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IMPORTANT MESSAGE AT THE AUTHOR'S NOTE IN THE END!
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"Let me have this."
The words echoed softly between them, a fragile permission that carried more weight than either could measure.
It was not the first time John had kissed a woman. Somewhere in the fog of his former life, there had been another. A girlfriend, a memory that lingered like smoke, faint and shapeless. Yet as Melina's lips met his, it felt as though none of that had ever happened. As though this was the first.
The kiss was fierce and trembling, filled with a desperate need that no words could ever hope to touch.
It lasted until Melina lost her breath.
When she finally pulled away, both of them sat still, breathing each other's air. The world outside seemed to hold its own breath, the soft crackle of the hearth fire the only sound between them.
John's hand rose, fingers threading gently through her hair. He gave a small, almost reverent tug, guiding her gaze back to his.
"You have no idea…" He whispered, voice hoarse, trembling with exhaustion and an excitement even he was slightly embarrassed to voice aloud."How long I've waited for this moment."
Before she could answer, he leaned closer, searching her face as if daring her to deny him.
The only sound she managed was a soft, breathy whimper that felt like half plea, half surrender.
The second kiss came rougher, heavier, as if the first had been only a hesitant trial and this one the real thing. His lips pressed harder, the ache in his chest melting into her warmth. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, wordlessly asking for permission to deepen it, to let him taste her.
And she gave it, hesitant but certain, and so very curious as to what it would feel like. Not that she would ever admit it out loud.
The soft moan against his mouth that followed was enough of an answer anyways. It sent a small shiver through him. The world tilted, the edges of pain and exhaustion forgotten for but a moment.
When they finally parted, Melina gasped for air, a thin line of saliva connecting them for one breathless heartbeat before breaking.
They stayed like that, faces close, eyes locked.
Melina's hand found his free one and clutched it tightly. It wasn't a gentle, nor a timid one but the kind of grip that spoke of fear, relief, and hope all tangled together.
As if letting go would make the moment vanish.
For a long while, neither spoke. Their breathing slowed in unison, the air between them thick with warmth and comfortable silence.
At last, she swallowed, her gaze flickering down before she found the courage to speak. "So… what now?"
Her voice was meeker than she had intended it to be, barely above a whisper, but even she couldn't hide the small tremor of happiness that threaded through it.
John smiled softly, brushing his fingers along the back of her head, tracing through strands of gold like he was afraid they might burn him. "Now? Now we see what this all means to us-"
"AHG- FUCK!"
The sudden cry broke through the tender quiet like thunder. His hand shot to his temple, his whole body tensing as a sharp, piercing pain split through his skull.
Melina jolted upright, eyes wide. "What's wrong?"
He sucked in a ragged breath, forcing his eyes open. "Headache," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Just… a migraine. I'm fine."
His tone tried for reassurance, but it came out thin, brittle.
Melina didn't believe him for a second. Her frown deepened as she reached out, steadying him with both hands. "That didn't sound fine."
He managed a strained grin. "I said I was fine. I didn't say I wasn't miserable."
Despite herself, a small huff of amusement escaped her, at the very least he was being honest with her. Choosing her for comfort, just as she hoped so dearly. She shifted closer and guided him down gently, pulling his head to rest against her chest.He froze, startled by the sudden contact, but she spoke before he could protest.
"This may help," she whispered, her voice trembling but steady enough to chant a low incantation. Warm light bloomed faintly around them as she cast Blessing of the Erdtree.
John's breath eased. The magic dulled the pain somewhat, but it was her touch – The rhythmic beat of her heart beneath his ear, that was what truly soothed him.
He let out a quiet sigh, too tired to care about pride.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Then, her voice came again, softer. "What happened in that church?" she asked. "You were gone for so long… seven hours, at least. And my mother, what does she think of all this?"
John didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted shut, her hand idly stroking through his hair in slow, absent circles. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint.
"Marika… you there?"
Silence lingered for a few moments, then a familiar warmth flickered at the edge of his mind, like sunlight pressing against fog.
He opened his eyes and saw her.
Queen Marika's spectral form materialized beside the bed, her usual divine poise softened by visible weariness. Stray golden strands framed her face; she looked… disheveled, if such a thing could be said of a goddess.
"So you do remember I exist." She remarked lightly, though her tone carried something gentler than mockery, something almost proud.
"Occasionally." John muttered as he managed a weak grin, wincing a moment later as pain flared behind his eyes.
