous and cold your own temperature drops. You know, then, that this entity is too powerful for a weak ghost whisperer like you. Nonetheless, you brace yourself; a fight like this will take everything you have, but you don’t plan on going down easy. Will you become one of the mumbling ghosts sitting beside their graves with their head in their hands?

A brilliant purple flame bursts forth, emerging from the lantern—or perhaps it is the lantern itself—before passing through you and causing whatever was behind you to release your soul. Warmth does not come from the flames but from your own relief.

After gathering yourself, you turn around to face a thing swathed in deep black bandages, all clawed hands and pinkish extremities and white hair, with a high collar that mirrored that of the figure with its back to you.

“Persistent fae,” it all but growls behind the bandages at its mouth, “I will turn you to dust if you do not relinquish my heart.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening,” the Fae says, summoning a tall spear, “Leader of the Wild Hunt.”

As they butt heads in a dance of blade and claw, you stay well back; this is not your fight, nor do you know either of their motives. Still, you condense a portion of your will in an attempt to help the fae, since he had saved you so kindly. You can’t do much with your measly power, but surely it’s better than doing nothing at all.

Both men are well in battle, though they make a racket you are glad others are blissfully unaware of. Crossing your arms anxiously, you take note of the occasional piece of gravel being kicked up, discerning that their bodies are somewhat corporeal, which is unsettling. The Wild Hunt… You have never heard of it.

It comes suddenly: the fae is thrown a distance away, landing none too softly on one knee and muttering an echo of words in some lost language. Stalking towards him is the probable antagonist, murderous intent clear, and there is nothing you can do about it. Digging your nails into your arms, you watch from the sidelines as a helpless civilian who knows too much yet cannot act. If that fae is dust, will that other thing run rampant?

However, the fae slips into a lunging stance unnoticed, tightening his grip on his polearm, waiting. Waiting for an opening. If that’s all you need to do, far be it from you to run now. You press your lips together. There’s nothing to use but yourself.

“Hey, big boy!” You make yourself known again before you can think out your words, almost regretting it when his eyes pierce yours. But the fae strikes hard and fast, landing a few hits before the other can block. One, aimed at the centre of his chest, seems to incapacitate him, and it’s then that he retreats into some kind of portal as if realising an exploitable weakness. An unsettling silence comes after.

The fae turns to face you, lips pulled taut in what might be a grimace. He walks toward you, posture proper, long hair like something regal, and a fitted coat with torn ends. Inclining his head, he smiles politely, contrasting the shadow of a grave-set expression.

“My sincere apologies for getting you caught up in such a fight, miss.”

You take a breath, quite awed by his manner of speaking. Just who is he?

“Please, you saved me,” you smile back, placing a hand over your heart. “Thank you.”

The man's face relaxes marginally before he slips into a full bow. “My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, though just Flins will suffice,” he says, tone soft. “May I ask who I have the honour of meeting at this nightly hour?”

You give your name as he straightens, eyes never straying from each other. It’s an odd feeling, not as if he’s worlds away like the regular ghosts you see.

“And who might you be, Flins?” You ask with unconcealed curiosity, tilting your head to the side, studying the draping silver chains and lantern hanging from his belt.

“You are quite perceptive,” he says vaguely, placing a hand behind his back. “I am a Lightkeeper, though I don’t suppose that is the answer you wish to hear. I appear to have entered a place unknown to me.”

“You don’t know where you are?” You ask, confused and a little sad. “A Lightkeeper…”

“Are you unfamiliar with the term?” Flins asks.

“A little. I don’t think they’re common here.”

Flins hums, looking up at the church he had appeared at the doorstep of with an intrigued set of the brow. “Which archon do you worship?”

“Archon?” You mumble, assuming what he means based on context. “W–well, I don’t personally worship any gods, but I think this is a Catholic church.”

Turning back to face you, Flins crosses his arms, placing a thoughtful, gloved finger on his chin. “This may well be a lot to ask, but would you mind accompanying me whilst I am situated in this foreign world?”

