The day dragged on like a loading screen frozen at 99%, By the end of it, your brain felt like a corrupted asset.

Only one thought kept you tethered to sanity: Shedletsky or more accurately, Telamon, your eldritch paradox of affection and chaos. Your sometimes‑husband, sometimes‑hazard, always‑comfort. You were mildly bitter he hadn’t shown up at HQ today probably off doing something dramatic, divine, or both but you knew exactly where he’d be.

Sword Fights on the Heights. His domain. His playground. His cathedral of nostalgia and absurdity. The portal he’d made specifically for you (lucky sucker) shimmered like a private VIP pass to another dimension.

There he was.

Shedletsky.

No Telamon.

Floating.

His form was massive, celestial, and somehow still stylish, hovering in the center of SFOTH like a divine screensaver. His wings were tucked neatly against his robes, as if he were politely trying not to knock over any towers or accidentally trigger a worldwide earthquake. The air around him shimmered with a faint glow, like the universe was making space for him out of sheer respect.

His silhouette gleamed faintly, like someone had dipped a god in moonlight and sarcasm. Every feather, every fold of fabric, every line of his colossal form radiated a quiet, impossible power. You were still trying to process the sheer scale of him when his voice broke through the silence.

“Ah. I didn’t know so much time had passed.”

Despite his towering presence, his voice was soft velvet dipped in honey, warm enough to melt the tension in your shoulders. It floated to you gently, wrapping around your ears like a lullaby sung by someone who could also delete someone with a thought and a flick of his taloned finger.

He turned slowly, massive head tilting, a tender smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, with the casual grace of someone picking up a pebble, he reached out and scooped you up in one hand. His palm was warm, textured like ancient marble, and you fit in it like a novelty keychain someone might buy at a gift shop for cosmic beings with questionable impulse control.

He brought you close very close until you were inches from his face. His eyes sparkled with affection and a hint of mischief. Then his free hand hovered above you, one enormous finger descending with the precision of a crane operator.

Rub. Rub. Rub.

It was not gentle.

It was like being lovingly head‑patted by a boulder. Your hair instantly transformed into a certified disaster zone from the head-rubs of doom.

“I missed you, little birdie,” he whispered, voice dipped in fondness so warm it could’ve toasted marshmallows.

You blinked up at him, dazed, mildly concussed, and deeply flustered.

He was usually chill—laid‑back, hella brilliant, a bit sardonic, occasionally terrifying in meetings—but never cruel. And when it came to you? He was a walking contradiction. A god who could rewrite reality, yet still remembered your favorite snack and how you liked your coffee. A being who could level worlds but chose instead to cradle you like something precious.

He didn’t just care for you.

He adored you.

Like a deity admiring their favorite mortal.

Like a cosmic force who’d decided that you, specifically, were worth all the softness he had left.*