Marika's faint smile faltered as Melina's worry deepened. Melina squeezed his shoulder gently, silently urging him to stay still.
He covered her hand with his own, pressing lightly in reassurance. "I'm fine. Really. Well… Not fine fine. But I'll be okay. Just a migraine. Promise."
Marika sighed and unfolded her arms, stepping closer. She leaned forward slightly to inspect him, the soft shimmer of her form bending until she was eye-level with him, still resting in her daughter's arms.
The gesture might have been maternal were it not for the accidental closeness, the divine presence of her form exuding warmth and power. The neckline of her silken raiment dipped as she moved, revealing just enough of her more than ample cleavage that, under different circumstances, John might have cracked a grin.
That is, if he hadn't been nursing a skull that felt like it was being split in two.
And if she wouldn't immediately know.
He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze to stay fixed on her eyes.
Even so, her faint smirk told him she knew anyway.
Melina, oblivious to the silent exchange, continued running her fingers through his hair, whispering soothing words he only half-heard.
Marika's eyes gleamed faintly in the dim firelight as she studied him. Her golden irises, radiant yet somber, traced over the bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The traces of amusement bled from her face as she did, until only a quiet, measured concern remained.
Her gaze lingered longer than comfort allowed. It was not just his body she examined, her vision seemed to pierce through him, deeper, down to the soul beneath the skin.
A faint, uneasy light shimmered between them as she looked harder. Then her expression changed. The corners of her lips pressed into a thin line, her brows furrowed with a rare, complicated frown.
John's pulse quickened. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the tension building in his throat.
"Thy brush with the Frenzied Flame hath… left its mark," Marika said softly after a slow exhale. "And not merely upon thy flesh."
John's mouth went dry. He tried for a half-laugh, but it came out hollow. "Yeah, I kinda figured the burns were permanent."
"That is not what I meant."
Her tone silenced him instantly.
He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "Then… what do you mean?"
Marika hesitated, an act so uncharacteristic of her that it unsettled him more than the words themselves. Then, with a slow, deliberate flick of her hand, she conjured something in the air before him.
A faint shimmer materialized, glowing letters, lines of text cascading across his vision one after another. He'd have been annoyed by the influx of notifications if their contents weren't so important.
"See for thyself."
[System Notification]
Congratulations! You have survived an attempted takeover via The Herald of Madness and glimpsed the Truths of your reality's creation – Truths that no mortal soul could comprehend.
You have also gazed upon a figment of the True Form of Higher Beings beyond your pitiful comprehension… and impossibly retained your sanity.
As a result, your INSIGHT has risen dramatically.
As a side effect of your enhanced INSIGHT, you have gained boons to your ability to Perceive, Comprehend, and Understand the Truth.
[+10 to Mind | +20 to Arcane | +20 to Intelligence]
However, these grand Truths have shaken your tentative Faith in the Higher Being known as "The Greater Will" and its designs – Including the ELDEN RING itself, which is included in your Object of Worship and Faith: "Marika's Tits adorned with the Elden Ring."
As a result of this: [-10 to Faith]
A fading fragment of the Frenzied Flame has marked your Soul. You have forcefully learned the Forbidden Incantation: "The Flame of Frenzy."
Lingering remnants of the Frenzied Flame's annihilation remain upon your wounded body. You have suffered a temporary debuff.
[Status Effect: WEAKENED | -40% Strength & Endurance | Duration: 16 Hours, 58 Minutes, 37 Seconds]
John blinked, then blinked again.
"Oh… Fan-fucking-tastic," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as the glowing words burned into his eyes. "So, to sum up… I survived a cosmic nightmare, learned a spell I didn't want, and lost faith because my brain finally started working?"
Marika arched a brow. "An eloquent interpretation, if somewhat crude. But aye, thou art not far off."
John groaned quietly, leaning back against Melina's shoulder. "I'm not sure if I should be proud or terrified."
"I prefer the latter," Marika replied dryly.
Melina, who had been listening in quiet confusion, finally leaned forward, her hand still resting against his back. "What did she say?" she asked softly.
John hesitated, then sighed. "Apparently… My run-in with the Frenzied Flame gave me some kind of… divine insight. I saw a bit too much of how reality works, and it rewired me a little. Boosted my intelligence, my mind, and Arcane."
Melina's brows knitted in concern. "That… doesn't sound entirely good."
