2:32 AM.

Caleb and Gideon’s party was finally dying down. 

To celebrate the end of their fifth semester at the Deepspace Aircraft Academy, the boys threw a party with all of their closest friends — all… 30 of them, if you sent out the right amount of invites?

Their house was a complete and total mess. Red Solo cups littered the floor, empty beer bottles overflowed in the trash can, and most of the holiday decorations you had hung up were either torn up or totally missing. A few old pizza slices sat on the kitchen table, too far gone to be saved as tomorrow’s leftovers. It smelled like someone threw up somewhere. You knew it was gonna be a bitch to clean up in the morning. In fact, the carpet will probably need to be professionally cleaned. 

You didn’t mind, though. You were just tipsy enough not to care. 

You tried not to drink so much tonight, but once the party got going, it was hard to stop. Plus, you just had your own round of finals at the Hunter Academy and felt like you needed to celebrate your success. And it was entirely irresistible when their housemate Patrick’s high-end handle of whiskey was pulled out, and he made everyone take shots.

Now, only a few party-goers remained, listening to whatever party playlist someone pulled up on the speakers and relaxing in the living room. You’re nursing whatever was left in your bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, your hand wrapped around its neck as you feel someone throw their arm over your shoulders. 

It’s Caleb, of course.

The weight of his arm pushes the worn-out neckline of one of the many sweatshirts you’ve stolen from him down to your collarbones as he throws back the rest of his can of beer. His warmth and familiarity envelop you, enticing you to lean even closer in his embrace. You can’t lie, he looks as hot as he’s making you feel right now (though sober, you would argue that he always looks hot). You’ve had a crush on him since you were kids, and often fantasized about what might happen if the two of you crossed the theoretical threshold and took that next step in your relationship.

But you knew you’d never have a chance with him. You were like his little sister. He probably wants a girlfriend whom he doesn't have to dote on the way he takes care of you.

Besides, with how good-looking he is, he probably has a whole roster of potential girlfriends lining up at his doorstep daily — and nightly.

Your gaze wanders over to his best friend and long-time roommate, Gideon. They have been friends since Caleb started at the DAA, and you were introduced to him rather quickly. The three of you have become inseparable over the years — tons of parties, going out on the town, that one camping weekend the three of you took a few summers ago…

He catches you staring before you realize you are, his eyes growing wide as saucers before quickly looking away.

Gideon was like the slender, shyer version of Caleb. Something about him drew you in, made you want to get to know him on a more… intimate level. He stayed pretty guarded, opening up about certain topics or stories about his life, but he never fully let you in. It was almost as if he himself built an impenetrable wall between the two of you, one you felt you were forbidden to cross. 

Was it his sweetness, his dorkiness, his lopsided, genuine smile that had you attracted to him? Or was it the mystery that he was trying to hide from you?

Maybe it’s the wine talking, but you really want to kiss that crooked grin he’s giving you right now. 

You notice Caleb lifting his arm off your shoulders, leaning over to whisper something in his roommate Patrick’s ear. His eyes flicker to you for a second before lifting his arms up, stretching his taut muscles. 

You do your best not to give it attention, but you end up catching his impressive bicep rippling from the corner of your eye.

“Okay, everyone, who’s down for a little Seven Minutes in Heaven to spice things up?” Patrick hollers so everyone in the house can hear it.

The party guests get rowdy once more, their hoots and hollers nearly shaking the foundation. But as you look around the room as everyone comes to sit in a circle, you realize you’re the only girl left behind.

Ah, shit.

You don’t go to many parties, yet you know the urban legend that is this game. Like Spin the Bottle, but instead of kissing, you’re locked in close proximity with another “partner.” What happens in the closet stays in the closet.

Please don’t let it land on me…

“It’ll be okay, pips.” Caleb notices your rapidly shifting eyes, patting the top of your head gently. “I’ll make sure nobody tries to pull a fast one on ya.”

You give him an anxious smile. The likelihood of being selected and then paired with someone you don’t know is low… right?

“Yo, anyone got a bottle?”

You hand their other housemate, Blythe, your now-empty wine bottle. Once everyone gets settled, he places it in the middle of the circle and gives it a hard spin. 

“Okay, so first up will be…”

As he spins the bottle with great force, you feel a slight shift in the air, the tension in the room nearly tangible between your fingertips. Out of the corner of your eye, Caleb watches intently as the bottle spins round and round, never slowing down, almost hypnotic in the way it moves. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the bottle comes to a halting stop, its neck of the bottle pointing right at you.

“Me?”

Of course, what are the odds…

You feel your face flush to your ears, embarrassed that all the eyes in the room are on you now. You turn your head to Caleb for some guidance or comfort—

But before you can get a word out, he stands up, rather urgently.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom real quick.” He announces to the group. “Don’t let ‘em spin it without me, pips!”

He saunters off to the restroom, almost too confidently, and it leaves you curious.

He looks way too proud to be taking a shit right now. What’s he doing? What’s he got pl—

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Patrick’s shit-eating grin, waiting for Caleb to shut the door with a click and turn the fan on.

“Okay then, so you’ll be paired up with…” He says, reaching for the bottle again.

“Wait,” you interrupt, reaching over to swat Patrick’s hand away, “didn’t Caleb say not to—“

“Oh, it’ll be fine, he told me it’s okay if we spin.” He says casually. “He just likes to be nosy with this kinda stuff, especially if it’s about you.”

“Well, I’d rather wait for him.”

“Too bad, Princess.”

You scoff at his nickname for you, no doubt one he gave you because Caleb spoils you so much. You sit back in the circle with your arms crossed over your chest, doing your best to make up a comeback for next time.

“So, you’ll be sharing your seven minutes with…” Patrick spins this time, the glass bottle whirling round and round on the wooden floor. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to spin as long as the first time. 

The neck of the bottle settles on the man sitting right next to you.

“Gideon!”

Wait, WHAT?! 

Both your eyes go wide in surprise as you look at each other. You watch Gideon reach for a shot glass, throwing back whatever mystery liquid someone poured in it.

The other guys grab on to your arms, pulling you up on your feet and pushing you to the small storage closet in the far corner of the living room. 

“Hey, get your hands off me!” You try your best to fight them off, but they are much stronger than you are.

“Relax, Princess,” Blythe says as he opens the door to the closet. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

You roll your eyes, yanking your wrist out of his other hand.

“Takes one to know one, ya little p—“

“Let’s not get too feisty, okay?”

Gideon stands right behind you, placing a large, steady hand on your shoulder. His presence gives you a moment of peace before Blythe opens his mouth again:

“Yeah, save it for the closet.”

You fight the urge to backhand him.

“You got the timer?” Patrick asks as he shoves you and Gideon into the closet together.

Blythe shows off his phone screen, already set to a seven-minute countdown. 

You remember organizing this space when the boys first moved into their apartment, filling the shelves with all the cleaning supplies they would need, plus some extra sheets and blankets. You even stored extra Tide Pods near the bottom, knowing Caleb loved doing laundry, especially when you came to visit.

It was a small space with just you setting it up, and now it felt even smaller with another larger body in there with you.

“Aaaaand go!”

The closet door shuts and locks. You could tell from the shadow in the small gap underneath the door that someone was pushing their body up against it to prevent you from even trying to open it. You try to jiggle the door handle, but it doesn’t budge a bit. You even try the light switch, but the bulb has burnt out. A frustrated sigh escapes your lips.

Now, you’re in the dark. Alone.

Well, not alone. But with Gideon, your best friend’s best friend, pressed snugly against you, in this tiny closet space.

“Well then…” You whisper, trying to make your interactions as normal as possible with his broad chest against your back and the curve of your ass against his crotch. “Uh, how’s your night been going?”

He softly chuckles under his breath. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s wearing that goofy smile you like.

“Better now.” His voice is soft, yet charming, sending a light tingling sensation through your body.

You can feel your cheeks burning, yet you weren’t sure if it was from the alcohol or what he may be implying.

“It was getting real rowdy out there, so I don’t mind a bit of peace and quiet in here.”

Oh.

So he’s not really into this, you think. 

But he does have a point. The music and chatter are muffled through the door, so you can't clearly hear the conversations in the living room, giving your mind a sense of relief. 

That means they probably won’t hear anything we talk about, you realize as you relax your shoulders. 

“Besides, out of anyone else out there, I’d rather be in here with you.”

You pause, remembering who was all sitting in the living room.

“Wasn’t I the only girl left out there?”

“Well… yeah…”

Another pause, an awkward silence shared between the two of you.

Guess this is what the next six minutes and thirty seconds will sound like…

Feeling a bit better about this predicament you two are in, you try your best to turn and face him.

It takes quite a great effort in such a small space, your hips accidentally brushing up against the shelves and the closet door as you turn. Silently mouthing an expletive, you step backward, running right back into Gideon again. But this time, as the soft plushness of your hips dips rub against his crotch…

You feel something much harder rubbing back against you. 

OhmygodohmygodohmygodwasthatwhatIthinkitisssss???

You ignore it the best you can, taking small steps until your chests are practically pressed against each other. Your faces are so close, you can smell the shot he just took on his breath. 

A part of you wants to taste it.

Gideon clears his throat, catching your attention. You can’t see much of his face from the light under the door, but you could tell he couldn’t look you in the eye.

“Listen, uh…”

Before he can finish his sentence, you notice the faint light under the closet door turn red, and a familiar song plays in the background.

“Wait a minute,” you nearly spit out, “did they turn on The Weeknd?"

You hear the boys crack up on the other side of the door.

Of course, this would all be one big game to them…

But then, you feel Gideon’s hand tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the pad of his thumb gently tracing your earlobe.

“You…” He whispers.

Your heart starts sprinting.

“You… what?” 

The light from under the door allows you to see the corner of his mouth lift in a small smile. 

“… I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before.”

His flush is slowly creeping down his neck. You don’t need to see it; you can feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“Is it okay?” You ask earnestly.

“More than okay.”

Oh?

“I think the only other person I’ve been this close with is Caleb.” You confess, a bit embarrassed to be saying it out loud.

“Really?” Gideon says, though he doesn’t seem that surprised. “So that means you’ve never been…”

“Nope.” You shake your head side to side.

You’ve never been kissed, never had a boyfriend, hell, you barely had talking stages (though back in high school, you can blame Caleb for scaring them away). You may have held hands with a guy one time, and you didn’t enjoy it because his palms were sweaty.

That definitely doesn’t mean you don’t want to have your first kiss… You just haven’t been given the chance yet.

