#protective geto

You were always devoted, from the day your mother taught you how to pray before bed every night, how to perform the monthly rituals, and how to kneel properly before the gods. Your mother worshipped Hades—so did you, to keep her memory alive. He was all you ever knew. 

When the villagers abandoned the temple, you helped your mother take care of it, scrubbing the stone, sacrificing the animals, and putting new candles in. 

You often spent most of your time at the temple, ensuring the candles never burnt out, keeping the cobwebs and dust out, and feeding the crows that lingered.

It was just another night, at least it’s what it should’ve been—a small group of women passed by earlier that evening, talking about their husbands before hushing. 

“I can’t believe she still takes care of that place,” one of them whispered as you sweep the leaves off the walkway. “All the women worship Aphrodite now. I don’t understand why she doesn’t leave it alone.” 

Another woman gasps, “Hush! We are near Hades’s temple, you mustn’t speak like that!” 

Their voices trail off with the wind, a gust scattering the leaves you were sweeping, making a mess again. 

You sigh out, hanging your head as you sweep up the leaves once more, ignoring their words. The broom rasps against stone, the sound sharp in the stillness.

By the time you finish and light the last row of candles, night has fully settled. The temple is empty except for the flicker of flames and the distant caw of crows. You kneel, as you always do, pressing your forehead to the cool stone before whispering your prayers.

“Lord of the Underworld,” you murmur, “may your domain be at peace. May the lost souls find their way to you. May the balance be kept.”

You don’t expect an answer. You never have.

Which is why the voice makes you freeze.

“Still, you kneel. Even when no one listens.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Slowly, as though moving against stone, you lift your head.

He is there. Not imagined, not dreamed, but standing before the altar, tall, robed in shadow, and eyes glowing purple with hints of gold.

Hades.

The air seems heavier, colder, though your pulse burns hot.

He regards you with quiet curiosity, as though you are an insect that has done something unexpected. “You’ve kept this place alive,” he says, his voice like smoke curling through the dark. “Why?”

Your heart pounds. Your voice nearly fails. But devotion steadies you. “Because you deserve it,” you whisper. “Even if the others are too afraid to see.”

A flicker passes across his face —not quite amusement, not quite loneliness. He takes one step closer, and you feel it in your bones.

“You tremble.” His tone sharpens. “And yet, you stay.”

Your hands curl into fists against the floor. “I tremble,” you admit, “but still, I kneel.”

For a long moment, silence hangs heavy between you, filled only by the frantic beating of your heart and the sound of blood rushing in your ears. Then he tilts his head, almost thoughtful.

“…Interesting.”

And as suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.

Only the flames remain, burning higher than they should, casting shadows that look far too much like his smile.

—

You walk home that evening with trembling hands, going through your nightly routine as if you had seen a ghost. Maybe you were dead now, your soul meeting the god you worshipped so dearly before heading down into the underworld. 

The rational part of your brain knew that was not true, but as you pour yourself a cup of tea and accidentally pour the boiling water over your hand, you might’ve been the ghoul yourself.  

When you finally fall asleep, your body still aching from the day, you dream of kneeling again before the altar.

Only this time, he doesn’t disappear.

Only this time, he says your name.

(How does he know your name?)

—

The next few days, you continue with your routine. Head into town, clean the temple, daily offerings…nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except your head. Your head was not acting normally. 

You stared into the shadows for too long, spooked when a crow cawed over your head, and almost cut your finger while clipping daffodils to put on your altar at home. 

When you prayed, you kneeled longer, praying as if he was listening—as if he cared enough to listen. 

You didn’t wonder why your knees hurt when you walked home. 

What you did wonder—what the hell has gotten into you?

You were a devoted follower, textbook, if you will. One thing your mother drilled into you was: Never expect anything from the gods. 

So why were you expecting his return? 

—

You sat in the middle of the temple, laying down fresh daffodils and setting new candles alight, even as the old ones continued to burn with little to no wax. The daffodils you offered a few days ago still looked fresh…that made you pause. 

A crow cawed again. You jumped before letting out a shaky sigh and standing up, your dress fluttering as a cold breeze rushed in. The candles never went out. 

You went home with the feeling of something watching you. 

Your home was freezing, more so than normal. You wrapped yourself in the thickest blankets, shivering with a cup of tea held in your hands by the fireplace. 

It was fall, yes, but not cold enough for your teeth to be chattering, even with the warmth of the fire. No, this chill was to your bones, something that cannot be chased easily away with the heat of the flames. 

The tea did little to warm you. Steam curled from the cup and vanished before it reached your lips, as if the air itself devoured the heat. You pulled the blanket tighter, muttering the prayers your mother taught you under your breath, not to summon, not to ask, just to keep yourself steady. The fire hissed, a log cracking with a sound like laughter.

You shut your eyes. In the darkness behind your lids, a figure stood. Not clear, not fully there, but tall and robed in shadow. Watching. Waiting. 

The image vanished the moment you opened your eyes again, leaving you with nothing but the lingering chill and the faint scent of jasmine incense that shouldn’t have been in your home at all.

—

The next night, you prayed harder than usual. Not to summon him, you told yourself, never that, but simply to calm your own heart. The daffodils bowed toward the flame, and the air was heavy with wax and smoke.

“Lord of the Underworld,” you whispered, bowing low. “Forgive my fear. Forgive my doubt.”

The silence stretched.

Then…soft. A shift behind you. The air moved, slow and deliberate, as though someone had exhaled against the nape of your neck. You stiffened, breath caught in your throat, every muscle locked.

Your head turned sharply…No one. Only the flicker of the candles, their flames bent sideways by a wind that didn’t exist.

“Who is it you pray to?” The voice was not in the air; it was in your ear, warm enough to make your skin prickle, low enough to coil in your chest.

Your heart thundered. You spun around again. Shadows clung to the corners, thick and watching, but the altar was empty.

“I–” Your throat closed, your tongue heavy. You forced the words out. “To Hades. Always.”

A silence followed, a silence that felt too alive to be empty. Then the faintest hum, like amusement pressed against your jaw.

The warmth vanished. The temple was empty again.

The flames roared high, crackling as though laughing, before steadying back into small, obedient tongues of fire.

You sank to your knees, shaking. And for the first time in your life, you weren’t sure if you’d prayed or if you’d been answered.

—

It was another night. Too late and you knew that you should be asleep. But after several restless nights and dreams that felt like memories, you couldn’t stay in bed. 

You shouldn’t be here. The air was too heavy, the crows too restless, and the shadows along the temple walls stretched far too long to belong to this world.

Still, you knelt. Still, you prayed.

“Lord of the Underworld,” you whispered, forehead pressed to the stone, “I remain as I always have. Even if I am foolish for it.”

The silence didn’t last for once.

“Foolish,” a voice repeated, deep and deliberate, the syllables dragging like stone doors across marble. “You admit it, yet you kneel.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t raise your head. Not yet.

Steps echoed, soft, measured, and too real this time to be a mere dream. The flames wavered as though bowing in submission.

“Tell me,” the voice came closer, “what would you do if the god you worship demanded more than pretty little flowers? More than prayers?”

You swallowed hard. Your pulse thundered, knees digging into stone. “If it is yours to take…Then I give it.”

A low laugh, humorless and sharp. He was in front of you now. You felt it, the weight of his presence, the cold settling into your bones, the faint brush of shadow against your skin.

“Mortals,” he murmured. “So eager to offer what they cannot afford to lose.”

At last, you lifted your head.

And there he was: tall, robed in darkness that seemed to breathe, eyes gleaming violet and gold. His gaze pinned you where you knelt, and for a moment, you thought you’d break under it.

But then, something shifted. Barely there. His eyes lingered too long. His mouth parted, as if to speak and stopped. His shadows curled closer, not in threat but in hesitation.

It was only a heartbeat. Only a flicker. Anyone else might have missed it. But you saw.

He faltered.

And just as quickly, it was gone. His expression hardened again, sharp as obsidian. “Careful, little mortal,” he warned, voice low and dangerous. “You pray to a god who does not forgive mistakes.”