“Deliverer?” A voice asks, confused.

Khaslana could only turn dejectedly, facing the mettlesome man. Mydeimos’ face is cast in pale light, his brows low, brights of his eyes but thin slits.

“What happened to you?”

His voice is raw, lip curling up at the edge. Khaslana almost hesitates as he turns tail to leave, yet a curling grip over his wrist prevents him from taking a second step away.

“You were fine just hours ago,” Mydei presses blatantly, likely suspicious. “How…?”

Khaslana stills. How long it had been since he had felt a gentle touch like this, he does not know. Detached as ever, Mydei only deigns to pull on his wrist with fingers sheathed in gauntlets, stiff gold clawing against his skin in a way far more beautiful than how the man’s blood might later stain it.

At any time, he could free himself and walk away; still, Khaslana lets himself be pulled into one of the secluded bath rooms. He doesn’t look at Mydei’s back—doesn’t acknowledge that wrongly placed trust—but when those feet breach the water, Khaslana realises he is simply helpless to follow. Mydei turns to see him awkwardly step into the shallow end of the bath.

“I won’t ask, then,” he speaks, hand releasing Khaslana’s wrist, “just bathe, Deliverer. You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

Water brushes up against Mydei’s waist as he settles into the water, watching Khaslana expectantly. He settles opposite, like how they always used to sit, though his muscles are stiff with a soul-deep tension.

Khaslana swallows dryly. “This is unnecessary.”

Dirt clings to him like a thinner second skin, or perhaps it is his skin because his soul knows not the difference. Khaslana is blood and mud and numbers.

Mydei holds his gaze like a demand. “You know better than to let things fester.”

“It’s curtain-fall hour. We shouldn’t be in the baths.”

“Would you prefer we go to your room?”

Khaslana looks away—he has no room here.

Hot water ripples in a steady stream, doing away with the old water and bringing in the new. The muck on his body taints the water. When Mydei moves, Khaslana’s head whips up to look.

Mydei raises a brow. “You need soap. I’ll be back.”

Maybe this would have been Phainon’s cue to make a joke. Any attempt to do so now turns to ash on his tongue, though he expects it would be too little, too late either way, and Mydei leaves him. Khaslana reminds himself of the choice to leave and how he has always had it, wondering what exactly keeps him here. He is tethered to this moment like it might save him.

Wading to one side of the bath, he curls his hands at the edge, where water ends and floor begins. Droplets spill over the threshold. He notices the flecks of gold under his fingernails. 

Whose blood could it be? Where is Mydei? Right, Mydei left to get soap. Khaslana is sure of this, he thinks. Doubt seeps in like a vignette, where lines have always been blurred to him. If this is real, when is the bloodshed?

Where is Mydei? He left to get soap. This is a conclusion he is becoming less sure of. If he looks closely, there is blood under his fingernails and it’s on his hands, too, and in the water, and Mydei’s body bobs like a buoy on sea where the currents of the black tide swallow him whole and turn him into one of those hulking masses born of something corrupt, and Phainon will have to draw his sword again to cut him down. He weakly clamps a hand over his mouth, looking on in a kind of horror he hasn’t felt for lifetimes or maybe just hours because he’s beginning to lose track of the difference. Khaslana’s lungs stutter to a stop. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. Khaslana can’t move from where he stands, watching monsters devour his friends like how the people of Aedes Elysiae were helpless to the tide and turned to consume their kin with limbs seeping with rot.

If he is their hope, and he has all but lost it, what now?

Khaslana’s hand is torn from his mouth, vision swimming with motion. He thrashes weakly as his back hits the bath’s edge.

“Titans, Deliverer. Breathe,” Mydei grunts, holding aside both his wrists.

Mydeimos is gold, always—a molten and lustrous gold, inside and out. Dawnbreaker does not pierce his back. Where there was once blood, the water is clear. Only they occupy the space. Which is the illusion? The here and now, or the seconds-ago nightmare?