You feel his hands drop to your hips, squeezing them gently before pulling you impossibly closer to him. The temperature in the closet seems to rise by 10 degrees as you realize your face is much closer than before.

“Would you like to?”

Gideon’s never been this forward with you before. Part of you blames it on the alcohol flowing through both of your bloodstreams, impairing his judgment and leading him to do something he might regret.

“Are you sure… you’d want to kiss me?” You ask timidly, pressing your hands against his chest. You could feel his heart thumping through his shirt, the rise and fall of his breath quickening as the two of you got closer.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. You swear you can hear him gulp before he says his next, carefully chosen words:

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You always wondered what your first kiss would feel like. Would it feel like an explosion when your lips pressed against someone else’s for the first time? Or would it be sloppy and wet? Would it sweep you off your feet? Or would you be too preoccupied with where your limbs should go?

“Five minutes left!” You hear someone shout.

You wish you could tell your younger self that you were about to find out. 

Your fingers quickly travel from his chest up to the nape of his neck, nails pressing into his skin as you press your mouth against his.

It’s like a single firework shoots up your spine, bursting behind your closed eyes. His lips are so soft and so warm against yours, and you can taste the slightest hint of liquor left behind from the shot he took. His grip on you tightens, his fingertips digging into the fleshy part of your hips.

It may have just been a simple kiss, but oh my god, you already felt addicted.

Your knees nearly go weak as you pull away, your eyes widening as you hear Gideon’s ragged breathing. 

“Do… do you want more?”

You nod eagerly, and this time, he takes the lead.

The fireworks multiply and explode in the sky behind your eyes as he slowly moves his mouth against yours. One of his hands leaves your hip to caress the back of your head, changing his angle to kiss you even deeper. It’s such a foreign feeling, and you’re already feeling so dizzy as he takes total control. You try to match his movements the best you can, but he’s much more experienced than you are, leaving you completely stunned.

You feel him nip at your lower lip, tugging gently to coax your mouth open. You allow him entry as your fingers explore his short hair, tongues tangling with each other in a drunken dance, one where both of you are trying to take the lead. It’s entirely intoxicating, you feel like you’re holding on to Gideon for dear life, his strong arms keeping you steady as he kisses you over and over again.

“If you’ve never been kissed,” he whispers between your lips, “does that mean that no one’s ever…”

The hand on your hip dives underneath your sweatshirt, deft fingers desperately searching for your breasts. Goosebumps travel down your spine as his skin touches yours for the first time…

You hear his breath hitch as he realizes you weren’t wearing a bra.

“You…” He pulls away from the kiss, looking down to where your chest was hidden under your sweatshirt, his hand touching the underside of your breast.

You almost laugh as you shrug. “I almost never wear a bra underneath these big sweatshirts.”

“W-why?”

“It’s not like it’s super noticeable…” 

Unless someone is really looking at my chest…

You weren’t as blessed in that department as some of your other friends. In fact, you would bet good money that Caleb’s chest was bigger than yours. It never really bothered you, but it was probably a reason why you’ve never had a boyfriend.

He sucks in a breath before exhaling, palming your breast with his large, calloused hand.

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy…”

He presses your back against the door, pinching your nipple a little bit harder than you’d expect, a high-pitched gasp involuntarily escaping your lips. He silences you with another searing kiss, hoping and praying no one behind the door heard the sounds you were making for him. 

You faintly hear the hollers of the guys in the other room, their cheers ringing through the house. Your teeth bite down on Gideon’s bottom lip, trying your best to stifle the moans from spilling out of your mouth. 

With a strangled cry, his other hand abandons the back of your head, both breasts now being caressed in the palms of his hands. He groans softly with each squeeze, biting his own lip when he rolls your nipples between his fingers. You pant heavily, the arousal growing more and more in your lower stomach.

A chill runs through your body as his hands leave your breasts to lift your sweatshirt over your head. His lips find one of your perked nipples, biting and sucking on the sensitive flesh as he pinches the other. You squeeze your thighs as his mouth lavishes his affections against your chest, your fingers gripping his hair to find something to hold on to. 

“You… I…” Gideon breathlessly moans against your breasts, biting the soft skin and leaving his mark on the newly charted territory. 

You feel his hands move to the waistband of your leggings.

“I need to taste you.”

You instantly know what he’s implying, and your heart skips a beat.

You aren’t even sure if you can… well, you know. You’ve touched yourself plenty of times to know what you like, but you never fully “finished.” Your hands alone weren’t enough to satisfy your needs.

But… jumping from just kissing to this? With your best friend’s best friend?

It almost feels illegal. 

Your eyes meet his as he’s searching for your consent, his fingers ghosting over your hips.

Gideon leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “We don’t have to if you’re not ready, you know.”

“No, I…” you pause, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. Your reasoning and desire were at war with each other, and with the alcohol still in your system, your desire was winning.

“I want you to.”

He nods before pressing a softer kiss against your lips. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I got you.”

One hand moved to the small of your back, the other slowly snaking down to the juncture between your legs, over your clothes. His fingers press against your mound, rubbing back and forth on the smooth fabric of your leggings.

Already, your knees feel weak, a dull pleasure traveling through your body like blood through your veins. You jerk your hips forward, watching his hand move over and over again. You pant softly, pushing your hips against his touch for more of that sweet, delicious friction. It aches so bad that it makes you want even more.

“Does… does that feel all right?” He whispers in your ear.

You nod, your eyes waiting to see what he’ll do next.

“Do you… Want me to do more?”

He leans in, his lips brushing the entrance of your ear.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

If it already feels this good, then…

“Three more minutes!” Patrick’s voice interrupts your thoughts. 

“Touch me more, Gideon.”

“Under your…” he pants, his breath hot on your skin, “under your… panties?”

You nearly whine from his words alone. 

“Please.”

Steadily, his hand moves from your mound and slips under your waistband, his fingertips already making their way underneath the thin fabric of your panties. You feel a bit embarrassed as his fingers travel through the tuft of hair above your apex, mentally cussing yourself out for not shaving the night before. His fingertips cautiously trace your delicate folds, sensing your body tensing.

“Are you okay?” He freezes, not daring to move a centimeter further.

“I’m good,” you sigh, “just… nervous.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He plants a kiss on your cheek. “Can I keep going? I wanna make you feel so good.”

Either the alcohol was really getting to him, or he was drunk with lust.

“Yes,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time in what feels like hours.

In an act of passion (or drunkenness), Gideon’s hands grab the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down with your panties, exposing you fully to him. You yelp in surprise before his arm wraps around your shoulders, pressing your back against his chest, locking your body against his as his other hand parts your folds with his fingers. He presses against your clit, two fingertips moving in small circles against your swollen, needy bud. Your moans are swallowed by his kisses as he holds your body against his own, as his calculated movements make your abdomen tighten, almost coiling against itself as four pleasure intensifies. 

Your thighs are nearly soaked; you’ve never felt so wet in your life before.

Slowly, you start to feel his fingers travel away from your bud, to an area of yourself you haven’t ever explored before. Now it’s Gideon’s turn to moan in your mouth, feeling the slick between your thighs for the first time. You swear you hear him curse before his middle digit approaches your entrance, teasing it as he waits for your enthusiastic consent.

“Can I—“

“Yes.”

He pushes against the tight hole, inching further and further against your walls until his finger is completely sheathed inside. It takes everything in you not to cry out so loudly that the whole house could hear. You knit your brows as you throw your head back, knocking the back of your head hard against his chiseled shoulder.

He softly laughs as he draws his hand back, pulling his finger all the way out. “That good, yeah?”

You nod with a muffled moan, your lips pulled in a tight line. 

His finger enters you again. moving in and out of you at a slow and steady pace. Deep thrusts that fill you completely, reaching spots inside you that you never thought were possible to find, tightening the coil that sits low in your stomach. It’s a foreign feeling, and you’re not sure what will happen next, but you trust that Gideon will take care of you.

Now, whether it was the alcohol or your conscience trusting him, you couldn’t really tell. 

“You’re doing great, babe.” He quietly praises you, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “I told you it would feel so good.”

But as you feel your body clenching as he slides a second finger inside your entrance, you hear someone loudly rattling the doorknob from the other side, a frantic string of curses flying from his mouth.

Caleb.

Your body freezes, unsure of what the hell will transpire within the next few seconds.

“Dammit! Why the fuck did you put her in there with Gideon, of all fucking people?” You heard him ask his roommates.

“Chill out, bro. You know he’s a good guy.” One of the guys you don’t recognize reassures him. “They’re probably just hanging out in there. You know he’s not the type of guy to take advantage of her like that.”

“I will tear the door off its fucking hinges if you don’t get her out of there, now.”

His voice was dripping with malice. You know he’d do it, too. 

Despite his best friend’s threats to interrupt the two of you, Gideon doesn’t stop — if anything, he moves his hand faster and harder, his fingers pistoning back and forth inside of you. The stretch of his two fingers is almost too much, your thighs shaking as you dig your nails into his bicep. You silently thank whoever has the music on so loud in the living room that Caleb can’t hear your soft moans or the wet squelching of Gideon’s fingers entering you over and over again.

You feel yourself about to collapse, fall off the edge, something where your body is about to lose all control.

“They don’t got much longer in there, Caleb,” Patrick says. “About a minute left. Wait it out, dude, you’re doing too much.”

You can hear Caleb’s heavy breathing from the other side of the door… or is it Gideon breathing against your ear?

“Are you ready, pretty girl?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You turn your head frantically in response, wondering what the hell he’s got planned.

You hear Caleb’s loud voice on the other side of the door:

“Fine. But if he even accidentally brushes up against her in that closet, I’m beating his ass.”

Suddenly, you feel a third finger sliding inside, stretching you out so full that you can’t even think straight. Your body shudders heavily as your orgasm crashes through you, your muscles tensing as your release splashes against Gideon’s hand. He moans in your ear as your body goes limp, one arm keeping you upright as his fingers drip with your essence. 

Gideon gently pulls his fingers from your entrance, moving them up to his lips. He moves his long, wet tongue over his digits, and you watch his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head through the light at the bottom of the door.

“Delicious.” He smiles, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as you begin to feel your legs again, your feet pressing against the floor to test their strength.

“That… that was…”

“Good, hopefully?” He chuckles, bending over to pull your leggings over your calves. 

“Yeah…” you say, your voice trailing off in a blissed-out daze as your leggings are pulled up over your hips. “… really good.”