The air cracked cold. The shadows snapped back. And when you blinked, he was gone.

Only the candles remained, flames stretched tall and trembling, as if they too had nearly bent from the weight of his presence, just as you did. 

Your knees ached from the stone, but you didn’t move. Not until the last of the shadows bled back into the corners and the air thawed enough to let you breathe.

You sucked in a shaky breath. 

You pressed trembling hands to your lap, trying to steady them. But no amount of composure could erase what you had seen. The hesitation. The falter.

It played over and over in your mind like a secret refrain: he had almost reached for you. The god of the underworld, who should have crushed you under his gaze, had wavered.

You lit another candle. Your fingers shook.

The warning he’d left behind clung to you: Careful, little mortal. It echoed against your ribs like a heartbeat. You stared into the flame until your eyes blurred, holding your breath until your lungs burned, waiting for the air to shift again.

Nothing.

Only silence. Only the echo of his absence and the weight of the things you would never dare say aloud.

That night, you lay awake in your bed, your body heavy, your eyes wide. The room was cold again, not autumn’s cold, but his. You drew the blanket tighter around you and stared at the ceiling, every nerve attuned to the dark.

You didn’t pray. You didn’t whisper. You only thought, and even thinking felt like a sin.

The flicker. The hesitation. He had faltered.

And you wondered, but only inside yourself, if a god who falters can still be feared.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to find out. 

—

The temple was colder than usual. The candles hissed and sputtered as you lit them, their flames fighting against a wind you couldn’t feel. Shadows curled thicker in the corners, clinging to the stone like unwanted moss.

You knelt anyway. You always did.

The prayer was steady on your lips, though your pulse stumbled. Lord of the Underworld. Keeper of balance. I remain.

“You remain,” his voice answered, low and unimpressed, as if he had been listening all along.

The air thickened. Shadows gathered, folding inward until they shaped him, tall and robed in darkness that breathed like a living thing. His eyes burned, violet threaded with gold, fixed on you like you were prey that had wandered willingly into his domain.

“You kneel,” he said, stepping closer, “but do you understand what that means? Mortals give their prayers like coin, cheap and thoughtless. And yet, you would give yourself so easily?”

Your breath caught. The stone was unyielding beneath your knees, but you didn’t rise. Your hands tightened in your lap, but you didn’t dare speak.

Would I? The thought screamed in your skull, treacherous, louder than your heartbeat.

His gaze sharpened. “You wonder,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost curious. “But you do not ask. Why?”

Your chest ached. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. And yet his shadows edged closer, brushing over your wrists like cool fingers, a whisper of contact that lingered even after they pulled back. You fought the urge to shiver. 

“Is it fear?” he pressed. His tone was mocking, but there was a slip underneath it, something softer, something that made your skin prickle. “Or do you keep your silence because you already know the answer would undo you?”

You swallowed hard. The words clung to your tongue, unspoken, unspeakable.

And he knew.

The silence between you trembled, heavy and alive, until he finally leaned back into the shadows. “Careful,” he said again, quieter this time. Not a threat. Almost a warning to himself.

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the smoke, the shivering candles, and the weight of everything you had never said. 

You wondered what would happen if you ever spoke your doubts out loud. 

—

Each day, shadows followed you, watching your every move and forcing their way into your head. 

You ventured into town, a scarf wrapped around your neck and head, a coat over your dress to keep the chill that always seemed to linger nowadays. It was supposed to just be a quick trip to get produce from the farmers' market before it got too cold and everything was out of season. 

As you looked over a key necklace that caught your eye, your body froze for a moment. A crow lands on the tree above you. You don’t notice. 

Two older women walked past, their shawls drawn tight, voices pitched low as if the words themselves carried danger.

“…strange things, every night. Candles burning where no one’s lit them. Flowers that don’t wilt.”

The other sniffed sharply. “Don’t play dumb. You know who’s behind it.”

They glanced your way. Their eyes lingered, narrowed.

“Her.”

You stiffened, fingers curling around the little key pendant as though it might anchor you.

The women moved on, whispering faster now, words tumbling like stones down a slope. Crows…bitter winds…prayers answered in silence…unnatural.

You forced yourself to set the necklace down, though your hand shook as you withdrew.

The crow above shifted, its claws scraping bark. You looked up. For the first time, you noticed it. Its head cocked sharply, its violet-black feathers shivering in the autumn light. Watching.

You swallowed, tugging your scarf tighter.

The market’s warmth, the bustle of villagers haggling for apples and bread, felt thin, like a paper wall that could tear at any moment. You could still feel the women’s stares, their whispers pressing against your back.

Your steps quickened; you could almost feel the key pendant’s shape still pressed against your palm where you had clutched it too hard.

And for a fleeting, terrible moment, you wondered if you should stop. Stop praying. Stop going to the temple. Stop letting your devotion dig you deeper into the dark.

But when you shut your eyes, you see violet and gold.

You knew, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the autumn chill, that it was already far too late to turn away.

You head back toward your cottage, clutching the basket of goods closer to your body as you hang your head, not in fear, but in thought. 

You secretly wonder where this mess was going to take you. 

You sighed softly and then you froze on your front porch, where a perfectly pristine pomegranate sat. 

You stared at it for a long moment, your mouth parted in utter shock. 

Then, you spoke. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you deadpanned, almost stomping up to your front door and grabbing the magenta fruit to inspect it. “This isn’t funny,” you said to no one in particular, even as the trees danced in a cold gust of wind. 

You huffed, trying not to internally curse everything and everyone out in your head as you headed inside, carrying the offending fruit in your hand. You placed it on your altar, shooting it a nasty glare while taking off your coat and scarf. 

The pomegranate gleamed on the altar, heavy with color, its skin too smooth, too perfect. Not a bruise, not a blemish. It didn’t belong to your market basket, didn’t belong to the season, didn’t belong to you.

And yet here it sat. Waiting.

You crossed your arms, pacing in front of it like it might leap at you. The scent of it, sweet and sharp, hung faintly in the air.

“You think this is clever?” you muttered under your breath. “What, no more flowers? No more shadows? Just…fruit?”

The fire in your hearth hissed in reply, spitting sparks. You froze, staring hard at the altar, the fruit, the flickering candles.

“…You can’t be serious.”

The silence pressed back against you, thick and heavy. And then, a soft creak, as though a floorboard had shifted. Only, no one was in your cottage but you.

Your pulse hammered. You swallowed, glaring harder at the fruit like it might give you answers.

This was no random omen. This was a promise. A challenge.

If you ate it, what would happen? If you didn’t, how long before he placed another one at your door?

You sat before the altar, legs folding beneath you, chin resting in your palm. The fruit’s sheen caught the candlelight, glowing like a heart waiting to be broken open.

“You’re not funny,” you whispered again, quieter this time. But the words lacked conviction.

Because deep down, beneath the irritation, beneath the fear, you knew what this meant.

He wasn’t done yet. 

And what that meant for you…Well, you weren’t quite sure just yet. 

“Fucking hell,” you grumbled, stalking off into your bedroom with a huff of annoyance. A black crow sat outside on your windowsill, its head cocked, feathers glinting violet-black in the dim light.

You stopped dead. Groaned. “Of course,” you muttered. “Of course you’re here.”

The crow blinked slowly at you.

“Hades!” you growled before you could stop yourself, the name tearing from your throat like a curse. The sound of it made the room feel smaller, the air heavier.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.

The crow shifted its weight on the sill. Outside, the wind picked up, cold and deliberate, rattling the shutters. The candle on your bedside table flickered violently but did not go out.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You took a step back. Another. The crow didn’t move.

You whispered, mostly to yourself, “Oh, gods. I’m so incredibly fucked.”

A sound answered you, not a word, not a laugh, but a low hum that vibrated through the floorboards like a string plucked deep underground. The crow ruffled its feathers and cawed once, sharp and echoing.

Then, silence.