He chuckled weakly. "Oh, it gets better. The universe decided that learning too much about it means I have to lose some faith points. So, congrats, I'm slightly less holy now."
Melina frowned deeper, not finding the humor in it. "And the Frenzied Flame?" she pressed.
John's smile faltered. "Yeah. That part's real too. Says I've got a fragment of it stuck to my soul. Gave me a forbidden incantation called The Flame of Frenzy."
Her eyes widened slightly. "A curse," she whispered. "That fire eats at the mind. You can't simply… unlearn it. Do not call upon that incantation, ever."
John's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, ya don't need to tell me that much. Feeling that shitty fire again is the last thing I would want right now."
Marika folded her arms again, golden light tracing the edges of her form. "The spell itself is the least of mine concerns," she said evenly. "It is thy newfound Insight that troubles me."
John raised a brow, he remembered the same concept and mechanic taking place in Bloodborne, but he honestly never bothered to pay attention to the lore of that particular game. "Why? Shouldn't more insight be a good thing?"
Her gaze sharpened. "Not when it strips thee of thy veil. The more thou seest of truth, the thinner the walls of reason become. Mortals were not made to glimpse the bones of creation. They either break… or change."
The words lingered in the air, heavy and quiet.
John looked down at his hands. The faint gold of healing light flickered across his knuckles, he swore he could still see blood painting his hands crimson.
"Well," he sighed after a long silence, clenching his hand once before shaking his head to clear the unease. "I'm still me. Mostly."
Marika's gaze lingered on him, her golden light flickering faintly. "Pray it remain so."
Melina's hand tightened on his shoulder. Her voice was quiet, yet it carried that soft steadiness that had always grounded him. "Then we'll make sure you do."
He smiled faintly, that tired, crooked grin that seemed to belong only to him. He reached out, patting the back of her head gently before his fingers trailed upward to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed along her skin with a tenderness that made her breath catch.
"Thank you, but now…" he murmured, voice low. "Help me get stronger, please."
Her eye trembled at the touch, the faintest hint of color blooming in her cheeks before she softened into a warm smile. She placed her hand over his and nodded once, a silent promise.
Then her other hand came forward, pressing against the center of his chest, right over the faint thrum of his heartbeat. She closed her eyes and breathed out slowly. He followed her lead, his breath syncing with hers, letting her guide the runes that shimmered faintly beneath his skin.
Power flowed between them quietly, steadily, and strangely intimately.
The air pulsed faintly with golden warmth as the runes began to respond, answering his will through her touch.
He started where it mattered most. The first thing he tended to was his faith. Whatever doubts had crept into him after his encounter with the Frenzied Flame, he couldn't afford to lose that connection. His rites, his flames, his very strength as a vessel depended on it.
…Presumably.
After that, he enhanced, then evened out the rest. Strength to match his dexterity, endurance to steady the burden, mind to temper his growing insight. There was satisfaction in balance.
And finally, the numbers settled.
[STATS PAGE – Level 62 | Radagon's Soreseal Equipped]
Name: John Elden Ring
Class: Samurai
Race: Progenitor of the Dracúl Aeternum
Talisman: Radagon's Soreseal - Green Turtle Talisman
Burden: Medium
Spells: Flame, Grant Me Strength - Bestial Vitality - Stone of Gurranq - __
Level: 62
Vigor: 50 "Enduring as ever. I daresay thou could now survive being hit by a falling keep. Though knowing thee, thou would still find a way to make it look painful."
Mind: 45 "Oh, how the fog lifts. A few revelations, and suddenly thou thinkest thyself a philosopher. Pray tell, what is next? Writing poetry to thy swords?"
Endurance: 50 "Boundless stamina. Remarkable. I suspect thou art now physically incapable of sitting still, even in unconsciousness. Restlessness incarnate, truly."
Strength: 50 "Marvelous. Thou hast reached the point where thy fists may well qualify as siege weaponry. Do try not to test this theory upon the furniture."
Dexterity: 50 "Balanced, graceful, deadly. I almost admire the irony, that one so nimble of blade remains so clumsy of word."
Intelligence: 29 "Ah, enlightenment dawns. So the light finally found a way in through that thick skull. Do not fret, mine Champion, thinking too much doth not suit thee anyway."
Faith: 40 "Restored at last. A pity it took blasphemy, death, and divine migraine to strengthen thy devotion. Still, progress is progress."