He hands you your discarded sweatshirt, throwing it over your head as fast as you could in your post-orgasmic state. You know the countdown is on, and that door could open any second now.

“Okay, so,” Gideon says as your head pops through your sweatshirt collar, “if they ask us what we were doing in there, just say we were chatting and we’re talking about… personal life stuff. Yeah.”

“Personal, embarrassing life stuff?”

“Totally. That’ll explain why your cheeks are so flushed.”

He didn’t even need to be able to see them — he could just tell.

“Wait a minute,” you start to say, “what does th—“

Before you could answer your question, you hear the key slide into the door handle, turning too rapidly for you to finish your thoughts. The door opens swiftly, revealing a familiar face on the other side.

“Welcome back!” Caleb smiles, though you could tell he was absolutely fuming.

“Thanks, man!” Gideon gives a little wave to him as he steps out of the closet, as you follow close behind. You could see the other guys watching the three of you expectantly, as if they were waiting for an interrogation… or something else? You weren’t sure.

You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something feels off.

“So, whatchya guys get up to in there?” Caleb asks, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. The way he squeezes you brings you back to just a few moments ago, when Gideon had his arm wrapped around you and his fingers—

“Uh uh, man.” Blythe interrupts. “What happens in the closet stays in the closet. It’s none of your business.”

“Really?” Caleb smirks. “I don’t know when they introduced that rule.”

His arm releases your shoulders as he approaches Gideon. You could tell from the tension in his walk that he was very unhappy.

“Get your coat,” Caleb says. “Let’s go outside and chat.”

Acting as if nothing happened, Gideon grabs his coat from the rack, following Caleb as he opens the front door of their house. 

When you hear the door shut, you hurry towards the front window in the kitchen, trying to get a glimpse of them through the snow falling outside. They didn’t go far, taking a few steps from the front porch, their shoes leaving fresh prints in the snow.

You obviously aren’t able to hear what they’re saying if they’re not yelling at each other, but judging from Gideon’s relaxed body language, things seem to be going… to plan? As long as he’s not sharing anything he shouldn’t…

You watch Caleb laugh at something Gideon said, his cheeks turning red from the cold winds blowing outside. You can’t help but think how cute he looks, reminding you of all the times the two of you would play outside in the winter, battling each other with snowballs and building igloo forts that you would spend hours in, until Grandma would call the two of you inside for supper.

But also, there’s Gideon, who is just as handsome as Caleb, looking even cuter as snowflakes catch themselves on his short, black hair. You were surprised to learn that he’s attracted to you, too, but you wonder how all of this will change the dynamic between the three of you.

Nothing has to change between you guys… right?

As you watch Gideon reach into his pocket and place a tiny piece of fabric into Caleb’s hand, you realize he’s done the unthinkable.

You rub your thighs together, feeling more friction against your core than usual.

Gideon actually stole your panties and gave them to Caleb.

You feel your cheeks, chest, and ears burn red.

You’re so mortified, you can’t hear Gideon’s shouts as Caleb pins him to the snowy ground, knees digging into his biceps as he pummels his fists against his face over and over again. You can’t hear the sound of Caleb breaking Gideon’s nose, the crack echoing through the chilly night. You can’t see his two other roommates rushing out of the house, trying to pull Caleb off of his closest friend, while another friend cheers him on. You can’t see the snow splattered with Gideon’s blood. 

All you can think about is how the hell you were ever going to face them again.

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Moment of Morning Dew

The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.

Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.

Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.

It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.

Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.

“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.

Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.

Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.

“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.

You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.

Dangerous words which challenged The Family.

But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.

Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more. 

“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”

The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.

“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.

Silence fell.

If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.

Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.

A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.

Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.

Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.

There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.

But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?

With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.

You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.

“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”

The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”

At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.

“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.

The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.

“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.

His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.

“The Dreamscape needs stability.”

That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.

Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.

“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak, 

“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”

“. . That’s not what I asked.”

Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.

“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.

You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.

Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”

But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”

A gentle threat wrapped in silk.

You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.

Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.

“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.

“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”

You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”

“Then think of this as your most important role.”

At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.

Moment of Golden Hour

Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.

On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.

Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.

“I thought you might be here.”

The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.

“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”

Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.

“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.

“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”

As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,

“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.

A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.

“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”

It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.

“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.

“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”

Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.

“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”

“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”

“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.

Sunday nodded, “Yes.”

You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.

Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.

“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”

Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.

“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”

Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t. 

Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”

Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”

Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.

There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.

“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver. 

Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”

You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.

“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.

Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.

Moment of Morning Dew

Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.

Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.

But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.

There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . .  fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.

Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.

The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.

“Hold still, please.”

A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.

“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.

Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.

The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional. 

“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”

The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.

“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.

“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.

“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.

“Perfect.” She breathed out.

Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.

The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.

“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?” 

Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.

As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.” 

Of course.

“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.

Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.

“. . It suits you.” He said at last.

You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”

“You expected more?”

“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”

“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.

You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.

You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”

Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.

“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”

His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”

Whatever that meant

Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.

“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”

You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”

“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?

“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”

Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.

Moment of Blue Hour

After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.

The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.

The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”

The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.

Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.

The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event. 

Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.

The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.

And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.

The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real

Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.

“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”

Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.

“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,

“You may now kiss the bride.”

As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.

This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.

You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.

And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.

Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.

Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.

You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.

Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.

The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.

You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.

Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.

Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.

After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.

“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.

You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.

“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”

With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.

A confession veiled as a lie.

You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.

Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.

“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”

You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”

Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”

He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”

Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.

This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.

“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.

Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.

Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.

Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.

But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.

Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.

“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”

The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.

Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .

The very room both of you stood in.

You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.

“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”

“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”

You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?

“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.

“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”

He had a point.

 “And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.

You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.

A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.

Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.

Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.

Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.

Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.

Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.

Yeah, this seemed about right.

He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.

“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.

“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.

His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.

Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”

Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.

As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.

Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.

“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.

“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.

“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.

A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.

Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.

Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.

For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.

Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.

Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.

Moment of Morning Dew

“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”

“Indeed.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”

“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”

Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.

It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.

The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.

How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.

Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script. 

And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.

“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”

Moment of Golden Hour

Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.

“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.

He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”

You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.

You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.

“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.

At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”

With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.

There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.

Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.

Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.

You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”

Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”

“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.

Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”

“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.

Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.” 

“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.

In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”

“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.

Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.

“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.

After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.

You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.

“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you  mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”

“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”

“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.

“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.

Without another word, you leaned over and  pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.

On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.

“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”

As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?

“Why don’t we just do a smile?” 

Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.

“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.

The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”

You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.

As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.

“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.

The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.

You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park  but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.

Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.

But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.

Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.

A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.

“Are you quite alright?”

Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”

You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”

Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.

Moment of Sol

“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.

Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.

During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.

It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”

Clap!

The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.

Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent  and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.

He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name. 

Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either. 

Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.

“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—” 

As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.

Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?

With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.

Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face

It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.

“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”

Clap!

Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.

Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.

This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”

With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“You did well, my love.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”

“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence  but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,

“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.

He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.

Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.

“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—

Whatever.

“I love you.”

Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?

“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!

You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more. 

The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.

The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.

Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.

The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon. 

For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.

11 system hours later

Ri█—ng!

█Rin█g!

Ring!

At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.

Mr. Oti Alfalfa

Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”

“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”

“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.

“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”

At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?

There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters. 

It made you somewhat uneasy.

“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”

With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.

Moment of Morning Dew

The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.

There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal. 

Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.

Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well? 

“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.

“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.

Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . .  I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.

The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,

“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”

You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say? 

It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.

Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.

No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing. 

Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for? 

You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.

“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.

You knew what was coming next.

Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”

You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”

Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?

“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”

Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”

“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”

You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.

“No.”

Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”

He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.

After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.

Moment of Golden Hour

“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?” 

“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”

Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.

He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.

The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"

Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.

“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”

“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.

“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.

This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.

“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”

“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”

“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.

“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.

“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”

Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.

“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”

“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”

3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia

“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”

As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.

“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.

Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.

Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—

She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.

“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.

The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”

It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.

Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.

“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.

“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.

Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”

After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet  he was completely speechless.

Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then. 

However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.

Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.

With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.

You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.

This wasn’t good.

A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?

Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.

Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.

As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was  humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.

Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.

Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly. 

“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”

In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.

Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.

The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.

He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.

A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.

A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.

His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.

Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.

“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”

Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.

You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.

He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.

But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.

It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you. 

Badly.

He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.

This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.

Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.

At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.

Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.

Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.

As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.

Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.

But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.

The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.

A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.

He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.

“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.

The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.

There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.

Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.

You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.

The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.

And yet it was still him—your Sunday.

“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.

“So are you.” You breathed out.

He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.

Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”

Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.

He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.

“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.

That’s it?

After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.

“Really, Sunday?”

The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”

He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”

“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”

Sunday couldn’t refuse.

The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.

The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.

“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room. 

“I’m here on vacation.”

Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.

Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?

Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.

“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.

“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.

Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,

“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”

You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?

Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.

Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.

Just an empty legal document.

“I . . feel the same way.”

. . What?

“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.” 

Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.

Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.

Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.

But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.

“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.

He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.

He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative  in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.

“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.

“You may.”

Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.

One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.

It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.

His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.

Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.

“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”

Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.

Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.

The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.

“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given. 

Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.

The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.

But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.

There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.

You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”

Oh, you’d be the death of him.

Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.

There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.

No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.

Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.

Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.

“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”

A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.

The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.

“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”

At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,

“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.

Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.

Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.

“S-Sunday—!”

He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.

With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.

Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.

Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.

Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.

All for him?

Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.

So far, so good.

“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.

At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.

You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.

“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”

A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.

Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.

“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.

At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.

Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”

Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.

“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.

“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”

Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.

“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”

With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.

With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.

He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.

Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.

Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.

Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.

He was trying to kill you.

The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.

He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.

“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”

He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace. 

The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.

The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.

Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.

He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.

You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.

Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”

A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.

For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.

“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.

He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.

With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.

Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting. 

Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.

Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.

A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.

Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.

“Haah—ah! Ah! I’m s-so close, Sunday! God! Please don’t sto—ngh! Don’t stop!”

At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.

Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.

He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”

With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.

Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.

His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.

Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?

How adorable.

He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.

One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.

A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.

You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”

Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.

Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”

“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.

“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”

Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.

“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.

“I know.”

“They won’t forgive easily.”

“I know.”

“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”

Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”

Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”

“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness. 

Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.

And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.

Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.

“What is that?” He blinked

You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.” 

His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:

Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally, 

“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention. 

“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”

Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.

Sunday was homesick.

You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.

Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.

Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.

You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)

“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”

You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.

Maybe it was fate playing a hand.

Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.

For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,

“I love you, Sunday.”

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless that is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him.”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile. 

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day. 

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is. 

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments. 

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed. 