The bird was still there, but the air around it had shifted. You backed toward your bed and sat down hard, wrapping your arms around yourself. The pomegranate waited in the other room. The crow waited here. And somewhere between the two, you could feel him, waiting, too.

You didn’t dare speak again.

You just stood there, staring at the crow, the silence between you two stretching thin as glass, and wondered how much longer you could keep pretending you weren’t already caught in his hands.

The crow stared, unblinking. The name still burned on your tongue. 

“You call for me,” the voice rolled through the room, low and deliberate, “and then hide behind silence?”

The crow dissolved into smoke, stretching tall until he stood in your cottage, shadows breathing around him like a second skin. His presence was heavier than the walls, the floor, and the air itself.

You could finally see him this time. The long black hair, half-up with a few strands in front of his forehead, robes to the floor, and piercing violet eyes. 

You froze where you stood, hand still half-covering your mouth.

“I—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”

He tilted his head, and the movement alone silenced you. His eyes gleamed purple and gold, pinning you in place.

“You said my name.” He stepped closer. Shadows curled along the floorboards toward your feet. “Not in prayer. Not in reverence. In anger.”

Your breath shivered, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

A pause. A shift. His expression was unreadable, though the shadows seemed to pulse with interest.

“You defy me, then?”

“No.” You shook your head, though your voice steadied. “I only…spoke. Because you never leave me alone.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Too bare. Too true. Fuck. 

His eyes narrowed slightly. His mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “And would you have me leave you alone?”

Your heart hammered, but your answer came faster than you expected. “…No.”

The shadows stilled. For a moment, there was nothing. No cold, no sound, nothing but the heat rushing in your chest at the weight of what you’d just admitted.

He faltered. Just barely. A flicker in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

Then his voice was low again, still sharp. “Careful, little mortal. Do not invite what you cannot bear.”

And yet his gaze lingered too long before he vanished, as though he’d been waiting years to hear you say it.

You were no better than a dead woman. 

—

The next evening, you tried to act as though nothing had changed.

You peeled potatoes, chopped herbs, and let the pot simmer low over the fire. The rhythm of the work should have calmed you, but every scrape of the knife felt loud, every hiss of steam made you flinch.

The pomegranate sat on the counter beside the breadboard, pristine and gleaming. You’d thought about moving it, hiding it away, at least, but your hand had refused. Now it watched you, as accusing as any god.

“You keep it close,” a voice murmured.

The knife slipped in your hand. You gasped, spinning around.

He was there.

Not shadows flickering at the edge of your sight, not whispers in the night. Hades stood in your kitchen, tall enough that the rafters seemed to bow toward him, shadows breathing against the walls as if the whole cottage recognized its master.

You clutched the knife tighter, though the thought of using it against him was laughable. “You can’t just—” Your voice shook. You drew in a breath, steadied it. “You can’t just appear here.”

His head tilted, long hair sliding over his shoulder. “Can’t?” His tone curled sharply at the edges, amused. “Or shouldn’t?”

You swallowed hard. The knife trembled in your grip.

His gaze fell to it, then to the fruit beside you. “You haven’t eaten it.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why would I?”

He stepped closer, shadows curling low across the floor, brushing your bare ankles with cold tendrils. “Because it was meant for you.”

You tightened your grip on the knife. “I never asked for it.”

Something flickered in his eyes at that—something unreadable, gone too quickly to name. He leaned closer, voice low and smooth, like the whisper of a blade being drawn.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t ask. And still…you keep it.”

The air thickened. The pot on the stove hissed as if protesting. You couldn’t look away from him, from the violet gleam pinning you in place.

And for the first time, you realized: he wasn’t just testing your devotion anymore. He was watching for something else.

Something far more dangerous.

The knife clattered against the board again, too loud in the silence. You forced your hands steady, peeling the potato as if the act alone could anchor you.

Behind you, his presence pressed heavily against the walls. Shadows breathed with every flicker of the fire.

“You cook.” His voice curled low, not a question but an observation, as though the thought itself amused him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “What else would I do? Mortals need to eat.”

A pause. Then: “Do you enjoy it?”

The knife stilled in your hand. You blinked down at the curl of peel, at the steam rising from the pot. “…Sometimes.”

The air shifted. He stepped closer. You didn’t have to turn to know. The shadows bent toward him, leaning into your small kitchen, crowding every corner.

“What else do you enjoy?”

Your pulse lurched. The question hung heavier than it should have, weighted with meaning he didn’t name. You swallowed, forcing the words past your lips. “The temple. The prayers. The…quiet.”

“The quiet,” he repeated, as though testing the taste of it.

You dared a glance over your shoulder. His eyes burned violet in the firelight, sharp and intent, fixed wholly on you.

The knife trembled again. You set it down before you embarrass yourself by dropping it. “Why are you here?”

Another pause, longer this time. His gaze didn’t waver.

“To see.”

“See what?”

His head tilted, that unreadable mask shifting just enough for something else to flicker through. “Whether you will endure.”

You turned fully then, heart hammering, heat rushing up your neck. “And if I don’t?”

The shadows leaned in, curling around the table legs, the chair, the stove, until the whole cottage seemed to breathe with him. His voice was low, steady, deliberate:

“Then you break. Like all mortals do.”

But you caught it. The faintest slip, just as before. The hesitation, the pause before the words fell. He didn’t want you to break.

You clenched your fists at your sides, standing straighter despite the tremble in your bones. “I won’t.”

For the first time, his expression changed, not mockery, not amusement, but something perilously close to curiosity. His gaze lingered, too long, too intent.

And though the air was freezing, though the shadows clawed higher on the walls, your skin burned as if you’d just stepped too close to the fire.

The pot hissed, steam curling thick through the kitchen, carrying the scent of herbs and broth.

Behind you, the air was heavier than stone. You didn’t need to turn to know he was still there. He hadn’t vanished this time.

You picked up the wooden spoon, stirred the pot with stiff movements. “If you mean to stand there all night,” you muttered, “at least try not to burn a hole through me.”

A pause. And then low, like a smirk curling into words: “Bold, for one who trembles before me.”

You bit back a sharp reply clawing at your tongue and kept stirring. The broth bubbled louder than it should have, as if straining against the silence that settled between you.

“You live alone,” he said after a moment, a statement weighted like a question.

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His form towered near the edge of the firelight, shadows lapping at the walls, eyes bright against the dark. “You don’t already know that?”

His mouth curved, not amusement, not quite. “I prefer to hear it from you.”

Your grip tightened on the spoon. “Yes. I live alone.”

“By choice?”

You hesitated, heat from the pot rising against your face. “...Like I said, I like the quiet.”

“The quiet again,” he murmured, as though the word itself fascinated him. “And does the quiet not make you lonely?”

You froze. The question was too sharp, too personal, cutting deeper than any of his tests in the temple.

Your throat tightened, but you refused to let the silence trap you. “I don’t mind it,” you said, softer this time.

Something flickered in his gaze, the same hesitation you’d seen before, brief as a heartbeat.

His steps drew nearer. You felt the chill at your back before his voice slid against your ear, smooth as smoke, as he suddenly asked: “Would you deny me if I offered you more than fruit?”

Your breath caught. The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the pot.

You turned then, too sharply, too quickly, and found him closer than he’d ever stood before. The firelight caught in his hair, shadows bending toward him like worshippers, his eyes burning violet and gold.

You wanted to step back. You didn’t.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

The air went still. His gaze lingered, too intent, too sharp. His shadows curled higher, close enough to brush your wrist, your jaw, never touching, only hovering like a threat, like a promise.

Then, just as quickly, he drew away. The air rushed back into your lungs in a shuddering breath.

“You are not afraid to answer,” he said at last, his tone unreadable. “Perhaps that will be your undoing.”

The pot hissed, the fire popped, the ordinary world rushing in again, fragile against the weight of his presence.

But he didn’t leave.

He leaned against the counter instead, tall and dark and unmovable, as though he belonged here, your kitchen, your hearth, your life. 

Watching. 

Waiting.

What a terrifying thought. 