He stares for a long while, studying every feature on Mydei’s face as if picking apart a veil, but there is no illusion to be found. Not after checking once, nor twice, nor after glaring at Phagousa’s blessed water so hard he is sure he curses it. 

Mydei has warm hands, felt even under the gauntlets. After some time, he realises they are breathing the same pattern. Khaslana is torn between pulling him closer and stabbing Dawnbreaker through his spine. He recoils at the thought, looking at Mydei like a deer in headlights. The man only releases Khaslana’s wrists in lieu of crossing his arms.

“Oh,” Khaslana says.

“Glad you’re back with me,” Mydei says as he steps forward, picking up the soap bottles he’d dropped at the edge of the bath. “I brought mine. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

They both smile weakly.

“Look,” Mydei sighs. “I said I wouldn’t question things.”

Khaslana blinks; he looks off, somewhere far. “Are you trusting of anyone who wears my face?”

“Do you happen to have a doppelganger?”

Shrugging, he runs a wet hand through his hair. He wants to laugh and he wants to cry.

“I don’t know anymore, Mydeimos. I’m just so tired.”

“Let’s clean you up. Then, you can rest.”

Khaslana laughs bluntly, grabbing a fistful of his own hair and tugging on the strands. He doesn’t know what to do anymore, tired of trying to live among constant loss. If he relaxes now, he might simply never wake again.

“There is no rest.”

Huffing, Mydei grabs his arm. “Tough. I’m making it happen.”

Soap lands on the back of his hand. Before it can slide from his skin, Mydei catches it—he quite literally is making it happen—and rubs the viscous liquid over his begrimed flesh.

“When did you go soft?” Khaslana’s face screws up.

“We aren’t fighting right now, Deliverer,” the man responds, proceeding to dunk Khaslana’s head under the water with a grip at his neck. When he pulls him back up, dripping and gasping with shock, Mydei grins. “What, I can’t do something nice?”

Khaslana laughs despite himself, pressing back some sopping blond strands from his eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

“The sentiment is shared.”

Shoving the soap into Khaslana’s arms, Mydei peruses the label of his shampoo with a tease. “Are you sure you can wash yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he hums. “I might need the crown prince to do it.”

It takes a few moments to peel off his sodden shirt. It’s a little freeing to disregard the rules every once in a while, though he’s worried this bath may need a deep clean once he’s done with it.

(Phagousa’s waters are said to cleanse the wounds of the soul—Khaslana is sure to corrupt any benefits of this particular bath for the indefinite future.)

“That can be arranged,” Mydei hums as he slides his gauntlets off his wrists.

He glances at Khaslana’s chest, where traces of gold weave jutting lines over his skin like open wounds. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, yet can only look on with a sense of mild vexation. Khaslana takes notice, regarding his own body like it is a shameful object.

Eyes downcast, he splays a hand over the marks. “Ah, I guess they’ve gotten bigger.”

Who knew so many coreflames could cause your body to burst at the seams?

“You’re incredibly reckless,” Mydei frowns. “Need I remind you to take care of yourself?”

Smiling, Khaslana looks aside. “No,” he says, lips wobbling imperceptibly. “But you always do, and it means a lot to me. What would I do without you, Mydei?”

Slowly, in a manner that may likely be attributed to reluctance, Mydei pours some shampoo onto his palm before setting aside the bottle. He gestures for Khaslana to turn around and then plants his hands in his hair.

“Deliverer.”

Mydei’s nails scratch against his scalp occasionally, Khaslana leaning into it against his will. For all that the man can pack a punch, his touch can be twice as gentle.

“You are the finest warrior I know.”

Trickling water echoes about the room, leaving faint, moving patterns to bounce and reflect over the walls. Khaslana swallows something bitter—he never wanted to be the Deliverer. Nonetheless, the praise is scooped up in feeble hands and cradled as if it’s the fuel that will keep them moving. 