Then, he walks. 

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets. 

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more. 

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile. 

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief. 

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you. 

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight. 

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft. 

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt. 

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows. 

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow. 

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim. 

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill. 

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly. 

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you. 

Except, it is not in the condition that he left. 

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat. 

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers. 

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound. 

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle. 

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all. 

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed. 

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise. 

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him. 

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?” 

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against. 

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage. 

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks. 

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command. 

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face. 

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say. 

“The sun,” you murmur. 

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt. 

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer. 

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”

Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.

In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.

The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.

Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.

Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”

“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”

This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”

“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”

“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”

Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”

“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”

“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”

“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.

He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You sighed and closed your eyes.

The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.

The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.

“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.

You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.

A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.

“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”

Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?

“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”

“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”

The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.

You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.

“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”

The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.

“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”

“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”

“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.

“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”

How romantic, you thought.

“What time is dinner?” you asked.

“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”

Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.

“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”

The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.

You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.

Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”

You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”

“Cold?”

“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”

Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.

“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”

“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”

“But will you be happy?”

Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.

“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”

Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”

“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”

“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”

You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.

“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”

A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”

Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave. 

Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”

You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.

Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.

“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”

If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.

You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?

The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.

“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”

“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”

“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”

“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”

“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”

“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”

“My lady—”

“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”

The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.

“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”

“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”

Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.

“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”

“My lady—”

“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”

You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”

You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”

The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.

You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.

Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.

“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.

This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?

Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.

You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.

“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”

“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”

“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”

If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.

Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.

The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.

“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.

Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.

Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.

So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.

“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”

You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.

A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.

He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.

“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”

“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”

You stared down at him. “How did you know—”

“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

“You’re the King,” you stated.

He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”

This could not be happening.

“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”

“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”

“…Help me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”

He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.

“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”

Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.

Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.

“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”

“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”

“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”

“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.

“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”

The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”

“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”

 Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.

“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”

“You will not force me?” you asked.

“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”

“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”

“All right.”

“Do you want this marriage?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”

The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.

“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”

The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”

“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”

“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”

“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.

“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”

“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Phainon said.

“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”

“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.

She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.

“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”

“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”

“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”

“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”

You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.

You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.

“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”

“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”

When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”

Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.

Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.

“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.

“You’ll see,” he said.

You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.

Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.

“Open them,” Phainon said.

The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.

Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative. 

“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”

“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”

Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.”

He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.

“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”

He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”

You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.

“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”

You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.

Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.

“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”

“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”

He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.

“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”

“…What is it?”

“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”

“Yes.”

“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”

“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”

“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”

“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”

“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”

“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”

“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”

He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”

“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”

“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”

“Except a husband,” you said.

“I—”

“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”

“Please—”

“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”

Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.

“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed. 

You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.

You had been so foolish.

This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.

How foolish you’d been!

He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?

You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.

Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.

Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.

“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.

Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”

“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”

To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.

“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.

You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”

Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”

“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”

“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.

Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.

“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.

“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?

“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.

“Something like that.”

Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”

“Please do.”

“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”

You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”

“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.

Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”

“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”

“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”

You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.

Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?

“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”

“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”

“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”

Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”

“You speak as though you know him well.”

“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”

“What changed?”

“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”

You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.

“How did the Queen die?” you asked.

“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”

“That is terrible,” you said.

“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”

“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”

“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”

You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”

“What are friends for?”

You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.

“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”

“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”

“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”

“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”

Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”

“What sort of rumours?” you asked.

“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.

Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.

Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”

True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.

Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”

“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”

“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.

You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”

“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”

“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”

You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.

“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”

“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”

“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”

“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”

“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”

You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.

“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”

“Use what I have?”

“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”

You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”

“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”

“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”

“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”

After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?

Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.

You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.

Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.

“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”

Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”

“Perfect,” you said.

Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.

This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.

You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.

“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.

You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.

Your stomach twisted with nerves.

Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.

“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”

Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”

“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”

“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”

“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”

“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”

Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”

Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.

“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”

Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”

“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.

His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”

“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.

The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.

Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.

He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”

That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.

“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”

His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him. 

“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.

“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”

“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”

“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.

His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.

“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”

“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”

Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”

“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”

“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”

It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.

He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”

He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”

You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.

When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.

“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.

“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.

He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—

Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.

“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”

That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.

“May I?” he asked again.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.

“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”

You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.

“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.

You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.

“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”

“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.

The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”

He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.

“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”

He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”

He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.

Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”

“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”

“Next time?”

“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”

“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.

“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”

“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”

You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.

Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.

“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”

“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”

“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”

“I am trying—”

“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”

“…I see,” Phainon said.

“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”

“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”

“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”

You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?

“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”

“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”

“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”

You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.

You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Phainon called out.

You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”

Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.

“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”

You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.

Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”

Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.

“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”

“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.

“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”

The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.

“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.

“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”

You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.

Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.

“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.

You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”

“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”

“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”

“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”

You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.

“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”

“That seems rather cruel.”

“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”

“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.

“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”

You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.

“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.

“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”

Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.

“They don’t look like it,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”

“What happens if someone touches them?”

“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”

“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”

He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”

The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?

It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.

“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”

“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.

Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.

“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”

“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”

“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”

“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.

Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.

The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.

“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”

Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”

“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”

“They see us often enough.”

“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”

“And does that trouble you?” he asked.

You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”

He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”

“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”

“Let them suffocate.”

“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.

“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”

Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”

You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”

“A ball.”

“A ball,” you said.

“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.

You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”

“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”

“And you think that’s preferable?”

“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”

“Together how?”

“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”

You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”

“For the sake of the country?”

“For the sake of my wife,” he said.

You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.

“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.

“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.

“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”

Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”

“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”

“And on making sure I smile often enough.”

“She’ll insist on that regardless.”

You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”

He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”

“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true. 

You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.

He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.

“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“And the music?”

“We’ll have the orchestra.”

“The guest list?”

“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”

“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.

Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”

His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”

The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.

Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.

Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”

“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.

It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.

You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.

You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.

“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”

“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”

“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.

“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”

“The ball was his idea,” you protested.

“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”

“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”

“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”

“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”

Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”

“I did,” you said. 

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”

“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”

“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”

“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”

“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.

“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”

The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”

“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”

“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”

Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.

Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”

“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”

“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”

“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.

“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”

“No, I—”

“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”

Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread. 

“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”

“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”

“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”

“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”

“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”

“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”

“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What is it I can’t handle?”

Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”

“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”

“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”

“I cannot,” he said quietly.

“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”

“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”

“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”

Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.

“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”

“Phainon—”

But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.

How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?

The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.

“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”

“Where did he go?” you asked.

“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”

The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.

“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.

On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.

You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.

It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.

Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.

You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.

You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room. 

Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”

“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”

Castorice cleared her throat and began:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded. 

The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.

You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”

Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”

“I—what?” 

“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”

“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”

You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”

“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”

“…Nightmares?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”

You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—

Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?

“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.

“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”

“About His Majesty?”

“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”

“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.

“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”

You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”

“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”

“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”

Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”

“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”

“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”

You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”

“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”

“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—

“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.

“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”

Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.

Lady Caenis.

You had to tell Phainon.

You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this. 

Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.

You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”

Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”

“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”

“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”

“And where did you get the paper from?”

“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”

“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”

“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”

Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.

Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”

You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.

Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.

“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Now, please.”

Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.

“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”

You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”

Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”

“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”

“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”

“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”

Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”

“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.

“It’s also true, isn’t it?”

Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.

Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”

“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”

“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.

“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”

“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”

“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”

You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.

“Get out,” Phainon said.

Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”

“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”

Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”

“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”

“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”

“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”

“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.

“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”

Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”

She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.

“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”

He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”

Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person. 

You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.

She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.

“She would have liked you.”

You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”

“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”

He went very still. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”

“Who told you?”

“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”

He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I know.”

“It makes me look weak.”

“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”

“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”

“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”

Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”

“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”

“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”

“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”

“Since she died. Seventeen years.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”

“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”

“Yes.”

You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”

He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.

“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”

You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.

The samoyed that lives next door is… strange.

As a house bunny, you’ve only run into him during the rare occasion your owner does yard work or decides you need the extra sun, but, whenever he sees you, he practically vibrates from excitement.

The first time he caught your scent outside, he immediately started dragging his owner towards your house. Your owner, Idrila, had been tending to the array of white and red roses decorating the border of THEIR front yard. THEY had set up a blanket for you on the grass, along with a basket full of your favorite snacks. You were lying on your stomach, book open in front of you. As your fingers reached over to bring a strawberry to your mouth, you were startled by a loud bark.

“Ahhh—Is that a bunny!! You’re so cute!”

The voice made you drop the strawberry and stained the page you were reading a soft pink. You frowned, brows furrowed as you opened your mouth to give the culprit a piece of your mind. When you lifted your head up and were confronted by a massive dog leaning over the fence, you curled into yourself instead, ears flattened against your head.

“Phainon!” yelled someone behind him (you assume it’s his owner), “Get back here!”

You scrutinized the dog in front of you. Based on his ears, you could tell this “Phainon” was a samoyed. Although, he seemed way too big to be one. His size was more akin to the wolf hybrids you met at the shelter, but, looking at his nonstop wagging tail, he was definitely too friendly to be a wolf.

(Was he some kind of genetically-mutated samoyed?)

Though, you will admit, he wasn’t unappealing to look at. You’d even say he’s pretty handsome. Phainon’s white hair framed his face nicely. It looked soft to touch and you could imagine yourself petting it. His skin was clear (how unfair) and he had an incredibly well built body, but his eyes were what entranced you the most. They are so vibrantly blue and even glittered, like the ocean shimmering under the rays of the sun. You could see yourself getting lost in them.

(Speaking of which… has he blinked once since you met his eyes?)

“Idrila, I apologize for Phainon’s behavior,” his owner lets out a sigh, “He must still be excited from—Oh? Who’s this?”

As you began to get uncomfortable under the samoyed’s intense gaze, his owner had just given you the perfect excuse to break eye contact. You turned to look at the person who was now standing next to Phainon. His owner was very handsome too, with THEIR tan-olive skin and braided white hair. You noted that THEIR yellow eyes contrasted nicely next to Phainon's blue ones.

Idrila paused on THEIR gardening to greet the pair. THEY walked up to the fence while dusting off any dirt that had gathered on THEIR sundress.

“Good afternoon, Nanook!” Idrila smiled and gestured to you with THEIR hand, “This is [Name]. A precious little dwarf rabbit I’ve been taking care of for about a week now. It seems like your puppy has taken a liking to her.”

(“Puppy?” That… ‘wolf’ is not a “puppy.”)