—

The loom creaked softly as you pulled the shuttle through the threads, the sound steady and soothing in the dim light. Your mother taught you when you were young. How to weave plain cloth for clothes, how to braid patterns if you had the patience. It was work, but it was also something like prayer. Thread by thread, row by row, order pulled from chaos.

You liked order. Ironic, considering that a god has taken interest in your clean-cut life. 

“You do this often.”

His voice broke the quiet as easily as the shuttle snapped the thread. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to anymore.

“You keep coming back,” you replied, hands steady on the loom. “So yes. I do this often.”

From the corner of your vision, shadows stirred. He leaned where the light of your small lamp didn’t reach, tall and still, eyes catching glints of violet and gold. “Does it not bore you?”

“Not everything needs to be… exciting.” You tugged the shuttle through again, letting the threads tighten into place. “It keeps my hands busy. My mind quiet.”

“You value quiet.”

“As I’ve mentioned,” you murmured, a hint of dry humor slipping past before you could stop it.

A low sound, almost like a laugh, but too sharp. “And yet you speak to me more than you should.”

You paused then, fingers brushing the taut threads. The lamp flickered as though caught in a draft, though the windows were shut. Slowly, you looked at him. “Maybe you ask too many questions.”

He tilted his head, the barest hint of something unreadable crossing his face. “Or maybe you answer too easily.”

Your pulse stumbled, but you turned back to the loom, letting the thread glide through again, forcing your hands to be steady. “Would you prefer I stay silent?”

The air shifted. His shadows stirred closer, but his voice was softer now, lower. “No.”

The single word lodged in your chest. Heavy. Unmistakable.

You stared at the weaving in front of you, at the neat pattern forming beneath your hands, but all you could feel was the weight of his gaze, the way it held you more tightly than the threads ever could.

For a moment, silence hung again, different this time. Not empty but thick—charged and waiting.

Then he asked, “And what do you weave when you think of me?”

The shuttle slipped from your fingers, clattering against the floor.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The question burned too hot, too close to something you weren’t ready to name.

When you dared glance up again, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed brighter, shadows curling like smoke around the loom.

You bent to retrieve the shuttle, hoping the motion might hide the heat in your face. “You ask too much.”

“And still,” he murmured, “you have not told me no.”

The loom creaked as you pulled the thread through, but your hands had slowed. He’d been watching you in silence, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but waiting, pressing.

Then he asked, “Do you miss her?”

You froze.

Your throat tightened, the thread slipping between your fingers. “…My mother?”

He didn’t nod, but the answer was clear in his gaze.

You let out a shaky breath, looking down at the weaving before you. “Every day. She taught me everything I know. The prayers, the rituals, and how to keep the temple when no one else would.” Your chest ached, and you pushed the shuttle through the threads too hard, almost snapping them. “Sometimes I wonder if I keep doing it for her… or for myself.”

The shadows curled closer, low and steady, not suffocating this time but surrounding, listening.

“And your father?”

Your lips pressed tight. “…He tried. After she died. But he didn’t believe the way she did. He doesn’t understand why I…” You gestured helplessly at the loom, at the altar in the corner, at everything. “Why I keep going.”

His gaze stayed fixed, sharp as obsidian, but softer somehow at the edges. “And yet you endure.”

You gave a bitter laugh. “Endure? I don’t know. I stay. I keep my hands busy, my knees bruised, my prayers said. That’s not the same as strength.”

The silence stretched, and when you looked up, you found him closer than before, the glow of his eyes locking onto yours. “Most mortals pray to be seen. You… endure to be forgotten.”

Your breath caught. His words sank into you, heavy, too true. You hated that he could see it.

Your hands fumbled on the shuttle, twisting the thread wrong. “Why do you care? What is this to you?”

And not for the first time, he hesitated. A pause heavy enough that you felt it. Then, slowly, he said, “Because you do not break.”

The air pressed thick between you, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t.

And then his voice dropped, low and deliberate, as if each word was a vow: “You call me Hades. But that is not the only name I carry.”

Your pulse pounded, your mouth dry.

“You will not speak it to another,” he warned, eyes burning violet and gold. “You will not take it lightly. But if you are to belong to me as you already do—” his shadows curled around the loom, the chair, your wrists “—you should know it.”

He leaned closer, so close you felt the chill of him against your skin, the whisper of his breath at your ear.

“Suguru Geto.”

The name sank into you like a brand, a secret etched into bone.

You swallowed hard, fingers clutching the loom for anchor. Your voice was a whisper, raw: “…Suguru.”

For a heartbeat, the mask of godhood faltered. His gaze caught on your lips, your trembling hands, the way you said his name like a prayer.

And then the moment broke. His shadows drew back, his expression unreadable once more. But the weight of it remained, lingering in your chest, in the taste of his name on your tongue.

Suguru. 

His name played like a broken record in your head, the sound of his voice drilled in your DNA like it was meant to be a part of you. 

You were so unbelievably fucked. 

—

Suguru hadn’t been around for a couple of days and the silence was weird. Heavy. Unwelcome. 

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. He had warned you once, quietly, carefully, that gods did not linger without consequence. That he could not always come when you wished it. You clung to that explanation, repeating it like a prayer as you went about your days.

Still, the absence gnawed at you.

The temple felt wrong without him. The candles burned too bright or not at all, flames snapping as if irritated. The shadows no longer curled familiarly at the corners; they lay flat and thin, stretched unnaturally long across the stone. Even the crows kept their distance, watching from rooftops instead of perching close.

At night, you slept poorly. Not because of the cold, though it lingered, but because the air felt charged, buzzing faintly beneath your skin. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

On the third day, thunder rolled across the sky without clouds.

You stopped mid-step in the temple courtyard, heart lurching as the sound echoed too loud, too close. The air smelled sharp, metallic, nothing like rain. The hairs on your arms lifted.

“Don’t,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure who you were speaking to.

The offerings rattled on the altar behind you. Not from wind, there was none, but from something passing through the space, unseen and unapologetic.

You turned slowly.

The shadows were wrong. Too shallow. Too obedient. They recoiled instead of welcoming, shrinking back as though pressed flat by a force they did not recognize.

And then the light changed.

It brightened, not warm, not gentle, but blinding in its clarity, washing the stone in harsh gold. You squeezed your eyes shut instinctively, breath catching painfully in your chest.

“Well,” a voice drawled, smooth and amused, “this is disappointing.”

Your eyes flew open.

He stood near the altar, as if he owned it, posture relaxed, smile sharp and knowing. Power radiated from him effortlessly, the kind that didn’t need shadows to announce itself. The air hummed around him, alive with something volatile and dangerous.

He looked you over slowly, head to toe, as though assessing a curiosity he’d finally gotten his hands on.

“This?” he continued lightly, gesturing around the temple. “This is the mortal who’s had my brother climbing out of the underworld like a lovesick fool?”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. Every instinct screamed at you to kneel, to run, to disappear, but your feet stayed rooted to the stone.

He laughed softly at your silence, clearly entertained.

“Oh, don’t look so frightened, little rabbit, ” he said, stepping closer. The ground seemed to hum beneath his feet. “I just wanted to see you for myself.”

The storm rumbled again overhead.

And in that moment, you understood with terrifying clarity:

This wasn’t curiosity. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a god who had noticed you. 

One who did not care that you were mortal, nor did he care that his brother took a liking to you. No, he was going to have fun toying with you. He was the cat and you were the mouse. 

A prey and its predator. 

Your hair stood up, your entire body was on edge as he stepped forward, away from the altar as the candles blew out with no wind. 

The darkness did not rush to greet him the way it did with Suguru. It shrank, pulling back into the cracks of the stone as though it had been scolded.

Zeus, Naoya, clicked his tongue softly. “Rude place,” he remarked. “No manners at all.”

He circled you slowly, sandals echoing against the temple floor. Each step felt measured, deliberate — like he was savoring the way you tracked him with your eyes despite yourself.

“You don’t kneel,” he observed lightly. “Interesting.”

Your throat tightened. You had knelt for gods your entire life. For his brother. But something about this presence made your instincts rebel.