“Yet you come to me with your open wounds,” Mydei grazes a finger over a small mark on his shoulder, “and look at me like you want to be saved.”

He lets Mydei scoop water over his hair, rinsing out bubbles with a large palm at his forehead, keeping the suds from his eyes. Khaslana wants to lean back, to lay his head on Mydei’s shoulder and maybe curl around him like a parasite. An ugly, foreboding sort of feeling clawing at his insides.

Khaslana pulls away, turning to glance at his friend. “I’m sorry, Mydeimos. I think I’ve spent too long here.”

Mydei only levels him a look, as if to call him out on his poor excuse to leave. 

“Being vulnerable sometimes is an admirable thing,” he says, that one strawberry blonde plait of his brushing his collarbone as he tilts his head. “I won’t let you push me away because you feel weak for it.”

Straightening, Khaslana blinks. “Of course…”

“I care about you.”

Somehow, both their eyes widen, though Mydei settles his gaze soon after. It's more than true, but things still feel left unsaid.

Khaslana’s lips draw into a grim line. “And I—Mydei, I,” he stammers, blazing gold eyes like a soft, patient weight on his form. “Me too, I really…”

After taking a short breath, Khaslana’s head drops, hair casting his eyes in shadow. His mind replays every moment, every cycle where he’s wanted nothing but to sit in peace like this with the man beside him. It mocks him with his own memories, recalling the only fate that responds. Just once; can he have this just once?

“I really like you.”

Regret never follows his words. How could it, when they will not be remembered? Still, the words are only an implication of the truth, of his truth, so much so that it’s agonising. Nothing concludes; nothing will.

He watches Mydei’s hand lift and ball itself into a loose fist, unnaturally stagnant. Without another word, Khaslana turns his back to him.

---

𝕏𝕚𝕒𝕠 - bringing you things like a stray cat

You’ve made yourself at home in Xiao’s room at Wangshu Inn. Xiao barely uses it anyway, but he seems to prefer it like this.

You might be reading a book under the glow of a full moon, white light filtering through the gaps in the curtains. The window is left slightly ajar, the breeze only strong enough to futilely brush against the fabric. Paper crinkles as you turn a page.

Xiao appears directly in front of you, a smudged splatter of blood against his cheek. His eyes don’t waste a second focusing on yours.

“Here,” he says, placing something in your lap. It clinks as he lets go, the silver chain almost slipping between your legs before you squeeze them together.

“Thank you?” You reply, faint amusement mingling with your confusion. Smiling, you pick up the dainty necklace, the pendant falling against your wrist as you hold it up to look at. Before you can lay eyes on Xiao again, he disappears in a wisp of teal smoke.

Where he got this from… you suppose it doesn’t matter. You wonder if he saw it and thought of you. As you put it on, sweeping aside your hair, the metal warms quickly, adjusting to your body heat. Your small grin doesn’t fade for a long while after.

That night passes quietly. Xiao visits once more when you are blissfully asleep, eyeing the necklace falling over your collarbones. He reaches out, fingers slipping under the chain for only a moment before pulling back, eyes closing as he sighs. Settling onto his knees, Xiao watches your sleeping face for a time, though he cannot stay forever.

(Cue morning, where you stumble across a small cloth with a few berries atop, like some sort of breakfast offering. You will have to make almond tofu again soon, you decide.)

𝔽𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕤 - digging up random stuff (for his collection of more random stuff)

Final Night Cemetery: a sea of stones engulfed in darkness, save for the stark glint at the lighthouse’s peak and the soft-hued ghosts at its plinth. One might find a man in dark robes adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, staring out at the sea or analysing a headstone.

Flins’ long hair drapes over his shoulders as he leans down, pressing at the earthy ground with gloved fingertips. He seems to do nothing but that, humming and standing as he summons his lantern with just a flick of the wrist. Gazing down at the area, eyes gleaming, he’d perhaps walk away soon after, chin tucked into his high collar while a light wind blows at his back.