“Hi!! I’m Phainon! I’m a samoyed hybrid and—Wow—You smell really good!!” the aforementioned “puppy” said with a wide grin and a tilt of his head.

That confirmed your suspicions about his breed, but did he have to comment on your scent? It weirded you out and you weren’t going to respond—until you noticed that Idrila was looking at you expectantly.

“Hello…” you muttered with shy reluctance, finally meeting his gaze once again. That simple word seemed to spark something in him and you watched as hearts formed in his blue eyes.

“Ahhh—Even your voice is cute!!” Phainon said as he leaned further over the fence.

Alarmed at the sudden movement, Nanook reached over, grabbed the back of the blue collar the dog was wearing, and dragged him back towards THEM. Phainon released a yelp, but never once did he look away from you. A snarl appeared on Nanook’s face as THEY sneered at Phainon.

“Maybe too much of a liking…” THEY commented under THEIR breath, but you heard it with your enhanced hearing, “It was nice to meet you, but we should get going now.”

Moving THEIR grip to Phainon’s wrist, Nanook dragged him towards the house next door. A pout formed on the samoyed face as he got scolded by his owner about respecting boundaries and learning to think before speaking. You let out a soft giggle at the sight and Phainon visibly melted at the sound. His reaction made you raise an eyebrow, but you tried not to pay too much mind to it. You shook out the left over tension from the encounter, and turned back to your book as Idrila returned to THEIR gardening.

Aside from that, you like to study Phainon from the window of your bedroom. Your room is on the second floor of Idrila’s home, giving you an apt view of the Nanook’s backyard. Phainon is out there more often than not. Either roughhousing another hybrid that’s over at his house at the time or training with his owner. At times it can be amusing but other moments make you genuinely concerned for the hybrid’s well-being.

(One time you saw him climb on top of a poor blonde maine coon and start humping him… luckily his owner shut it down and scolded him before it could escalate.)

Unfortunately, your “Phainon-Watching” came to an abrupt end only 2 weeks after it started. One Friday evening you had been lounging on your window seat, enjoying the breeze coming through the slightly ajar window. You almost fell asleep—that is—until Phainon slammed his backyard door open.

“Nanook! I learned something new while training with Mydei today! Let me show you!!”

You watched as his owner followed the samoyed outside. Phainon showed him a move he learned at “training” that day and Nanook watched with THEIR hands clasped behind THEIR back, nodding in acknowledgement once Phainon finished.

(You could only guess what his… “training” actually is… What he performed looked more like martial arts than dog tricks… Maybe he’s training to be a guard dog…)

Phainon visibly brightened at the small gesture like the man had just spoken him a million praises. His tail wagged in joy and you could tell he was going to do another trick before a particularly harsh breeze passed by. It had you shivering and reaching over for a blanket, but you stopped once Phainon froze and began to sniff the air like a madman. He followed the scent and eventually turned upward towards your window.

The samoyed squinted, seemingly to make out your shape, and once he finally did, he perked up, like he did when he first caught your scent.

“[Name]!!” he exclaimed as he rushed over the fence dividing your homes, “Were you watching me?! Did you like what I did?! I learned it, so I can protect you! Hey, [Name]—”

Your blood went cold and you were frozen in place as Phainon started waving too excitedly and attempted to climb the fence to get to you. While you rushed to close your window and the curtains, you caught out of the corner of your eye how Nanook grabbed Phainon by the collar and dragged him back inside.

(Yep, there’s no way you’re gonna watch the samoyed ever again.)

“[Name], this is Mydei,” Idrila introduces, “He’s Yaoshi’s maine coon hybrid and I’d like it if you two became friends.”

A week following your incident with Phainon, your owner has decided that you need more friends.

Out of fear and embarrassment of running into Phainon outside, you’ve locked yourself in Idrila’s house. Every time THEY would offer to take you outside with THEM, you would kindly deny and state that you’d rather spend the time napping inside.

It seems that THEY’VE reached the limit of listening to your pathetic excuses and brought the outside to you instead.

“She is so adorable!” Mydei’s owner remarks as THEY clasp THEIR hands together and press them against THEIR cheek, “I hope you two get along while Idrila and I catch up over some tea.”

Your ears shoot up in alert at the idea of being alone with a predator hybrid. THEY seem to notice your hesitancy and quickly add on, “Don’t worry! Mydei is trained well and won’t act like some feral dog. He won’t do anything you dislike!”

The words do little to calm your nerves, but Idrila and Yaoshi are already moving towards the living room, leaving you and Mydei on your own devices. You shift awkwardly as you ponder on what to do. Mydei’s presence doesn’t help. He stands against the wall with his arms crossed, long tail occasionally thumping against the floor.

As you fidget with your fingers, you attempt to sneak glances at the cat, who makes no move to… “get along with you.” Mydei has his eyes closed and his breathing is even, like he’s sleeping. His blonde hair fades to a soft red when it reaches his shoulders. You internally squeal when you notice that he has a part of it braided and resting on his right shoulder—and are those tattoos peaking out from under his black shirt? You have to hold yourself back from causing a scene.

Like with Phainon, you think he’s beautiful with his solid build (one you note is bigger than Phainon’s) and big arms. The way he has his arms crossed accentuates his chest and creates more tension on his already tight shirt. You have to force yourself to stop staring and squeeze your eyes shut. His appearance reminds you of another maine coon—

(Wait a minute…)

Upon closer inspection, you realize that this is the same hybrid you saw Phainon… hump all those weeks ago. You feel yourself flush at the revelation and shake your head to rid yourself of the memory that appeared in your head. 

When you open your eyes again, you’re met with Mydei’s golden eyes staring back at you. He has an eyebrow raised and his head is tilted in question. Your sudden movement must have aroused him from his meditation.

(You’re sure you look as red as his tattoos right now.)

In an attempt to quell the awkward air, you let out an admittedly depressing giggle and scratch the back of your neck, “Um—Do you want to go to the sunroom? With me..?”

You watch as Mydei lets out a huff and a small smile makes home on his face. To your surprise, he agrees and asks you to lead the way. Your ears perk up at his agreement and you bounce up and down in excitement. You grab his hand and start dragging him down the hallway, surprising him at the sudden skin to skin contact.

When you make it down the hall, you push a door open and bring Mydei inside with you. The sunroom is your favorite place in Idrila’s home. It’s the perfect place to relax and get some sun, while still staying in the house.

It’s where you’ve been hiding from Phainon for most of the week.

However, the samoyed isn’t here right now and instead this handsome maine coon is. You excitedly tell Mydei about what you like doing here: about the books you read, the snacks Idrila makes you, and how this is the perfect place to take a nap.

You’re still holding on to his hand when you finally bring Mydei to the biggest window in the room. In front of it, a blanket is placed on the ground. A book sits open on top of it with a bookmark marking the page you last left on. There’s a small table on the edge of the blanket, placed near the window, that holds a glass of lemonade, the condensation still visible on the outside of the glass even though the ice has melted.

You’re about to drag the maine coon to sit with you when it hits you that you’ve been dragging Mydei around this whole time and making him listen to your nonsensical ramblings. All while holding his hand! You abruptly pull your hand away from his and grip the end of your skirt instead.

You miss the way Mydei frowns at the loss of contact.

“I’m so sorry! I just spent that whole time rambling to you and you haven’t even been able to say a single thing back—” you start, hot from embarrassment, but Mydei cuts you off.

“It’s alright,” he says with a soft smile, “I enjoyed listening to your “ramblings.” It was quite cute.”

You cover your face with your hands and know you are blushing hard under them, “Ah—Thank you..?”

Taking note of your current state, Mydei takes the initiative and invites himself to sit on your blanket. Well—It’s not really sitting. It’s more like lounging. He drapes himself on the floor, with one knee bent and the other extended out.  His weight rests on one arm, elbow bent as he rests his chin on his hand, while the other pats the area next to him.

“Join me, won’t you?”

Mydei’s voice is borderline seductive and you find yourself entranced. Your body moves on its own and you awkwardly lay down next to him. First, you start on your back, but eventually turn to face him. Your ears flatten on your head and you open your mouth to say something. The words are lost on your tongue when Mydei puts his hand on your waist and pulls you flush against his body. Legs tangle with each other as you hold your breath, scared to breathe on him. You let out an exhale and involuntarily relax when Mydei brings the same hand up to your head, scratching the junction at the base of your ears. He lets out a chuckle that rumbles through his body when he sees how your tail twitches at his touch.

You cuddle closer to Mydei, trying to chase his touch. Your hands rest on his chest and grip onto his shirt when he rubs a particularly sensitive spot. It has you flushing once again and before you can apologise, Mydei brings his head down to your neck. You feel how he rubs his face against your scent glands, occasionally leaving nibbles on your skin.

(Is he… Is he scenting you?!)

Overwhelmed by his maneuvers, in your haze, you return his affection and begin to scent his own neck. All you can smell is Mydei and you find yourself getting droopy. The combination of the warm rays of the sun through the window and Mydei’s strong scent is just what you need to get sleepy.

You fall asleep with Mydei’s warm body pressed against yours.

“Why do you smell like that?”

“Smell like what?” Mydei pauses in his stretching to look at the white-haired hybrid.

Later on in the day, long after Mydei’s morning visit with you, he meets up with Phainon to train together. It’s something that the pair have been doing for a while, brawling as a healthy way of expelling pent up energy and satisfying their more animalistic instincts. This is the first meetup in a few weeks. Mydei had to separate himself from Phainon after a particular incident. However, meeting with you had put him in a good mood that had him reaching out to the samoyed to start their weekly meetings once again.

Phainon has a confused look on his pretty face, with his brows furrowed together and it's even completed with a pout. He gets closer to Mydei, leaning into his neck to get a better whiff. The maine coon isn’t fazed, already used to his antics, and patiently waits as Phainon sniffs all over his scent glands.

“Like [Name].”

Phainon abruptly pulls back, startling Mydei with his sudden seriousness, “Why do you smell like [Name]?”

The look on Phainon’s face is one Mydei can only identify as terrifying. The cute pout is erased from his face and the light disappears from his eyes. Gone is the kind and affectionate samoyed and what’s left is a feral wolf challenging someone that has entered his territory.

Mydei composes himself, and the startled look is gone as quickly as it came.

“[Name]?” the blonde pretends to question, “Ah, [Name], you mean the bunny that lives next door to you.” 

“Yeah. [Name].” Phainon says again, harsher this time, “Why do you smell like her?”