He stopped behind you.

Close enough that you could feel the heat of him against your back, sharp and electric, like lightning before it strikes.

“Turn around,” he said.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. That made it worse.

Slowly, you obeyed.

He smiled when you faced him, eyes gleaming with open interest. “There you are,” he murmured. “I was starting to think you were braver than you look.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry, but you forced yourself to speak. “What do you want?”

His brow arched. Amused.

“Oh, straight to it,” he laughed softly. “No flowery prayers? No reverence?” He leaned closer, peering at your face as though searching for something beneath your skin. “Suguru’s been spoiling you.”

Your heart lurched at the sound of his name in someone else’s mouth.

Naoya noticed. Of course he did.

“There it is,” he said, pleased. “That little flinch. You wear him like a mark.”

He reached out, fingers hovering near your chin, not touching. Not yet. “Tell me,” he said, voice dropping, “what did my brother promise you?”

Silence.

His smile thinned. “Ah. Nothing?” He straightened, chuckling. “Figures. He never was good at honesty.”

The air crackled. The stones beneath your feet vibrated faintly.

“You tend his temple,” Naoya continued casually. “Keep his offerings fresh. Defend his name when others spit on it.” His eyes flicked back to you, sharp and appraising. “Why?”

You met his gaze despite the fear curling in your chest. “Because someone should.”

For the first time, his smile slipped. Just a little.

“How noble,” he said flatly. Then, with sudden intensity, “Do you know what happens to mortals who become interesting to gods?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“They get broken,” he went on pleasantly. “Used. Forgotten.” His head tilted. “Or taken.”

Thunder boomed overhead, close enough to rattle the altar.

Naoya leaned in again, voice a whisper meant only for you. “So tell me, little mouse… Do you belong to him?”

The question pressed into you like a blade.

Before you could answer, before you could even breathe, the shadows surged violently across the floor. The air plunged cold.

A familiar weight slammed into the space, heavy and furious.

“That is enough.” Suguru’s voice filled the temple, low and resonant, carrying the finality of a closing tomb.

The shadows surged across the floor, crawling up pillars and walls, swallowing the golden light whole. The temperature dropped sharply, breath fogging in the air as death itself seemed to settle into the stone.

Naoya barely glanced over his shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” he said lightly.

You barely had time to register Suguru’s presence before Naoya moved.

Two fingers brushed beneath your chin, tilting your face up, forcing your gaze to meet his.

The touch burned. Not hot, not cold, but wrong. Like lightning crawling under your skin, invasive and deliberate. Your breath hitched, body locking instinctively as his thumb traced the line of your jaw, possessive and mocking.

“There,” Naoya murmured. “Now I see it.”

The shadows exploded.

They lashed out like living things, coiling violently around Naoya’s wrist and yanking his hand away from you with bone-rattling force. The stone beneath his feet cracked as he staggered back a step, eyes flashing with sudden, sharp interest.

Suguru stood between you and him in an instant.

You didn’t see him move, only felt the absence of danger as his presence slammed into place, solid and immovable. His shadows wrapped around you like a wall, curling close without touching, shielding you completely.

“Do not touch her,” Suguru said.

His voice was calm.

That was the most terrifying part.

The shadows behind him writhed, stretching high against the walls, their forms sharp and jagged, hungry. The temple groaned under their weight, ancient stone trembling as if recognizing its true master again.

Naoya straightened slowly, flexing his fingers where the shadows had crushed them. Then he laughed.

“…Oh,” he said slowly. “So it’s like that.”

Lightning crackled faintly around him, sparks dancing across his skin. “You never were this territorial.” His gaze slid past Suguru, locking onto you where you stood frozen behind him. “Careful, brother. Mortals don’t usually survive being worth this much trouble.”

Suguru did not look at you, his focus never left Naoya.

“She is under my protection,” he said. “You will leave.”

Naoya’s smile sharpened. “Or what?”

The shadows surged forward, stopping just inches from Naoya’s throat. The air felt heavy enough to crush bone.

“Or,” Suguru replied quietly, “I remind you why even the king of the gods does not interfere with the dead.”

For a heartbeat, the two gods stared at one another, lightning and shadow locked in perfect, dangerous balance.

Then Naoya stepped back, hands raised mockingly.

“Relax,” he drawled. “I was just curious.” His eyes flicked to you one last time, gleaming with promise rather than retreat. “But you should keep a closer eye on your little devotee, Suguru. Others will notice.”

The golden light vanished in a thunderclap.

Naoya was gone.

The temple fell silent, too silent.

The shadows slowly receded, curling back into Suguru’s form, though they remained restless, agitated. Only when the danger had fully passed did he turn to face you.

His expression was controlled, carefully neutral.

But his eyes. 

They burned lilac. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked. The restraint in his voice told you everything you weren’t ready to hear yet. 

“I’m fine,” you breathed out, your voice shaky as the adrenaline hummed through your body, your muscles tense and hair still standing up. Your heartbeat drummed loudly in your ears, shaken up from the fact that another god, the King of the gods, stood in front of you and had the gall to mess with his brother. 

Suguru studied you in silence.

Not like a god surveying damage. Like someone memorizing the proof that you were still standing.

The shadows lingered close, restless, curling at his feet and brushing the edges of your space without touching you, as if unsure whether they were allowed. The cold hadn’t left, but it had changed. No longer predatory. Now it felt…guarded.

“You should not have been exposed to that,” he said finally. His voice was quieter now, stripped of its edge. “Naoya does not come without reason.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t invite him.”

“I know.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Does this happen often?”

Suguru’s gaze flicked away for the briefest moment, settling instead on the altar, the extinguished candles, the cracked stone beneath your feet. “No,” he said. “Not like this.”

Not for mortals. Not for you.

He lifted a hand, then stopped himself, fingers curling slowly into his palm. The restraint was deliberate. Painfully so.

“Come,” he said instead. “Sit.”

It wasn’t a command. It was an offer.

You obeyed anyway, lowering yourself onto the edge of the stone bench near the wall. Your knees felt weak now that the danger had passed, the delayed tremor finally catching up to you. Suguru remained standing, just close enough that his presence steadied you without overwhelming.

The silence stretched.

Then, carefully, “Where did he touch you?”

Your breath hitched. You lifted a hand, fingers brushing your jaw where Naoya’s thumb had been. The skin still felt wrong. Like it remembered.

Suguru watched your hand linger at your jaw, your fingers brushing skin that still remembered a touch that did not belong.

Slowly, he reached out.

You stiffened at the movement before you could stop yourself, a reflex born of fear, not doubt. Suguru noticed immediately. His hand stilled midair.

“I will not harm you,” he said quietly.

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

Only then did he continue.

His fingers were cold when they touched you, not painfully so, but deep, steady, grounding. He cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing the place where Naoya had touched you.

The sensation vanished.

Not faded. Not dulled. Gone.

The wrongness dissolved under Suguru’s touch, chased away by something older and heavier, death, yes, but also finality. Like a door being closed and sealed forever.

You exhaled shakily, shoulders dropping as the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding finally eased.

Suguru’s brow furrowed. “Better?”

You nodded again, unable to speak.

His hand remained for a heartbeat too long. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did. Carefully, as though withdrawing from something sacred, he lowered his hand.

“That touch was not his to leave behind,” he said, voice low. “Nor yours to carry.”

The shadows echoed his sentiment, settling protectively around your feet, curling like a promise rather than a threat.

You met his gaze. “Is that… something you can do? Take things away like that?”

His eyes darkened. “Some things,” he replied. “Not all.” The implication lingered.

Then, quieter, “You should not have been marked at all.”

“I didn’t feel marked,” you admitted. “Just… seen.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “That is often worse.”

He turned slightly, as though to give you space, and then stopped.

“There is something you should understand,” he said. “Protection from me is not symbolic. It is not prayer or offering.” His gaze returned to you, steady and unflinching. “It is binding.”

Your pulse quickened. “To me?”

“To both of us,” he corrected.

Not possession. Reciprocity.