Arcane: 50 "Astonishing. Thou hast stared into the abyss, conversed with madness, and somehow returned with souvenirs. Try not to do it again, lest the abyss start writing back."
John blinked, squinting at the glowing script before him. "You're seriously mocking me while I'm still bandaged?"
Marika smirked faintly, her golden form hovering near the foot of the bed where only he could see her. "Thou did just manually raise thy Faith as though tossing coin into a temple collection box. I merely observe what I see."
He snorted softly. "Yeah, well, if all it takes to fix my divine connection is paying enough runes, then I guess your church really is pay-to-win."
Marika's expression froze, then slowly melted into a look of long-suffering disbelief. "Blasphemous, yet disturbingly accurate."
He chuckled until his eyes narrowed at the stat sheet again. "Damn it… I'm one level short of evening everything out."
Melina tilted her head slightly, watching him talk to what appeared to be thin air. "Does that matter?"
"Yes, it does!" he said instantly, jabbing a finger upward. "It's sitting there like a useless appendix. Twenty-nine Intelligence. What even is that number supposed to do?"
To Melina, it looked like he was complaining to the ceiling. To Marika, however, it was fuel for amusement.
The goddess' laughter rang quietly in his head, golden and melodic. "Ah, enlightenment dawns only for thee to curse it moments later! How gloriously predictable. I knew thy intellect was fleeting, but not this ephemeral!"
John groaned under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Indeed, I am." She replied smugly, floating over to the side to let him focus back on Melina.
He shifted slightly in bed, preparing to swing his legs off the side and accidentally planted his hand on something soft.
There was a muffled noise, followed by movement.
Millicent stirred.
The crimson-haired woman blinked sleepily, confusion giving way to realization as her gaze landed on him. Then her eyes widened.
"You're awake!"
Before anyone could stop her, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arm tightly around his chest.
"Millicent wait-!"
Pain flared instantly through his side.
"GAH! Oh, fuck-! G-Great to see you too!" He hissed through his teeth.
Melina hurried forward, laughing despite herself as she tried to pry the girl off him. "Careful, Millicent! He's still injured!"
The younger woman froze comically, horror mixed with relief crossing her face. "I-I'm sorry! I just… You're not dead!"
John chuckled weakly, though his face was twisted in pain. "Yeah, I try to make that a habit."
Melina sighed, her voice soft as she checked his bandages again. "He'll be fine, Millicent. Just a bit weak for another day."
Millicent exhaled in relief, smiling so wide it was almost impossible not to mirror it. "Good! I'll tell the others you're alive and have them bring food. You must be starving."
"Starving might be a weak word," he said, then smirked faintly. "Also… sorry I didn't get you that rock souvenir you asked for."
She blinked, then laughed. It was a sharp, bright sound that seemed to cut through all the lingering tension in the room. "You know what? I'll let that one slide. Almost dying is a pretty solid excuse."
He raised a brow. "Pretty solid?"
Her grin turned playful as she pointed at him. "For now. Don't make a habit of it."
He chuckled, shaking his head as she turned toward the door.
"I'll make that extra food!" she called cheerfully over her shoulder as she left, her voice fading down the hall.
John leaned back against the pillows with a small, exhausted smile tugging at his lips. "That brat's gonna kill me faster than the Frenzied Flame ever could."
The door closed behind her, leaving quiet laughter in her wake.
Melina's soft giggle joined it soon after. John tilted his head toward her, a playful glare crossing his features. "Don't you start."
She just smiled, that small, warm smile that always disarmed him. "Come on," she said gently, helping him up. "We need to change your bandages. But before that…"
He frowned, already suspecting the answer. "Before that what?"
She steadied him, her touch light against his side. "…You need to take a bath."
He winced as he sat upright. "Does it matter what I look like? These people have seen me bleeding from six different holes. I think my modesty died two resurrections ago."
Her quiet laugh softened the air between them. She tilted his chin gently, forcing him to meet her eye.
"I care what you look like."
He froze.
Then she smiled and leaned closer. It was a knowing, dangerous little curve of her lips that would have looked more at home on her mother's face than at hers.
"Besides," she whispered, her tone teasing, "I'll help you~."
His eyes widened slightly, and whatever clever comeback he'd been crafting died in his throat.
That was all the answer she needed.
From his peripheral vision, Marika bent over with laughter, the golden light that usually followed her like a halo was rippling with what looked suspiciously like glee. "Oh, splendid. Mine daughter hath him wound round her little finger. A most poetic humiliation, truly."
