"You're mine," he whispered again, the words vibrating against her lips, heavy with defiance and desire. Before she could retort, he closed the distance even further by tightening his arms around her, but he didn't attack her mouth with the violence he had shown before.

Instead, he framed her face with his large, calloused hands. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, high, sharp, and glowing with inner light… with a tenderness so fierce it was almost frightening.

He kissed her forehead. Then her eyelids. Then the tip of her nose. His lips traced constellations across her skin, as though mapping a universe that only he could see.

Isylia froze. She had braced herself for another assault, for pain, for humiliation. She had prepared her mind to endure the ravings of a beast. But this... this was confusing. Something she had not expected.

He kissed her cheeks, peppering them with soft, desperate presses of his lips. He kissed her jawline, tracing the bone, lingering at her chin. Each kiss was soft, almost reverent, as though he were afraid she might vanish if he did not hold her close enough.

"You..." she breathed, her voice trembling, unsure of what to do with her hands, which hovered uselessly over his shoulders. "What... what are you doing?"

"Worshipping," Sol murmured against her skin.

He looked at her then, pulling back just an inch. His eyes were dark, dilated, and burning with a feverish light. It wasn't just lust. It was something far more dangerous. It was Devotion.

It was a look of absolute, consuming obsession. It was the look a fanatic gives to their idol right before they sacrifice themselves… or the world… for it. It was frantic. It was pure. It was terrifyingly sincere.

Isylia's solar eyes flickered, uncertain. She wanted to laugh, to spit, to remind him that she was a goddess and he was nothing but dust. Yet the sincerity in his voice made her falter.

Her lips parted, but no words came. The Void Temple seemed to hum with their struggle, shadows stretching long across the floor as if the ancient stones themselves bore witness. It was not love, not yet… it was defiance, hunger, and the dangerous thrill of a mortal daring to eclipse the sun.

Isylia, the Arbiter of Value, who had judged civilizations and weighed the souls of stars, felt a strange, cold crack form in the diamond of her heart.

A fissure in the perfect geometry of her being, something she had never known could exist. She had endured the screams of dying empires, the collapse of suns, the silence of gods forgotten, and none of it had touched her. Yet here, in the stillness of the Void Temple, a mortal's defiance had struck deeper than cosmic ruin.

The crack whispered of weakness, of vulnerability, of something she had sworn she did not possess. It spread like frost across her chest, delicate and merciless, threatening to shatter the flawless jewel she had always believed herself to be.

For Gods, high and above in their celestial palaces, existence was transactional. Offerings were made for blessings. Prayers were exchanged for miracles. Love was a concept they wove into the universe for mortals, but rarely experienced themselves in such a raw, unrefined state.

She realized, with a jolt that shook her foundation, that she might be the first Divinity in existence to be touched like this. Not with ceremonial reverence from afar, but with intimate, sweaty, desperate adoration up close.

Her diamond‑cold heart seemed to soften, if only slightly.

The world was a strange place. You could conquer galaxies, weigh the souls of stars, and bend civilizations to your will… and still, none of it would be enough to stir the heart of your beloved. Yet sometimes, it was not the grand victories that left a mark, but the smallest, most trivial moments.

A touch. A word. A fleeting act of devotion.

Such things carried a weight that could fracture even the hardest soul, striking deeper than cosmic triumphs ever could.

And at this moment, against all logic, she felt her heart flutter. A tiny, treacherous beat of humanity.

…

Unaware of the metaphysical crisis he was causing, Sol continued his descent of appreciation. He wasn't rushing anymore. He was savoring.

He kissed her dazed mouth deeply, sloppy and wet, drinking her sighs. He ground his hips into hers, letting her feel the full, threatening weight of his erection trapped between their bellies. It was a promise of violence and pleasure, a hard ridge of reality pressing against her divine softness.

Then, he slowly began his descent.

He broke the kiss, leaving her gasping, her lips swollen and slick. He didn't stop. He trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, lingering on the pulse point just below her jaw. He didn't just touch it; he pressed his mouth against it, closing his eyes to feel the rhythm. It wasn't the dull thud-thud of mortal blood. It was a high-frequency vibration, a hum like a distant star engine. He felt the life force thrumming beneath the golden skin… infinite, ancient, and currently racing because of him.

He moved to her shoulders, kissing and feeling, every single, distinct muscle. He used his tongue to paint wet, hot stripes along the trapezius muscles, soothing the stiffness. He traced the delicate architecture of her collarbones with the tip of his tongue, humming with satisfaction as he felt the bone structure beneath the glowing flesh. He treated the hollows of her clavicles like reservoirs, dipping his tongue in to taste the salt and starlight that gathered there.

He reached the inside of her elbow… a spot of supreme vulnerability. The skin there was so thin, so pale, he could almost see the liquid gold flowing in her veins. He buried his face in the crook of her arm, inhaling the scent of her skin, blowing hot air onto it until goosebumps rose like tiny stars.

Then he took her hand…the hands of the Weaver. Hands that could spin reality, the hand that could crush mountains…Now, they lay limp in his calloused grip.

Sol raised her left hand to his lips. He didn't just kiss the knuckles. He turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. He traced the lines of her fate…lines that spanned eons…with his tongue. He took her index finger into his mouth, sucking on it gently, swirling his tongue around the tips, worshipping the instrument of her creation.

Isylia let out a soft, broken sound, watching him through half-lidded eyes. To have her divine hands... the very instruments that once weighed the worth of stars... lifted and kissed with such reverence was absolutely bewildering. ...

Her will was being stripped not by chains, but by adoration. Each press of his lips against her fingers dismantled her defenses faster than any pain could. She was no longer resisting; she was slowly yielding, her eyes fluttering shut, feeling his utter devotion. The hatred she tried to summon was melting under the heat of his adoration.

"Sol..." she breathed, her head falling back, unable to support its own weight.

He released her hand and moved back to her chest. He showed enough love and devotion to each breast to make a mortal woman weep. This time, there was no silk to barricade him. There was no barrier between his hunger and her perfection, but this time, he didn't bite or squeeze. He cradled them.

He rubbed his cheek against the softness, closing his eyes as if resting on a pillow of clouds. He kissed the divine slopes with reverence, murmuring praises into her skin, thanking her for existing. He licked the nipples with slow, long strokes, groaning as if he were tasting ambrosia.

"Oh!" Isylia cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

The sensation was blinding. His mouth was hot, wet, and rough. His tongue swirled around the rose-pink nipple, teasing it into a diamond-hard point, before he sucked. He sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing, drawing the divine flesh deep into his mouth.

He kneaded the other breast with his hand, his rough palm sliding effortlessly over the pearlescent skin. He squeezed, possessed by the texture. She was softer than clouds, heavier than gold, and sweeter than sin itself.

He moved down, ignoring her weak protests. He kissed the underside of her breast, the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist. He kissed the soft, flat plane of her stomach. He paused at her navel… a perfect, deep indentation in her golden stomach. He swirled his tongue inside it, making her abdomen contract sharply.

"You are... you ar—," Isylia panted, looking down at the top of his head. "You are... ah!"

She cut herself off as he dropped to his knees.

He was now kneeling on the dais of the throne, his face level with her hips, but he didn't stop here, instead he moved to her legs.He kissed his way down the long, smooth columns of light. He kissed her knees, forcing them to relax and fall wider apart. He kissed her shins.

Finally, he reached her feet.

⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕

A/N: Damn! I planned for it to be a violent encounter, why did it turn into something... so pure and so poetic. Even I'm touched by, can't believe it was written by me. Maybe I really should abandon the way of darkness and embrace the light again.

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