“If you accept it,” he continued, “you will be safer. But you will also be… noticed.” His tone softened. “I will not force this upon you.”

You searched his face for arrogance, for entitlement, for the cruelty gods were infamous for.

You found none of it.

Only restraint. And something dangerously close to concern.

“I accept,” you said.

The word settled between you like a vow spoken without witnesses.

Suguru inclined his head. “Then I will stay.”

The shadows obeyed instantly, coiling closer, warmer now, the temple itself seeming to breathe easier around you both.

And for the first time, the cold did not feel like something to endure.

It felt like shelter.

—

Things quieted down for a bit. Suguru still hung around, watched you cook and clean, helped take the newly finished blanket off the loom, and trimmed back your houseplants. 

Spring was soon to be in bloom, farmers out in the fields tending to the dirt and planting their seeds. You spent more time in the sun, enjoying the new warmth as it chased away the chill of winter. 

At first, nothing felt wrong.

The days stretched longer. The air smelled of turned soil and sap. You carried water from the well in steady trips, the weight familiar in your hands, your muscles warm instead of aching. Suguru lingered at your side more often now, a quiet presence in the periphery of your vision, never quite touching, but never quite leaving either.

Then the rain didn’t come.

No one was worried at first. Spring was young, after all. The earth could wait a little longer.

But the soil stayed powder-dry beneath your fingers when you knelt to help a farmer replant a row that hadn’t taken. You rubbed the dirt between your palms and frowned. It crumbled too easily, dust clinging to your skin.

“It’ll come,” someone said nearby, too quickly.

You nodded and said nothing.

The well water began to taste… off. Not foul, not dangerous, just thin. Flat. As if it had been sitting too long in the dark. You found yourself swallowing more to feel satisfied, your throat scratchy even in the mornings.

Suguru noticed. “You drink more,” he said one evening as you set a cup aside.

You shrugged. “The air’s dry.”

His gaze lingered on the cup longer than necessary, shadows stirring faintly at his feet. But he didn’t press.

The farmers started talking in lower voices.

Seeds sprouted unevenly. The leaves yellowed at the edges. A goat refused its feed and lay down in the shade, sides heaving, eyes dull. You sat with it until nightfall, murmuring soft reassurances, but it never stood again.

Still, no one said the word.

Not yet.

You prayed longer. Not harder, just longer. You laid out offerings you couldn’t afford to replace and asked only for balance. For rain. For mercy. You didn’t speak Suguru’s name aloud. You didn’t look at him when you knelt.

The first cough came from a child.

Dry. Rattling. It echoed too loudly in the narrow space of the cottage, and you felt something twist in your chest when the sound didn’t fade with rest or water. You brought herbs. You sat through the night. By morning, the cough had spread to the child’s sister.

By the end of the week, three more.

That was when people started looking at you differently.

Not openly. Not cruelly.

Just… longer.

Lingering gazes that slid away when you noticed. Conversations that stopped when you passed. Someone moved their offering basket away from yours at the temple steps.

You carried on anyway.

You always did.

But at night, when you lie awake beside the quiet weight of Suguru’s shadows, listening to the wind scrape dry leaves across the ground, you wonder, not for the first time, how long the gods would allow you to keep choosing others over yourself.

And somewhere far above, thunder rolled without rain.

The whispers stopped being only whispers after that.

You heard them in the market first, not words, exactly, but tone. Voices pitched low, urgent. Your name caught in the middle of sentences and dropped when you passed. A woman you’d known since childhood pulled her basket closer to her chest as you reached for apples beside her.

“You shouldn’t—” someone murmured, then fell silent.

You kept your head down. You always had.

By the third week without rain, no one pretended anymore.

“This isn’t natural,” an older farmer said openly near the well, his voice rough with exhaustion. “I’ve worked this land longer than she’s been alive.”

Someone else replied, “The underworld god has been named too often.”

“And by who?” another asked.

The answer didn’t need to be spoken. They all knew. 

You felt their eyes on you, not accusing, not yet, but weighing. Measuring how much blame could be placed on a single person before it broke them.

You still helped.

You always helped.

When the fever took hold of old Maren, who used to give you honeyed bread when you were small, you sat by her bed through the night, cooling her skin with damp cloths that dried too quickly. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. Her hands trembled when she reached for yours.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered.

“I’m here,” you promised, even as fear gnawed at you. “I won’t.”

But by dawn, her chest stilled.

The room went quiet in a way that felt wrong, too sudden, too complete. You pressed your fingers to her neck anyway, as if willing life back into her body through sheer devotion.

Someone sobbed behind you.

Later, outside, you heard it said plainly for the first time.

“This is her doing.”

The words struck harder than any blow.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t defend yourself. You simply walked away, hands numb, heart pounding, the world tilting slightly with every step.

The temple was still when you arrived.

You collapsed at the altar, knees hitting stone too hard, palms splayed uselessly against the floor. Your breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. You tried to pray, tried to find the words, but they tangled uselessly in your throat.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered hoarsely. “I never asked.”

Your hands shook as you pressed them to your face, tears spilling freely now. Ugly. Uncontrolled. You sobbed for Maren, for the children coughing in their sleep, for the cracked fields and dry wells, for a village that would rather see you cursed than confront the gods themselves.

“I just wanted them to be okay,” you choked.

The air shifted.

Cold rushed in, sharp and sudden, shadows bleeding across the stone like ink dropped in water. The candles flared violently before steadying, their flames burning low and blue.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t need to anymore.

Suguru knelt in front of you, his presence heavy and unmistakable. He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t touch you. He simply existed there, solid, terrible, real. He gently rested his hand on your back, the first time he touched you since Naoya. 

“You would give up everything,” he said quietly, “for people who have never once chosen you.”

Your voice broke. “I don’t want them to suffer.”

“And I do not want you to,” he said, his hand rubbing your back soothingly. “But, this…this was never your burden to bear.”

Your shoulders shook harder. “Then why won’t it stop?”

Silence. And in that silence, you understood.

You looked up at him, eyes red, face streaked with tears. “You know,” you whispered. “Don’t you?”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tightly around him.

“Yes,” he said.

Your breath hitched. “Then please,” you begged, voice breaking completely, "Please tell me how to fix it.”

Suguru held your gaze, not like a god judging a mortal, but like someone standing at the edge of an irreversible choice.

“There is a way,” he said softly.

Your heart leapt, fragile and desperate. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

His voice lowered.

“But it will cost you everything you have left here.”

And for the first time since this began, the weight of the decision ahead of you settled fully into your bones.

“Tell me what I have to do, Suguru,” you murmured, your eyes searching his purple gaze. “Please.” 

Suguru was very still.

For a moment, you wondered if you had said the wrong thing, if speaking his name like that, raw and breaking between your teeth, had crossed some unseen boundary. His shadows stilled with him, drawn close, coiled tight as if held back by sheer force of will.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you had ever heard it.

“Stand,” he said.

It wasn’t a command. Not truly. But your body obeyed anyway, knees unsteady as you rose from the stone. He reached out, not touching you yet, his hand hovering near your wrist, close enough that you felt the cold brush of him against your skin.

“You have done nothing wrong,” he said, firmly now. “Understand that first.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why—”

“This is not punishment,” he interrupted. “It is leverage.”

The word sat heavy between you.

He turned his gaze toward the temple doors, toward the village beyond, toward the cracked earth and drying wells and quiet homes filled with sickness. You followed his line of sight, heart aching.

“My brother grows bored,” Suguru continued. “And when gods grow bored, mortals suffer.”

You swallowed hard. “Because of me.”

“Because you matter,” he corrected. “And that is rarer.”

Your breath shuddered out of you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly small beneath the weight of divine attention. “So what do I do?” you asked again, softer now. “How do I make it stop?”

Suguru looked back at you then, really looked, and something in his expression shifted. Not hunger. Not possession.

Resolve.

“If you remain here,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “this will continue. The sickness. The drought. The deaths. It will escalate until either you break… or they do.”

Your eyes burned. “And if I leave?”