John's jaw tightened slightly as he thought, 'Can we not do commentary right now?'
Marika's laughter rippled through his head like distant thunder. "Not while I yet draw breath, mine Champion."
He sighed audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Melina blinked, concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," he muttered, half to himself. "Just hearing divine laughter in my head again. Business as usual."
Melina tilted her head curiously, but he smiled faintly, trying to wave it off. "Come on then, Miss 'I'll Help You.' Let's get this over with before your mother starts narrating again."
Marika's soft chuckle followed, fading into the background like candlelight on retreat as he grumbled and let Melina help him off the bed. The two of them slowly made their way to the slightly ajar door, then into one of the corridors of Castle Morne.
John leaned slightly on Melina for balance, his body still heavy with fatigue. The stone corridor of Castle Morne was dimly lit, the flicker of torchlight tracing gold along the edges of her hair as she guided him. He made a half-hearted joke about feeling like an old man, and she only hummed in quiet amusement, refusing to dignify it with a reply.
When they reached the door, he paused, eyeing the interior. The room beyond was small and modest, a far cry from the polished marble baths of the Roundtable Hold. Steam hung in the air, thick with the scent of heated water and old wood. A large oak tub sat in the center, filled to the brim, rippling faintly in the candlelight.
"Well," John muttered, squinting at it. "Not quite the luxury I was expecting. Guess the royal spa was booked."
Melina's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "You should be grateful there's warm water at all."
"Warm water, sure." He sighed out, stepping carefully forward. "But no showerhead, no soap with a fancy name, not even a towel warmed by divine light? Tragic."
"Perhaps I should let you clean yourself, then?" She threatened dryly, though they both knew she wouldn't follow through.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, smirking. "Nah. I think I'll take my chances with divine assistance."
Her sigh was quiet but colored with something like fond exasperation.
She reached into the bath, testing the water with her hand. A faint shimmer of gold glowed against her fingertips as she murmured a minor spell to warm it further. Satisfied, she turned to him, and for a moment, hesitation flickered across her face.
He followed her gaze to the blood-stiffened tunic still clinging to his body. The fabric was torn and stained, bandages peeking through in uneven patches.
"Right," he said, realizing what came next. "The fun part."
Melina nodded once, stepping closer. Her hands hovered at his chest for a moment before she began to undo the wrappings. She very willingly ignored the heat in her cheeks and lower body, now was not the time to admire his wounded body, or think about how much she wanted to explore her new feelings.
She worked with quiet precision, untying knots, peeling back fabric layer by layer. Beneath each one was another reminder of what he'd endured: the angry red burns along his shoulder, the faint scars laced over his ribs.
Her breath hitched softly when she uncovered the worst of it, the jagged burn that climbed from his collarbone up toward his neck. Her fingers paused over it, trembling just slightly before she resumed, gentler now.
John didn't speak, though he could feel the faint tremor in her hands even through the steady movements.
When she finished unwrapping his torso, she stepped back slightly, eyes darting uncertainly downward. The only thing left now were his trousers, tattered, blood-stained, half burnt along one side.
She swallowed. "You'll need to remove the rest."
He blinked at her tone, so stiffly formal it almost made him laugh. "You say that like you expect me to perform a ritual."
"I- I merely mean… Mou~…." She faltered, looking away, faint color rising to her cheeks with an almost petulant whine. "It would be… improper to look."
He grinned faintly despite the situation. "Melina, you've seen me covered in blood, rot, and dragon guts. I think the mystery's long gone."
"That is not the same!" she said sharply, her composure cracking for just a second.
"No?" He leaned a little closer, his grin widening. "Would it help if I promise to keep the commentary to a minimum?"
Her lips pressed together in a thin line, but she didn't tell him to stop.
Finally, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like resignation, she turned her head aside, covering her peripheral vision with one hand. "Just… hurry."
He chuckled under his breath and did as told, stripping off the ruined cloth with as much dignity as an injured man could muster. The cold air of the room hit his skin, and before he could even steady himself, she was there again, hand at his arm, guiding him toward the tub with gentle insistence.
"Careful," she murmured, trying her damndest to ignore the urge to steal a peek at his… sword.
He let her help him step in, the warmth of the water wrapping around him instantly. A sigh escaped his lips as he sank down, feeling the ache of his muscles slowly ease. "Fuuuck~..." he sighed with a small groan of relief, leaning back. "That's… yeah. That's more like it..."