He says it like it disgusts him, like it pains him to even say the words. Mydei watches as the hybrid in front of him tightens and loosens the fists resting at his sides.

The maine coon tilts his head in a mocking manner, “I was over at her house earlier today. Yaoshi wanted to meet with Idrila and took me along. Something about [Name] needing to meet more hybrids, so I spent some time with her.”

Mydei remains vague on purpose. Some part of him wants to egg him and see how the samoyed will react.

How far he’ll spiral.

He can practically see the cogs turning in Phainon’s head as he tries to make something from Mydei’s words. He gave him essentially nothing after all. Anything else that he conjures up in his mind is from his own imagination.

Mydei studies Phainon’s face with vigor. The samoyed is staring out into space, and Mydei watches as his look of neutrality begins to morph into anger. Phainon’s eyebrows twitch and his nose scrunches. His mouth turns into a snarl, baring his teeth. Mydei can see the waves of anger exuding from his body.

“Did you—” Phainon scoffs, “Did you mate with her?”

Mydei says nothing, letting the silence linger in the air and allowing a few more seconds of Phainon’s imagination to run rampant.

“Maybe I did,” he finally breaks the silence, “I don’t see how that concerns you.”

Now it’s Phainon’s turn to be silent.

“She had no scent of a mate and no markings,” Mydei continues, “Would it truly be that concerning if I was the one to take her?”

Something snaps in Phainon and he stomps closer to the cat. Mydei thinks the samoyed is going to fight him, but all the samoyed does is place a shaking palm on the maine coon’s shoulder. His grip is tight, painfully so, but Mydei keeps his eyes on Phainon’s.

Phainon stares back into Mydei’s, eyes dark in anger. Now concerned, Mydei opens his mouth to say something to calm the dog down, but Phainon beats him to it.

A flip is switched and, like nothing has even happened in the past few moments, the smile is returned to Phainon’s face. The sparkle returns to his eyes and he joyfully says, “Of course not!”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head like an unassuming puppy, “You’re right! She wasn’t claimed. How lucky you are if you actually managed to woo her over. Haha. You should watch your back, Mydeimos. Someone might jump at her before you are able to complete the bond.”

Mydei’s eyes widen at the thinly veiled threat. Phainon called his bluff. He doesn’t like the chill that goes down his spine.

Fuck.

Apparently, the samoyed that lives next door is sick.

You would beg to differ. With a body like that, surely you wouldn’t get sick to the point your neighbor has to watch over you.

According to Idrila, Nanook had called THEM with concern in THEIR voice. Nanook wasn’t the type of person to worry like this, so Idrila was immediately alarmed at THEIR intonation. THEY had told THEM that Phainon hadn’t been eating the last few days and locked himself in his room. The samoyed had refused to come out, telling Nanook that he wasn’t feeling well, coughing and groaning every other word.

To you, it sounds like bullshit.

But the ever kind Idrila agreed to look over the dog while Nanook attended an important meeting THEY couldn’t afford to miss.

That brings you too now, as Idrila picks up a spare key from under a barely-hanging-onto-life plant on Nanook’s front porch.

(Clearly, THEY don’t concern themselves with plant life like Idrila does.)

You’re holding a basket full of at home remedies. Idrila had quickly cooked up some soup and packed some over-the-counter medicine. All you could do was scoff as THEY did so. 

Idrila finally unlocks the door and you’re greeted by silence. You step in and are almost knocked out. You’ve never been in Phainon’s house before, but you can smell that it’s his.

His scent is everywhere. In the air, on the walls. Every single nook and cranny. 

(Is this how Idrila’s house smelled when Mydei came over? Is that why he was.. “meditating”?)

You shake your head. Now’s not the time to think about Mydei. You turn back to Idrila, who had taken the basket in your stupor and was now heating soup up on the stove.

THEY continue to mix the concoction and, without taking THEIR eyes off the pot, requests something of you.

“Go check on, Phainon!” THEY hum out the samoyed’s name, “Maybe seeing another hybrid will make him feel better!”

(Bullshit.)

However, you reluctantly nod, and turn to move further into his house. You’d have to find Phainon’s room first if you wanted to “check on him.” You let your nose be your guide and follow the scent to where it’s the strongest.

It guides you to a light blue door and you stand awkwardly in front of it. You don’t want to open it. A part of you is scared. This is the first time you’d be seeing the samoyed since he caught you spying on him from your window. On the other hand, you’re annoyed. This most definitely is some bullshit Phainon pulled to get to you. Surely it has to be.

You’ll never find the true reason unless you knock on the door, so you suck it up and finally do it. You place 3 firm taps on the door.

“Phainon? Are you okay? Nanook said you were sick, so Idrila and I came to check on you.”

There’s no response from the other side of the door.

“Hello..?” you question. This is the right door. You trust your nose enough to at least discern that.

The annoyance bubbles over at the continued lack of response and you finally break, “Hey! If you don’t open this door right now I’ll—”

The door slams open and Phainon jumps out. You let out a shriek as Phainon shoves you into the wall of the hallway. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud and you let out a yelp that only partially escapes your mouth as Phainon now has his hand covering the bottom half of your face.

All the commotion must have alerted Idrila downstairs as THEY question, “Is everything alright up there?”

“Everythings alright! Just startled each other, haha!” Phainon responds for the two of you while you struggle against his hold.

That seems to satisfy THEIR worries, “Alright… Nanook just texted me asking me to pick up your medicine, Phainon. Will you two be alright while I head out for a moment?”

“Of course!” Phainon says, voice too cheery for someone who’s supposed to be ill. You watch as his tail begins to wag.

(No, Idrila! Don’t leave me here with him!)

You attempt to yell against his hand, but your screams are muffled. It's no luck as you listen to Idrila leave through the front door. Now alone and sick of his behavior, you bite Phainon’s hand and kick him in the groin. Now, it’s his turn to yelp and his hands move away from your body and to his dick instead.

“You—You jerk! What the hell is wrong with you?!” You exclaim as you watch Phainon attempt to grip onto the wall and balance himself.

(Good. You managed to do some damage to him.)

“[N—Name],” he groans out, voice riddled with pain, “I just want to talk to you!”

You scoff, “Well you didn’t have to pretend to be sick to do it.”

“I did!” Phainon springs up, and it startles you, “It was the only way I could get you into my house.”

Your eyes widen in a mixture of shock and fear and your ears point out in alert.

The pain that Phainon was experiencing before seemingly evaporated and his hands returned to you. They come up to cup your face and bring it closer to his. Your hands grasp his wrists and you can feel his breath tingle on your lips.

You think he’s about to kiss you when he suddenly pauses, sniffing the air. He transfers his grip on your face onto one hand and grips your chin as he forcefully pulls your head to the side. Phainon buries his face in your neck and you can feel him sniff all over it.

“Mydeimos.”

His voice has dropped to a lower, growly pitch. It’s guttural, like a wolf.

“W—What? What does Mydei have to do with this?!” your voice comes out awkwardly due to his grip on your face.

Phainon lets out an actual growl and you feel it against you, “Don’t say his name.”

Suddenly, you feel something wet slide across your scent glands.

(Is—Is he licking you?!)

Your shoulders scrunch up at the sensation on your sensitive glands. It's so warm and wet, but for some reason it has you melting in his embrace. Phainon supports you by wrapping his free arm around your waist and pressing your body against his. He continues his relentless attack on your neck.

“When I’m done with you,” he starts, breathlessly, “You’ll smell like me. Not him.”

“And it’ll stick.”

Before you can question what he means, Phainon releases his grip on your face and picks you up bridal style. You grip onto his shoulders as he carries you into his room, closing the door behind him with his foot. He gently places you on his bed. The blue sheets are soft against you, but you can’t study his room any further because Phainon begins to strip himself in front of you.

You watch, jawslacked, as Phainon starts by taking off his top. Now that his shirt is off, you can truly see his body. His abs are defined and chest is pronounced.

(You’re sure the only person that rivals him is Mydei, but Phainon wouldn’t like you thinking that.)

He doesn’t give you enough time to appreciate his chest as he hastily moves onto his bottoms. Phainon pulls off his pants and underwear in one combined motion and, if your mouth could fall open even further, it has. The size of his dick is almost frightening. Its size is intimidating just like the rest of his body. It curves slightly upward and the tip is flushed a light pink. There is a prominent knot where his dick meets the base. A vein runs up on the side of his shaft from the base to the tip. Against your wishes, you feel yourself getting wet in between your legs and your mouth begins to water.

But as he climbs on top of you, the realization hits you all at once.

Phainon is trying to mate with you.

You place your hands on his chest and attempt to push him away, but he’s too strong and your push does nothing to deter his movements.

“W—Wait! Phainon, I’m not so sure—!”

The samoyed cuts you off by dropping himself on top of you. You let out a wheeze as the air is knocked out of you and you barely have enough time to catch your breath before Phainon is licking and kissing your ears. Your face is pressed into his chest as he continues his assault.

“Why?” Phainon questions, voice dark once again, “Did Mydei mate with you already?”

Now, you’re confused. 

(What’s this about Mydei and you mating?!)

“I—I don’t know—”

“Bullshit!” he cuts you off, “I smelled you all over him the other day. You can’t lie to me.”

“W—What?! We were just cuddling—”

Phainon lets out a manic laugh, “Haha—! Then how about we do some cuddling, too?”

He pulls away from you to grab onto the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. However, he doesn’t have the same amount of patience with your bra and grips it with both hands at the center before ripping it apart. You let out a gasp at his actions and yell profanities at him. Phainon pays no mind as he moves down to your skirt, hands gripping onto your panties and pulling them down along with the skirt.

Now you’re bare in front of him like he is with you. 

You can’t do anything but grip the sheets next to you as Phainon brings himself down and his mouth immediately meets your wet pussy. His tongue licks circles into your clit and it has you arching into his mouth. The sounds of your moaning and his mouth on your cunt fill the room. You squirm at the overwhelming pleasure and Phainon places a hand on your stomach to press you back down onto the bed. The added pressure doesn’t help you at all and tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes. Phainon seems to notice and brings his other hand to your cunt and presses it into you. It slides right in with the help of all your slick that has now built up at his ministrations.

His finger is longer than yours and immediately hits places you couldn’t reach yourself. He prods around until he finds a spot that has you wailing. The tears spill from your eyes as your legs begin to shake at the pleasure. Before you know it, Phainon adds another finger and presses his tongue harder against your clit. You feel yourself right on the edge and you clench around Phainon, but he abruptly pulls away, taking his fingers with him.