The shadows stirred, restless now.

“If you come with me,” he said, “I can end it. Completely.”

Hope flared, the feeling sharp and painful. “Then take me,” you said immediately. “If that’s all it takes—”

He shook his head.

“No,” he said gently. “Listen to me.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze again.

“There is no returning unchanged,” Suguru continued. “You would leave this world behind. Your home. Your altar. Your people.” A pause. “They will forget you.”

Your chest ached. You thought of your mother’s prayers, the loom in your cottage, the temple stones worn smooth beneath your knees.

“And if I stay?” you asked, though you already knew.

His jaw tightened.

“Then I will withdraw,” he said. “And I will never come to you again.”

The words struck harder than any curse.

You stared at him, breath shallow, heart pounding violently against your ribs. The choice stretched out before you, cruel and clean and unforgiving.

Save them. Or save yourself.

Suguru watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, not waiting to be chosen, but refusing to steal the decision from you.

“I will not force you,” he said quietly. “Say the word, and I will go.”

Silence fell.

Outside, someone coughed.

You closed your eyes. Just for a moment, to think, to breathe, to feel. 

“I’ll tell you my decision tomorrow,” you opened your eyes, eyebrows pinched in thought. “At nightfall.”

Suguru nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your decision that threatened to close your throat and make your head pound. “Nightfall tomorrow,” he said softly. With one long look, his purple gaze boring into your own before he was gone with a puff of smoke. 

The day stretched unnaturally long after he left.

You barely slept. When morning came, it brought no relief, the air already heavy, already dry, pressing against your skin like a held breath. The sky remained cloudless, pale and unyielding, the sun glaring down without warmth.

You went into the village anyway.

The first door closed before you could knock.

At the well, two women paused mid-conversation when they saw you. One reached instinctively for the charm at her throat. The other turned away entirely.

“You should do something,” a man snapped as you passed, voice sharp with fear and exhaustion. “You brought this on us.”

“I’m trying,” you said, softly.

He laughed, the sound bitter and humorless. “Trying isn’t enough.”

By midday, another child had taken ill.

You knelt beside her bed, cooling her skin with water that evaporated too quickly, whispering the same reassurances you’d whispered a hundred times before. Her mother watched you with hollow eyes.

“If she dies,” the woman said quietly, “it will be on you.”

The words lodged deep in your chest.

You left before the tears could fall.

At the temple, the candles burned low despite being newly lit. You cleaned the altar one last time, hands steady even as your heart wasn’t. You replaced the flowers. You swept the stone. You knelt.

You didn’t pray for mercy.

You prayed for forgiveness, not from the gods, but from yourself.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and reds, you knew your answer.

When you returned home, the air was heavy—like it knew the decision was at stake and mourned for you. You tidied your garden, wiped down the counter, swept the floors. 

You spent an awful long time looking at the pomegranate sitting on your altar. 

At dusk, the air changed.

Cold rolled in, sudden and familiar. Shadows lengthened, stretching toward you like reaching hands.

Suguru emerged from the dark as if he had never left, his presence filling the space until the world felt small again. His gaze flicked over you, noting the exhaustion, the resolve, the quiet grief, and stilled. His expression gave nothing away. 

“You’ve decided,” he said.

You nodded. “I have.”

You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the way he stands in the middle of your kitchen, long black hair cascading down his back, black robes brushing against the floor and purple eyes never leaving yours. 

You should say no. You can hear your mother’s voice in your mind saying that you’ve taken too much. Too much from the gods. 

For once in your life, you’ve chosen to not listen to your mother. 

“I choose you, Hades—Suguru,” you breathed out, not from fear but from the weight of the words on your tongue. 

He holds your gaze, not saying a word for a moment. Then—you see his shoulders relax, physically dropping from where he held them up near his ears. That act made him more…Human. 

But, he’s always shown you that he was more human than god. 

“You understand what this means,” Suguru said at last. His voice was steady, but lower now, as if he spoke only to you and the shadows that adored him. “Once you leave, the world you know will not wait for you. Time will move on without mercy.”

“I know,” you said. Your hands curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “They already have.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction. Enough that you noticed.

“You will not be able to return as you are,” he continued. “And I will not lie to you: the path ahead will not be gentle.”

You stepped closer before you could think better of it. The cold curled around your ankles, familiar now, no longer frightening. “Neither was staying.”

That did it.

He reached for you then, not as a god claiming a mortal, not as a ruler issuing decree, but carefully, reverently. His fingers brushed your wrist, cool and steady, grounding. Where his skin met yours, the lingering phantom of fear faded, chased away by something firmer. Real.

“I will end this,” he said quietly. “The sickness. The drought. The suffering.”

You swallowed. “And them?”

“They will live,” he answered. “They will recover. They will forget why.”

You nodded once. It was enough.

Outside, thunder rolled, not violent, not furious, but deep and resonant, as if the earth itself had been waiting for permission to breathe again. Somewhere beyond the hills, rain finally broke against the soil.

Suguru turned his hand, threading his fingers through yours. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, not from cold, but from certainty.

“Come,” he said.

The word was not a command. It was an invitation.

Shadows rose gently around you, folding in close like a cloak. The kitchen blurred at the edges, your table, your altar, the pomegranate glowing faintly in the dim. You spared it one last glance, a quiet acknowledgment of the life you were leaving behind.

You didn’t look back again.

As the world slipped away, Suguru drew you closer, his presence shielding, steady. “You are under my protection now,” he murmured, not possessive, not boastful. Simply true, a fact. 

For the first time since this began, the weight on your chest eased.

You went willingly into the dark.

And for the first time, you chose yourself. 

— 

Sometimes, late at night when you couldn’t sleep, is when you thought things a mortal should never think about their god. 

Dirty, intimate acts but that didn’t stop you from thinking about them. From imagining his touch on your thighs, on your face, between your legs…

You thought he would take you in your bedroom. 

No—the first time he touches you, really touches you, is the first step into his world. 

—

You felt your feet touch the ground after the dizzying descent. You barely had time to gather your bearings before he touched you. 

Suguru cupped your face in his hands, his hands were so large, his face close to yours where you could count all of his individual eyelashes. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, his gaze searching your own. “For choosing me.”

At that moment, he was not a god—he was just a man. 

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, slow, deliberate, as though committing your face to memory. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, not sharp, not overwhelming, but deep. Settling.

You exhaled, realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you murmured.

His gaze softened further, something unguarded flickering there. “I do.”

The shadows around you stilled, the Underworld itself quieting, as if listening.

Suguru rested his forehead against yours. The contact was gentle, reverent, nothing like the images that had haunted your sleepless nights, and yet far more dangerous for it. You could feel the warmth of him now, the steady presence beneath the cold.

“I will give you time,” he said quietly. “To rest. To grieve. To understand what you’ve chosen.”

Your hands lifted on instinct, hovering near his chest, unsure, until he nodded once.

Permission.

Your palms pressed lightly against him. Solid. Real. Not stone. Not shadow.

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered.

His breath ghosted across your lips. “You should be,” he admitted. Then, softer, “But I’m glad you’re not.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he pulled you into his arms, not consuming, not claiming, just holding you as the world settled around you.

And when he finally released you—barely. The ghost of his touch is close enough to feel the heat of his skin. The space between you felt heavier than before. Lingering with tension that seemed to weigh down both your shoulders. 

Neither of you addressed it. 

Yet. 

The Underworld breathed around you.

It was quieter than you expected, not empty, but watchful. Shadows clung to stone walls like living things, the air cool and still, carrying a faint scent of ash and night-blooming flowers. You shifted your weight, suddenly too aware of yourself, of the way your heart still raced from the descent.

Suguru watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“You should rest,” he said, voice low. “The transition is… a lot for mortals.”

You huffed softly, nerves fraying. “You keep saying that,” you murmured. “But you haven’t let go of me yet.”

It was only then you realized, his hand still rested at your waist, thumb pressed lightly against your hip as if anchoring you to the ground. Not holding. Not restraining.

Staying.