Melina knelt at the side, avoiding his eyes at first. Her hand dipped a cloth into the water, squeezing it out before bringing it to his shoulder.
The first touch was cautious, almost hesitant. She moved slowly, wiping away the grime and soot that still clung to his skin. Her focus narrowed to her task, but he could see the crimson flush still lingering in her cheeks.
"Relax," he said softly. "You're acting like I'll break."
Her cloth stilled for a moment. "…You nearly did."
That quiet tone, part worry, part anger, and part something more needy, silenced him. He let her continue, the sound of water and her slow, deliberate motions filling the silence.
She was extra careful with the burns. Her fingers brushed along the edge of the scars, never pressing too hard, her warmth soothing where the fire had bitten deep. Every so often she murmured a faint incantation, light spilling from her palm as she coaxed the pain away.
After a while, she seemed to relax. The rhythm of her work steadied, and the awkwardness between them softened into something calmer.
"Better?" she asked quietly, wringing out the cloth.
"Much," he admitted, voice low. "Didn't know getting nearly incinerated came with this kind of aftercare."
Her head tilted, the faintest ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Don't make a habit of it. I'm not sure I'd survive a second time."
"Neither would I." He said honestly.
Her hand lingered over his shoulder a moment longer before she withdrew it, dipping the cloth again. He caught her wrist gently before she could move away.
"Melina…" he murmured, meeting her gaze.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The candlelight reflected in her single visible eye, gold and fragile.
"…Thank you." He said simply.
Her lips parted as if to reply, but no words came. Instead, she gave a small nod, and smiled purely. Though she would still vehemently deny the blush she knew damn well still coloured her cheeks.
When she returned to washing his neck, her movements were steady, confident. The earlier tension had faded, replaced by something warmer. A trust and a comfort they quietly shared between themselves.
And as the last of the soot and ash drifted away in the water, John found himself thinking. Not of the pain, not of the scars, not even of the lingering madness he had survived, but of her.
The woman who had held him together when he'd fallen apart.
And who now, with nothing more than a cloth, warm water, and soft words, was somehow mending more than just his wounds.
The bath was quiet for a long while, the only sounds being the soft drip of water and the faint rustle of cloth as Melina wrung out a towel.
John leaned back against the rim of the tub, the heat seeping into his muscles. His thoughts drifted somewhere between comfort and exhaustion, until his body decided to remind him it still had a sense of humor.
'Oh no. No, no, no.'
He shifted slightly, willing his thoughts to focus on anything other than the way Melina's fingers brushed against his skin, or the delicate curve of her smile as she concentrated on cleaning the ash from his neck. The bathwater rippled as he moved his arm.
'Not now, Boner-kun. I swear to God.'
Melina, of course, was oblivious. She dipped the cloth again, squeezing the excess water from it, humming quietly to herself as she leaned closer. Her hair tickled his shoulder, and her breath brushed faintly against his ear.
John's soul left his body for a second.
He forced his gaze upward, studying the ceiling with the intensity of a scholar reading ancient runes.
'Focus on the ceiling, its cracks. Think of the shit you did in the past day. Definitely not her collarbone. Anything but her soothing humming.' He mentally cursed the universe for having such impeccable comedic timing.
And then, like salt in an open wound, Marika's voice purred through his mind. "Ah, truly magnificent. My chosen Champion, conqueror of dragons and madness alike, undone by a woman with a washcloth. I am moved to tears."
John froze mid-breath. 'Oh, for the love of- Not you too!'
Marika's laughter rang in his head, light and melodic, equal parts smug and entertained. "Be at ease, mine Champion. I merely observe. 'Tis only natural for blood to follow warmth, after all. Yet thou might wish to lower the water's temperature, ere the maiden think thee fevered."
John clenched his jaw, muttering under his breath, "You're not helping."
"Helping?" she echoed, all false innocence. "Nay, I simply marvel at thy fortitude. To face divinity, death, and despair, yet tremble before affection. It is… endearing."
Melina tilted her head slightly, catching his expression. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." he said too quickly. "Perfectly fine. Great bath. Ten out of ten experience."
Her brows knit faintly in concern. "Is the water too hot?"
"Nope. Totally fine. Exactly right." He coughed, sinking a little deeper into the water in what he prayed looked casual and hoped to god his 'little John' didn't decide to poke out from beneath the opaque water.
