Being the lover of an overprotective god wasn’t easy.

And maybe you didn’t know it yet… but you were about to witness firsthand the kind of divine overreaction that only a celestial being with attachment issues could pull off.

You’d just woken up from a long, blissfully uninterrupted sleep—one of those rare nights where Noli hadn’t whispered eldritch poetry into your dreams or dragged you into some astral plane for “cuddles.” The morning sun spilled through the windows in soft golden streaks, warming the hardwood floors and casting gentle light across the kitchen.

You tiptoed in like a burglar in your own home, careful not to disturb the slumbering god curled up on the couch like some kind of corrupted housecat. His tentacles were tucked in. His eye was closed. His aura wasn’t actively glitching. A miracle, really.

You sighed, leaned against the cool marble of the kitchen island, and fished your phone out of your pocket. Elbow propped, thumb scrolling, you slipped into the mindless trance of morning news consumption—like some boomer Republican who’d just discovered the internet but hadn’t yet figured out how to filter out conspiracy theories. Not that you were looking for politics. You were just bored. Like always.

Then you saw it.

“3 Male Robloxians Found Dead This Morning.”

Oh.

And it was in your area.

Hmm.

You tapped the article, curiosity piqued. The headline was dramatic, the tone urgent, the details… unsettling.

You knew those guys.

Not personally, of course. But you’d seen them yesterday. Loud. Obnoxious. The kind of energy that made you want to walk faster and pretend you didn’t hear them.

And then you remembered what they said.

It was blurry, but the word “bitch” had definitely been tossed your way. You hadn’t taken it seriously—they were young, stupid, and clearly trying to impress each other with their discount bravado. Still, it stung.

Just as you were about to scroll deeper—

“[[AH, AH, AH]]— WH4T ARE Y—Y—Y0U D01NG UP SO 3—34RLY?”

The voice came from behind you, glitched and syrupy sweet, like static wrapped in velvet. Before you could react, an inky tentacle slithered out from the living room shadows and yoinked your phone from your hands with the finesse of a pickpocket and the drama of a Broadway villain.

You groaned, reaching for your device like a toddler denied their favorite toy. Your fingers grazed the air. The phone was already halfway across the room, cradled in a mass of writhing black tendrils.

Noli blinked at you from the couch, his single white eye glowing faintly, his expression somewhere between sleepy and smug.

Guess now was the time to pop the question.

“Did you have something to do with those guys on the news?”

Noli paused.

Like, really paused.

The kind of pause that made the air feel heavier. The kind of pause that confirmed everything without saying a word.

You weren’t even surprised.

He was a god, for gods’ sake. (Pun aggressively intended.) And you knew—knew—he was always watching you. With or without your consent. With or without your clothes. With or without the laws of physics. He had eyes everywhere. Probably in your shampoo bottle. Possibly in your dreams. Definitely in your toaster.

“[[THEY]] U—UTTERED 1N4N1T13S 1N Y0UR PR3S3NC3.” he said simply, his voice vague and glitchy, like a corrupted voicemail from a vengeful deity.

“[[THEIR]] D1SC0URT30US T—T—TR34TM3NT 0F Y0U N3C3SS1T4T3D [[THEIR]] R3M0V4L, P—PUR31Y 4ND S1MPLY.” he added, with a static-laced scoff that somehow managed to sound both righteous and offended.

You blinked.

Welp.

This is what you get for falling head over heels for a god who isn’t afraid of law enforcement, morality, or the Geneva Convention. A god who thinks “due process” is a quaint mortal hobby. A god who hears someone insult you and immediately files it under “acceptable reasons for cosmic deletion.”