His gaze dropped to where he touched you. Slowly, as though giving you time to pull away, his fingers flexed.

“If you ask me to,” he said quietly, “I will.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped closer.

The space between you vanished entirely, your breath brushing his chest, your hands lifting without permission from your mind to rest against him. Warmth bloomed beneath your palms, human warmth, and it sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

Suguru inhaled sharply.

That was the sound—the one you’d been waiting for. The crack in his composure.

“Say it,” he murmured, forehead dipping toward yours. “Tell me you want this.”

Your pulse thundered. “I’ve wanted it,” you admitted, voice barely more than a breath, “long before I should have.”

That did it.

His hands slid up, deliberate and unhurried, cradling your face once more. But this time there was no hesitation, only certainty. When his lips brushed yours, it was slow, exploratory, reverent… and utterly devastating.

You melted into him with a soft sound you didn’t recognize as your own.

The kiss deepened, not frantic, not rushed, a claiming made of patience rather than force. His thumb traced your jaw, your neck, lingering where your pulse betrayed you. You clutched at his robes, grounding yourself as the world tilted.

Shadows curled closer, heat pooling low in your stomach, every nerve singing.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.

“We should stop,” he said, even as his hands stayed exactly where they were.

You laughed softly, dizzy. “You don’t sound convinced.”

His lips curved, just barely. “I’m not.”

He guided you back with him, step by slow step, the Underworld dimming around you as his presence swallowed your senses whole.

Suguru led you into his bedchambers, his eyes never leaving your face and never giving you the chance to take in your surroundings. He stopped right at the foot of his bed, his broad shoulders blocking out the light coming in from the door until his shadows closed it with a definitive sound. 

—

You had knelt for him your entire life.

Stone biting into your knees. Head bowed. Hands folded in quiet devotion, never asking for more than balance, never daring to want.

He laid you out on the bed, his bed, towering over you. 

Suguru stepped back from you slowly.

Then, to your shock, he lowered himself instead.

The movement stole the breath from your lungs, a god of the Underworld kneeling before you, dark robes pooling at his feet, head tipped just enough to look up at you through his stupidly thick lashes. The shadows followed him instinctively, bowing with him, the very world seeming to hold still.

“This,” he said softly, reverently, “is my choice.”

Your pulse thundered. “Suguru—”

“Let me,” he murmured.

His touch was careful, unhurried, not taking, but offering. Each brush of his fingers felt intentional, learned, as though he had paid attention to every quiet want you’d never voiced.

He undressed you slowly, like peeling back the skin of a pomegranate, like you were the seed he desired to take a bite of. 

Suguru touched as if you were going to disappear out from under him. He did not touch like you were glass. No—he touched you like you were his altar and he was going to leave an offering. 

His hands, gods his hands, held your hips, the tips of his fingers pressing into the skin of your hips as his mouth found between your thighs. 

When you gasped, his gaze darkened, not with hunger, but with satisfaction.

His fingers should be criminal, pressing into you gently, wanting you to only feel pleasure. 

Suguru would never voice his thoughts but he was a greedy man. If he could, you would only feel pleasure from his fingers, his touch alone. 

You clutched at his shoulders as sensation overtook thought, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the sound of your name spoken like a prayer. Suguru stayed exactly where he was, devoted in a way that felt more intimate than any claim.

You had worshipped him your whole life.

That night, he returned the devotion—slowly, thoroughly, on his knees.

Suguru lingered there for a moment longer, as if committing the sight of you laid out to memory. Then he stood. 

The shift was subtle—but the air changed immediately. 

His hands slid up your thighs firm now, sure, and drew you closer until there was no space left to pretend restraint still existed. His mouth found yours again, slower and deeper, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“I’ve wanted this,” he admitted quietly against your lips, voice roughened by honesty rather than need. “Longer than I should have.”

”Me too,” you whispered back, your hands trailing over his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his robes. You could feel him shiver beneath your touch and it makes you smile at the effect you have on him. He responds by nipping lightly at your bottom lip, pressing his aching cock into your thigh. Not to push, but a reminder of the control you have over him—mind and body.

Suguru trails kisses down your jaw to your neck, sucking softly on your fluttering pulse to leave a red mark on your skin. His hands grip your waist a little tighter as you let out a soft sound, your hands finding the skin beneath his robes. 

“Let me worship you,” he murmured, leaning back just enough to catch your eye, his gaze intense—reminding you that there was a god between your legs. 

You nodded, eyes wide and tongue tied from the weight of his eyes. The corner of his lips tug up in a smug little smirk, proud of his effect. 

“Good,” he whispered, ducking back down to litter your skin in his marks, lingering on your breasts. He cupped them in his large hands, engulfing them easily and tweaking your nipples with the tips of his fingers. 

He touched you with devotion. You were no longer his priestess. No—you were just his now. 

Suguru listens as you make cute little sounds under him, your eyes lidded and cheeks flushed as you fumble with the ties to his robe. He takes pity on you and helps you with them, his lips still on your skin as they fall to the floor. 

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. 

He’s a god, you know this and yet nothing is as divine as the way he looks leaning over you—naked. 

You let out a quiet moan and he has to fight the urge to groan in response. You can feel his cock now, the soft skin of it pressing into your hip—so hard and warm. 

Suguru catches your eye once more as he rolls his hips into yours and you can’t help the gasp that spills out. His eyes flash with intrigue. He does it again and you give him the sound again. 

He does it over and over, one hand planted by your head and the other holding your waist. His shoulders are so broad, he nearly takes up your entire field of vision as he grinds his cock between your folds, letting your arousal coat his cock. 

“Suguru,” you whine, hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the muscle tense under your touch. 

Suguru inhales sharply at the sound of need and he has to restrain himself. His hand on your waist leaves to grip the base of his cock. He lined himself up with you slowly, deliberately. 

You nodded eagerly, nails digging into his skin as you spread your thighs wider. He lets out a soft groan as he begins to push in, his cock long as it splits your cunt open. 

Suguru works you open, thrusting shallowly and working inch by inch in, purple eyes watching your expression. You both moan when he finally bottoms out, his forehead resting on your as your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of being joined. 

“Mine,” he breathes out—not as a claim, but a confession, his nose brushing against yours. His hand cups your cheek as he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow when he begins to move his hips. 

Suguru thrusts slow, so slow and deep its borderline mean, hitting your g-spot dead-on with every movement of his hips. You moan into his mouth and let your hands roam his torso before settling on his back, letting your nails dig into his lats. 

It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build, tears of overwhelming pleasure clouding your vision. His eyes soften as he presses a kiss to your forehead, one hand on your hip and the other trailing up your thigh to hook it around his hip, spreading you open wider. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving yours. His hair falls from his hair tie, leaving a black curtain around your face as his thrusts increase, sliding in deep and hard. 

“Suguru-“ you tried to warn him, eyes widening as the pleasure leaves you climbing and higher. You were so close—he knew it. 

“Let go,” he urged quietly, his hips somehow going even faster. “Cum for me.”

Your nails rake down his back as you orgasm with a soft cry of his name, his mouth covering yours to catch the sound. Your moans mingle together as he follows right behind you, his cock twitching and jerking inside you as he fills you with his cum. 

Suguru stays there for a long moment, both of your chests heaving as you come down from your highs together, foreheads pressed together. 

“Thank you. For choosing yourself. For choosing a life with me,” he whispered, purple eyes fluttering open, so soft and open. 

You smile, cupping his cheek and thumbing under his eye. “You’re welcome,”

You had worshipped him your whole life. 

Now, you were worshipped in return. 

It was better than you could’ve ever imagined.

— 

“Who’s the girl?” 

“You’ll meet her soon, Satoru.” 

“I better. I just left for spring and summer. I better meet her in the fall.”

a/n: this is probably one of my favorite pieces that i've written and i'm really proud of it. i love greek myth and i wanted do a spin-off of the hades/persephone and make it different (also not as dark as the og myth.) shout out to the greek myth class i took last semester.

also this is my only post for this week so enjoy!!!