Marika's voice returned, quieter this time, as if savoring every ounce of his discomfort. "Truly fascinating. Elevated pulse, flushed skin, poor composure. I should take notes. The great Champion of Grace, bested by his own nerves."
John pressed his fingers to his temple. 'Please stop narrating my embarrassment like it's divine scripture.'
Her laughter echoed in reply.
Melina wrung out the towel again, oblivious to the private war waging inside his skull. "Your face is red," she said softly. "Perhaps I should fetch cool water?"
He managed a strained smile. "No, really. Just… battle damage, emotional scarring. You know how it is."
She blinked, clearly unconvinced but let it go anyways, returning to dabbing gently at his shoulder.
John exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes closing. 'Calm down, Boner-kun. You're embarrassing me in front of the literal embodiment of Godhood.'
Marika's tone turned mock-soothing. "Oh, fret not. 'Tis merely proof thou still possess the vigor of youth after all. Yet I must admit, had I known this was all it took to disarm thee, I would have sent thee to bathe with my daughter sooner."
He nearly choked on air. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'
"Immensely."
He grumbled, half under his breath, 'I couldn't handle sex with a demigoddess right now anyway. Sealed or otherwise.'
Marika actually went silent for a beat, then burst into laughter so pure it made his head ring. "Oh, mine Champion. Do try not to say such things aloud~. The poor girl may yet hear and faint from mortification~!"
He buried his face in his hands. "Please, just… just let me suffer in peace."
Melina glanced at him again, clearly trying to read his strange behavior. "You keep muttering," she said quietly. "Are you sure the pain hasn't returned?"
He forced a tired grin. "Nope. Just arguing with God. Standard post-Outer-God behavior."
That earned him a puzzled stare, but she said nothing more, returning to her careful work. The silence stretched again, punctuated only by the sound of dripping water.
After a while, she finished washing his shoulders and rose to fetch a towel. The moment her back was turned, John let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his life.
"You done laughing yet?" he muttered under his breath.
Marika's laughter softened, her tone turning almost affectionate. "For now. But take comfort, mine Champion. 'Tis good to know that, after all thou hast endured, some part of thee still remembers warmth."
He rolled his eyes, a weary smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Yeah, yeah. Glad I could entertain."
"Ever so."
Melina returned then, towel in hand, blissfully unaware of the divine torment echoing in his head. She smiled faintly as she helped him from the tub, careful not to disturb his healing skin.
Marika's final words came like a whisper fading in his thoughts. "Do try not to fall to temptation, my Champion. 'Twould be dreadfully inconvenient to lose thee to mortal desire after surviving cosmic insanity."
John grunted, drying his hair. 'You're never letting me live this down, are you?'
A soft chuckle lingered in the back of his mind. "Never."
As she watched him clean up, Melina's eyes wandered along his sculpted body, eventually landing near his barely covered waistline and realising the towel was barely enough to cover him properly.
Melina was quick to hand him another towel the moment she realized her mistake. Her single visible eye darted away, cheeks tinged a delicate shade of pink. "Here," she murmured, thrusting it toward him. "For your… dignity."
John accepted it with a grateful nod and the faintest smirk. "Appreciated. My dignity's been through a lot lately."
"Mm," she replied, still not looking directly at him.
He stepped from the bath carefully and wrapped the second towel around his waist as steam clung to his skin, the faint glow of the water catching against the fresh bandages still waiting to be applied.
Melina moved around him quietly, her composure slowly returning as she patted him dry with soft, efficient motions. Her hands worked with practiced gentleness, though her gaze flicked down his torso.
She caught herself quickly, pretending to focus on a stubborn drop of water on his shoulder.
John noticed, of course. He didn't say a word, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward all the same.
Once he was dry, she began to reapply the bandages, wrapping his shoulder and chest in slow, careful motions. The faint scent of crushed herbs clung to the cloth, mingling with the lingering warmth of the bath. Every time the fabric brushed against his burns, she winced slightly on his behalf, as though feeling the pain through him.
"There," she whispered at last, tying off the final knot. "That should hold."
He smiled faintly, flexing his shoulder. "Good as new. Well, maybe not new, but serviceable."
Her lips quirked in amusement. "You're impossible."
"I try."
Together they made their way back to his room, her arm steadying him when his steps faltered. A folded bundle of clothes rested neatly on the small table by his bedside, left there by one of Edgar's guards, no doubt on the man's orders.