Not long later, one might not see a man at all at first glance. 

Flins hunches over himself, lantern propped up on a piece of rock at his side. Steadily, a hole deepens as his hands seek out something buried under. If, by chance, what he procures is to his tastes, he would wash it carefully at the water’s edge before adding it to his collection of trinkets, bones, gems and coins. Flins knows value better than a crow that seeks silver.

You think to ask him whether he is searching for something in particular, a thing as old as he, perhaps.

“If there is anything left of that bygone Snezhnayan age,” Flins says, words soft and pensive, “I think I would like to see it.”

Of course, for things from so long ago to drift so far is a fleeting thought at best.

𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕣 - nights of reflection

“Are you going to bed tonight?” You ask quietly to the back turned to you.

There’s a short movement of the chest, his arm coming up to lean against the back of his chair as he turns to you.

“I haven’t decided yet. Why?” Wanderer says, voice curt, lips slightly downturned.

Giving him a shrug and a half smile, you walk up to him. The window is large enough that you can see the sky, where his gaze rests once more. Blanketed by cool silence, you wait until either one of you has words worth speaking. Maybe this is some sort of introspective period for him.

“A puppet who gazes at a faux sky. I can’t decide whether it’s mocking or fitting,” Wanderer smiles wryly.

You hum, glancing briefly at his face. Wanderer has never been one for sentimentality, but words stir in your mind all the same.

“Later, I’ll perhaps go to sleep and mimic that, too.”

Turning towards Wanderer, you eye him carefully. He raises a brow before screwing them both together.

“Hah, don’t be like that. Doesn’t the night leave you pensive?” He asks, tapping his fingers against the backrest of his chair before swinging his arm up, resting his chin on a fist.

He has a strange way of attempting to provoke you to speak. It’s almost as if those eyes are begging for you to acknowledge him. Whether something heavier than he lets on is clawing at his insides, you don’t know. Leaning closer slightly, you think to reach out before deciding against it.

“Your touch always feels pretty real to me.” 

The words weren’t spoken in any particular way. It left your lips innocent and slightly quiet, yet Wanderer felt his brain drifting, as if you’d predicted it would happen. He stands rather abruptly, face thunderous and eyes distant.

“I’m going to brew tea.”

I didn't wanna leave his picture out TwT

𝕂𝕒𝕫𝕦𝕙𝕒 - whom knows a little about a lot

Kazuha knows how to light a campfire. Of course he does. He knows how to hunt for food, sharpen a knife, take care of his katana and fletch arrows. He does not rush when preparing meals. You would hope these all come with the territory of ‘survival skills’—things to hone as he so often lives with danger at his back.

Kazuha also knows creativity; it’s something he could call a hobby, a pastime, or an inextricable part of himself. To chase an inner voice under the silent, silver moon or carve undying beauty from some chipped block of wood is his calling. Poetry is feeling (Kazuha happens to feel quite a lot), yet understanding those feelings did not come second nature. It is only because he kept coming back to his passions that anything could be made of the symbolism.

Kazuha knows how to see the world through others’ eyes. Maybe that’s how he learnt little bits of language, tips from locals, how to brew tea from the odd flowers he comes across and that the owner of a stray cat he had returned once is a portly old lady who somehow keeps losing her socks.

Kazuha knows a few constellations. Perhaps you only see the stars in his eyes as he recounts their meaning, though he’d happily tell you again. He would place a hand on your shoulder as he stands behind you, guiding your jaw with gentle fingers until a string of stars is in your view.

“Is that it?” You mumble, squinting your eyes. “I think I see it now!”

With a lilt in his voice, Kazuha speaks, smiling. “It’s quite easy to see once you recognise it.”

There’s a moment of quiet, then: “Oh no. Kazuha, I lost it.”

Kazuha’s laugh is a soft, airy thing, and when you turn your face to look at him, he is closer than you remember, already meeting your eyes.