You whine at the loss of feeling full and are about to complain when Phainon says, “I’m sorry, bunny, but the only time you’re gonna come is on my cock as I fuck you full of my cum.”

Your face grows impossibly red at his words and you sink further into the haze that is Phainon. He climbs back on top of you in between your legs and lines himself up with your entrance. You hold your breath as you feel Phainon push himself into you. The stretch is intense, so much more than his fingers.

“Too—Too much, Phai!” you squeal at how full you are.

Phainon lets out a chuckle and presses himself back into your scent glands, “I’m only half-way, bunny.”

You let out a moan as Phainon continues to push in despite your protest. When your cunt finally meets his knot, you feel impossibly full. So full to the point that you can feel him up in your throat. Phainon lets out a loud groan when you squeeze down on him and he has to bite the sheets next to your head to stop himself from cumming right then and there.

“C—Careful. If you keep doing that I’ll cum sooner than I want to.”

His words have you whining and Phainon takes that as a sign to start moving. He places his hands under your knees and presses them against the bed as he begins to thrust into your pussy. It makes a loud squelch every time his knot nudges your cunt. You can feel him deep in your stomach, your womb.

He’s hitting every pleasurable spot inside of you and you can’t help but clench around him. You feel yourself on the edge of your orgasm once again and this time Phainon doesn’t pull himself out to stop your high.

You cum with a loud whine, clenching hard around Phainon’s cock. It has him letting out a moan and his thrusts grow erratic. Soon he’s joining you in your high as he comes inside you, but he doesn’t push in his knot and the cum leaks back out of your cunt when he slides out.

You're both breathing heavily, breaths mingling with each other as you attempt to get air back into your lungs.

But Phainon doesn’t give you a moment of respite and he’s gripping your waist and flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Phai—Wait—Still sensitive—!”

Your words are knocked out of you when Phainon pushes his still hard cock back inside your cunt from behind. It slides back in easily with all the cum that's inside of you already. He holds you up by your hips, leaving your head on the sheets, and grinds into you.

“F—Fuck! How are you even tighter like this—” Phainon groans as he presses his eyes shut, relishing the pleasure of your sensitive pussy pulsing around him.

However, a scowl returns to his face when he remembers how this all started. Without taking his hands off your hips, he leads down near your ears. You feel his body heat against your back and he whispers into your ears as they twitch.

“Did Mydei fuck you like this? Was his cock big enough to hit all these spots inside of you? Did he have you leaking all over the sheets like I am?”

All you can do is respond with a moan and Phainon bites down on an ear as he drags your body up and down his cock by your hips. The position has him hitting even deeper than before and you feel him hit your womb every time he thrusts back in. It’s intense, and when Phainon lets go of your ear, you turn your head to the side to be able to breathe. Tears are streaming down your face again, and you feel Phainon grow harder inside of you. He brings mouth to your cheeks and licks up your tears before pressing his face into your scent glands.

“Y—You’re even cute when you cry. Sh—Shit—!” he exclaims as you clench around him, close once again.

“If you’re close again, I’m gonna have to fuck you harder if I want to cum with you, bunny,” Phainon breathes out, “Hang on.”

You grip the sheets as he brings himself upright again and pulls out, leaving just the tip. You whine at the loss of his cock, but you mewl when he shoves himself back in by thrusting his hips and simultaneously bringing your hips to meet his. He moves faster now, chasing his own high. You attempt to crawl away from him, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting and he pulls you back onto his dick every time.

Phainon’s moans grow in volume and you know he’s close like you. He leans back once again and places his mouth over your scent glands. You think you hear him mutter an apology when he suddenly pushes his knot into your sloppy pussy, cumming inside you. At the same time, he bites down hard on your gland, creating a mating mark. When his knot slips in, it has your eyes widening at the sudden intrusion. The feeling of being so overwhelmingly stuffed as you falling apart on his cock, tail twitching erratically. You cum on his dick with a loud moan of his name and you feel pulse after pulse of his cum fill your womb and pussy.

After a few moments, his mouth lets go of your neck and he licks the blood away. Phainon presses light kisses on your scent gland.

“Now, you’re mine,” he says, still in a sex daze, “Not Mydei’s. Mine.”

“Yours,” you reply before you can stop it.

The word has Phainon perking up and his tail wags behind him. He peppers kisses all over your face and begins to grind himself against you.

(Wait—Is he getting hard again?!)

By the time Idrila returns, you’ve been fully fucked out.

Bite marks litter your body and a mixture of your slick and Phainon’s cum slides down your legs. You can’t feel your body and all you can think about is Phainon.

You’re sure the smell of sex is clear in the air even to your owner’s nose.

Phainon has finally taken a break to get you some water and your suspicions about Idrila are confirmed when Phainon returns with some soup and the aforementioned water.

He also mentions the news that Idrila has given you permission to “sleepover.”

Even with your aching body, you can stop the sigh that escapes your lips.

You’re in for a long night.

PHAINON GIVE ME A CHANCE PLEASE!!! also i wrote this in an actual daze sorry if some of it didnt make sense LOL

you are at part one! go to ; two

please like, comment, reblog, and share if you enjoyed!!

satoru knows well enough that he adores your voice when it’s wrapped around his name.

but he’s decided that he loves it best when it’s completely breaking, paired with the gorgeously suffocating feeling of the skin of your thighs pressed into his fingertips and wrapped around his lips.

he loves when his name is exhaled, high-pitched and whiny like sugar, while his tongue paints a stripe across the wetness coating your lips, swirling circles around your pretty clit.

maybe he liked it the most because it’s how he’s always wanted to hear you say his name — it’s just that you’d always been too fucking stubborn, so insistent on hating him that you’d never stop to think how good you’d taste coating his mouth with your slick.

“sa-ah-toru,” you keen as satoru’s tongue dips past the edge of your soaked hole, curling inwards deliciously, moving slow like he’s savoring every fucking drop.

god, he’s hungry — but he’ll die if he goes too quick and can’t taste you ever again.

and if he grips the back of your thighs just a little bit harder when you sing his name like that? he simply can’t help it. he waited too long for this.

sa-to-ru.

you taste just as sweet as you sound.

you’d burst into his office this morning, bemoaning the fact that satoru hadn’t showed up to the previous briefing with principal yaga, of which ended with yaga blaming it on you. you’re bursting with rage, all up in his face, and it’s all a blur from there until your panties are hooked over your ankle, he’s getting on his knees in front of your office chair, wrapping your thighs over his shoulders, and lapping at your pretty cunt.

he hasn't gasped for air; he’s been too enveloped in your scent to care about breathing. he’ll devour you until no one else can. until all that pretty voice of yours knows how to sound out is sa-to-ru.

satoru narrows his tongue, bullying the muscle deep and slow, down to where you couldn’t have thought possible to reach. his eyes are hazy, half-lidded as you tug at his winter locks, shoving him further into your weeping pussy.

“mmph— fuck,” you pant out, eyes screwed shut as he thrusts his tongue in and out of you at a torturous pace. “fuck— gojo, ‘re going too slow—”

“hmm?” he hums into your clit, sending shockwaves straight up from your core. the sorcerer’s gaze meets yours from under the glimpse of your tits beneath your unbuttoned polo.

he loves you composed, he really does — but you look perfect when you’re all messy, just for him.

his lips glisten with your wetness as he grins. “i'll go faster if you say my name properly, beautiful.”

“h—huh?” your words trail off into a candied whine as he pads his finger just against your entrance, smearing the wetness that covers your folds and popping it into his mouth.

you’re so sweet. fuck, why are you so sweet?

“say my name.” he repeats, his voice cheerful yet rough, the tiniest bit of grit around the edge. “remind me how much you love me, gorgeous.”

your eyes still manage to narrow, even as they glitter with needy frustration. “fuck you— mmh!”

satoru simply frowns against the inside of your thigh as he abruptly bullies the first inch of his finger past your entrance, hissing at how tightly your walls were clamping down on him. his mind goes blurry, swirling with thoughts of how delectable you’d look with your thighs around his hips, bullied open and clamping like a vice down on his cock—

he pulls his finger out with a shudder, cooing at the little pout that forms on your lips. “poor baby. if you can’t handle it, you know, we can stop here. if you want.”

“w— what?” you breathe out, eyes wide and glossy like the thought was insulting. “no, please — please, need you, satoru…”

sa-to-ru.

and you’ve drawn out that last syllable like you want him dead.

“again, sorry?”

“satoru!” you squeal impatiently, and he obliged, simply because he’d never say no to you when you sound like that.

the white-haired man groans, biting down on the inside of your thigh and relishing in the way it makes you whine, all high-pitched and finally sweet on him.

his fingers thrust roughly into your aching pussy, stretching you out and moulding you to shape around his skin. you’re dripping down his palm, and satoru’s mesmerized by the sheen of slick that coats his hand as he pounds his fingers in and out of you steadily.

“shit— so pretty here for me, huh?” satoru whispers reverently, as if speaking directly to your pussy and not to you. “just as sweet as that mouth of yours. just as tight too.”

your hands are making a home for themselves in his hair, hips chasing his thick fingers, grinding yourself further into them like he wasn’t deep enough already. your perfect fucking voice isn’t helping the sorcerer’s case either — he swears he loses every semblance of control he has, bit by bit, at each breath of his name leaving your lips, garbled and slurred and destroyed.

“s’toru, satoru,” your mouth drops open, eyes screwing shut as he curls his fingers right into that spongy spot, office chair creaking as your body slumps back into it. “it’s so— fuck, ‘ts so—”

he laughs breathlessly. “yes, gorgeous?”

“it’s so— oh!”

satoru cherishes everything you have to say, he swears he does.

but he also cherishes the way your lips look, all glossed with drool pooling at the corners, when he leans forward and circles his tongue over your clit in mean little motions, lapping at the sensitive skin in tandem with the rhythm of his fingers. you’re a whining, squirming mess — struggling to stay upright, thoroughly desecrated on the office chair you’d chewed him out just weeks ago for stealing.

satoru hisses as your fingertips tug at his locks, so fucking drunk on the taste of your soaked cunt amidst the lewd sound of his fingers slapping against your sex.

“listen to that,” he rasps out, pausing to let the squelch of your pussy speak for itself before laughing dazedly against your clit. “she’s screaming my name too, isn’t she? so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t you?”

your bleary gaze peeks down at him, eyes questioning amidst the pleasure. “s—satoru, you asshole, stop talking to my— mmh!”

before you can protest, his mouth is diving back in. soft lips latch around your clit, and satoru’s painfully hard at the sound of your voice cracking around the syllables of his name, your throat thick with pleasure at the overstimulation. he doesn’t let up; the white-haired man sucks harder at the sensitive bud, all while scissoring his fingers deep inside of you as if mapping you out.

for when his dick goes inside you, of course.