Melina gestured to them with a small, satisfied nod. "Sir Edgar thought you might prefer something more comfortable."
She then left to give him some privacy to change.
John unwrapped the bundle and paused. The garments inside were far finer than anything he expected to find in a war-torn fortress.
The first piece was a deep crimson tunic, the kind dyed from rich pigments that only noble hands could once afford. It shimmered faintly when the light touched it, and he noticed that the sleeves were embroidered with subtle, looping patterns.
Beneath it lay a black leather vest, smooth with age yet firm to the touch, the kind of armor that had clearly seen years of use. It wasn't the pristine work of a royal armorer, it was something lived in, weathered, and real.
A broad belt completed the set, the leather dark and cracked but sturdy, its loose end hanging just slightly longer than fashion dictated. Below it were a pair of dark trousers, they looked practical and reinforced, clearly meant for someone who spent as much time fighting as walking.
He ran a thumb over the crimson cloth, feeling the faint coarseness of handwoven linen beneath his calloused fingertips.
A quiet laugh escaped him. "You've got to be kidding me…"
The realization struck almost immediately. The deep reds, the sharp tailoring, the bold contrast against the black, it was unmistakable. It looked exactly like Daemon Targaryen's attire from A Song of Ice and Fire.
"Guess I really am destined to be a dragon warrior at this point…" he murmured, shaking his head with amused disbelief.
Carefully, he slipped into the tunic, the fabric hugging his frame comfortably without pulling at his bandaged shoulder. The vest followed, settling snugly around his chest. It was secure but loose enough to avoid pressing against the fresh wounds. When he fastened the belt, it cinched everything together neatly, the worn leather creaking softly with every movement.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished bronze mirror across the room. The flicker of candlelight played across the crimson and black, highlighting the faint scars still peeking from beneath the collar.
"Not bad," he said under his breath, straightening the collar with a faint smirk. "Not bad at all."
When he stepped out into the hall, Melina was waiting for him just outside, hands folded neatly before her.
He leaned against the doorway, cocking an eyebrow. "So? What do you think?"
For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Her gaze trailed over him, from the dark vest to the crimson cloth beneath, and a soft, startled look crossed her face.
"It… looks good on you," she said finally, her voice smaller than usual. "You look… Handsome."
He grinned widely, warmth blooming in his chest at the shy sincerity in her tone. "Handsome, huh? Careful, Melina. Flattery like that might go to my head."
She tried to glare at him, but her smile betrayed her.
Before she could recover, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His hand found hers, it was hesitant at first as if waiting for permission, then gently pulled her closer.
"Then I guess I should return the favor," he murmured, voice soft.
Her breath caught as he leaned down. Their lips met, and the world stilled.
It wasn't the desperate kiss from before, not this time. It was slower, steadier, yet far deeper and more passionate. When they parted, Melina's cheeks were flushed, her eye bright with something that could only be described as light.
John smiled softly. "Still think it looks good on me?"
Her answer came as a barely audible whisper. "Even more so now."
He chuckled, brushing his thumb across her hand before intertwining their fingers.
They walked together down the corridor, steps unhurried, their joined hands a quiet secret between them. The night air drifted through the castle's open windows, carrying the scent of salt and rain from the sea below.
When they reached the courtyard, the sounds of familiar voices met them. First they heard Millicent's loud laughter, then Edgar's measured yet relieved tone, and then cheerful chatter of soldiers in recovery and celebration.
Melina glanced back at him once more, her expression soft but proud.
"Come," she said quietly, giving his hand a gentle tug. "They're waiting."
He followed without hesitation, a warm, fuzzy feeling beginning to linger in his chest.
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Author's Note:
Hngh… Lucky bastard… Why must I guide others unto a treasure I myself can not claim?! PTUI!
Hah… My salty envy aside, I hope you enjoyed the romance. It's my first time writing shit like this tbh
I honestly also wanted to make the chapter longer, but we were already reaching 7k words, so I decided against it.
ANYWAYS!
For those who care about MHA, Marvel, or just those that wanna read more of my works, I actually started working on a new Moon Knight in MHA fic. I've got quite a few chapters currently done, 5 are up on the Patreon.
It'll be uploaded when its fully stocked up and ready. If you don't wanna wait, check out my Patreon :3
…
Next Chapter Title: What Does Your Smile Look Like?
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