“it’s t—too much,” you complain in a mewl, eyes blurry with forming tears, “satoru, please, please, ‘m so—”

“fuck, take it, gorgeous,” satoru gasps out against your pussy, lips drenched in your taste. “keep talking to me — shit, you’re tight — let it all out for me, okay?”

satoru’s mind had blanked out a long time ago. between the way your lips form his name in one strung out moan, and the way you taste sweeter than any candy he could’ve ever asked for, he’s starting to wonder if he’d died and gone to heaven.

your voice tangles with the filthy squelches that resound through the cramped space of your office, and he swears nothing could ever be better than this.

except for the way you sound saying his name while you cum.

“i’m— i’m—” you gasp, and satoru takes that as a sign to clamp his lips around your clit and suck, curling his fingers up against your g-spot until — “satoru!”

he’s never heard anything so perfect before. his gaze flicks upwards as you orgasm, watching the way your face scrunches up as your cunt tightens unbearably around every inch of his fingers. satoru’s transfixed by your stupid voice, something out of a porno curated by an angel, and if he’s hoping he’s ruined you with his fingers alone, you’ve ruined him with just the sound of your voice breaking.

your breaths are heavy as you come down from the high; soft and warm, sound waves radiating off of you like sunlight. satoru presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, and you finally peer down at him.

“still mad at me?” the sorcerer grins.

your eyes narrow as soon as you’re back to life. “yes. yaga chewed me out for something that wasn’t even my fault, satoru.”

sa-to-ru. the white-haired man pauses against your inner thigh, raising an eyebrow up at you with something hungry in his eyes. because as soon as you say his name, he decides he’s not fucking done with you yet.

“i’m sorry, gorgeous,” satoru mumbles, giving you a faux-apologetic glance before mischievously pressing a kiss to your clit, watching how your eyes widen. “i guess I’ll just keep going until you forgive me.”

“w—wait!”

satoru gojo really likes the way you say his name.

and he’ll keep making you say it until you know it too.

@ ttakdoll, 2026

The blender kicks on and he groans from the table behind you like he’s on life support. “Does that thing know how to be quiet?”

“Enjin.” Could he be any more dramatic? “It's a blender.”

“Okay? They need to invent quieter ones.”

He went too hard at his frat’s opening party last night. Gris had to physically drag his barely functioning body home earlier this morning, and not even twenty minutes later he was calling you whining and all pathetic, “Please come help me, ma'…”

Were you shocked by the condition he was in? Not even a little. If anything, this is tame for an early-semester hangover. You’ve seen him way worse, like, foaming at the mouth and nonverbal. You’re surprised he hadn’t died from alcohol poisoning along the way.

Did you start bitching at him the second you walked through the door? Obviously. And did he have the nerve to squint at you and go, “Baby, can you not? My head is literally splitting,” like you’re the villain here? Yes. Which only made you double down, because the audacity of catching an attitude while you’re voluntarily providing emergency services before your internal alarm clock went off is, quite frankly, insane.

But you still got to work anyway.

You set the smoothie down in front of him, then slide over the plate of eggs and toast you made. It looks wholesome sitting next to the half-drunk Gatorade he’s been nursing since he woke up.

He stares at the plate, poking at the eggs and breaking the yolk. “I kinda thought you’d bring McDonald’s or something…”

You smack him upside the head and point at the food. Enjin glares at you, yet takes a bite anyway. He can whine all he wants, but he’s the one who begged you to come over—not to mention your breakfast clears a McGriddle by a mile.

Sitting across from him with your arms crossed, you yawn. You were up late too—just not stumbling around his frat house. You stayed in, binge-watching shows to reset your brain after getting handed all your new classes this week.

Enjin had something to say about that too, complaining about how your attendance at his frat was so important to him. But that’s when all the crazies come out, and there was no way you were dealing with blackout freshmen puking on your shoes.

It was bad enough you’re stuck taking care of an almost-puking Enjin as it is.

He's talking, nearly spitting pieces of egg at you.

“Ew, gross—don’t talk with your mouth full. I know your mom taught you better than that.”

He ignores the jab and picks up a piece of toast, holding it out toward you. “You’re going to make a good wife someday, you’ve already had plenty of practice with me.”

You snort. “I don’t play wife with you, I’m basically your maid.”

“Maid, wife. Same difference.”

“You’re such a dick, you know that?”

Your eyes drift past him to the wall behind the kitchen table. The photos are still taped up unevenly with peeling corners—pictures of his frat brothers, old high school friends, random blurry party shots. Then there are the ones of you two.

Prom. Graduation. One from the first time you ever hung out outside of school—both of you younger, awkward, not quite this version of yourselves yet.

You’ve been best friends since high school. He was new, and you were assigned to show him around. He wasn’t all that different back then—still sassy and observant—but he was quieter, less sure of himself, and you were the first person who made the place feel less foreign for him.

Sometimes you think it was fate that shoved you into each other’s lives that day, because without it, you probably would’ve stayed in completely separate circles. You don’t think you would’ve chosen each other on purpose.

As much as you can’t stand him some days, you’re inseparable. He’s—corny as it sounds—your person. And if anyone asked him, he’d say you’re his too. Zero hesitation.

And if things weren’t already stereotypical enough as is, you’d definitely had feelings for him at one point—because who wouldn’t have? Enjin’s always been a hot shot. Even as a teenager he's had that thing about him. It wasn’t exactly earth shattering and shocking that you developed a crush.

You had a boyfriend when the two of you first met (sadly your first and only one, actually), which ended a bit after you and Enjin became inseparable. He said it was because of how close you were. At the time it felt crazy dramatic, but looking back, you get it. When you’re young, any attractive guy with that kind of presence feels like competition. 

Especially one who seems to understand you better than your own boyfriend does.

And once that fell apart, you fell. Head over your damn heels. He’s cute and funny, makes you feel important and treats you like you're his girl—just not officially. Princess treatment before it was even a joke between you two—to this day you’re spoiled absolutely rotten. It wasn’t exactly hard to grow heart eyes.

But first and foremost, you were his best friend. That was the foundation, and always had been. And over time, that really did become enough.

It took a little while to settle into that reality, sure. But as you both grew up and matured, you realized something important—you didn’t want to risk losing your person over feelings that might complicate everything. Being his homegirl, his ride or die, the one he calls first—that meant more than anything ever could.

~

One month later…

“Excuse me.”

You turn at the voice behind you.

It’s some guy you’re pretty sure you haven’t noticed in this lecture before—and you feel like you would’ve remembered him. He’s got this blank, almost drained expression—like he hasn’t slept in weeks, which is pretty impressive considering it’s only the second week of the semester. There are faint streaks of grey in his hair too. Damn, how old is this guy?

Okay, he doesn’t look old. Just like he’s lived three lives already and none of them went smoothly. Here’s to a fourth?

“Do you have this week’s notes?” he asks. His voice is nice, low and deep. Pretty, even. It just sounds like he’s running on a dead battery.

“Yeah,” you tap your laptop. “They’re all on here though.” He nods once. “That’s fine.”

There’s a pause. He’s still looking at you.

“So… Do you want me to email them to you, or…?”

He nods again and gestures toward your laptop.

You hesitate for half a second—because, hello, stranger—but hand it over anyway.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in class before,” you say, attempting small talk while he types in his email. He doesn’t look up. “I’m always in the back. I moved up a few seats because someone kept taking mine.”

“This late in?” You let out a small laugh. “Swear some people don’t understand seating rules.”

“There are seating rules?”

“Um… yeah. Like, once you pick your seat the first week, everyone just collectively agrees that’s your spot.”

He finishes typing and hands the laptop back to you. You’re still not sure what to make of him. You glance at the email he sent it to. “Zodyl… cool name.”

“Thank you.”

You try to introduce yourself in return, but he cuts you off, “I know.”

You’re spent thinking about that interaction for the rest of the day. You’ve met some interesting people before, but he’s definitely up there.

Later that evening, sprawled out on your floor and staring at the ceiling while Enjin lounges on your bed—you’re rambling, replaying every second of it while he half listens, tossing in comments whenever he feels like it.

“He kind of looks like a bug,” you say, sitting up suddenly. “Wait. What if he is a bug and just hasn’t figured out human interaction yet?”

Enjin hums. “Sounds like you’re bug-phobic.”

“I am not! I can be accepting of bug people. He seems nice enough. Just… super weird.”

“Maybe he thought you were pretty. Made him nervous.”

“He did not seem into me—”

“Nah, he wanted a piece of that and short-circuited.”

You smack his leg. “Shut up. Quit being an ass.”

“I’m serious!” He kicks that same hand, “Guys get weird when they’re into someone.”

He’s not overly concerned about this Zodyl guy, but you forming connections with random men has always made him cautious.

Enjin knows how guys are. He is one—and you’re his girl to look out for.

“Zodyl…” He finally looks up from his phone to glance at you on the floor. “Isn’t he the one who hangs out with that super wacked-out group?”

You scoff. “Aren’t you one to talk.”

“I think he’s a narc. Actually—no. Maybe not. Pretty sure one of his friends is on drugs.”

“Can you be nice for, like, two seconds?”

“Says the girl who just called him a bug. Guess we’re both hypocrites.”

~

When you walk into class again, Zodyl is sitting in the seat next to yours. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you drop your bag down and pull your chair out, just sits there facing forward like a creepy NPC in a horror game. 

You've started unpacking your things when he speaks. “Thank you for your help.”

“With…?”

“Lending me your notes.”

“Oh.” You remember. “Yeah, no worries. I’m glad I’m not taking them for nothing.”

“I didn’t steal anyone’s seat.” Zodyl looks at your confused expression for a brief second before facing forward again. “The seating rules.” He adds, a strand of hair falling near his nose in a way that feels cinematic. “No one had been sitting here. I didn’t take a seat.”

You can’t help but laugh. “I mean, I wasn’t filing a complaint.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was inconsiderate.”

The professor starts shuffling papers at the front, and students are settling in. “Do you care if I stay here?” he asks.

You look at him properly this time. Okay, maybe he doesn’t seem as strange up close. “Not at all,” you say, smiling. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” You wave it off. “You’re welcome to sit there, Zodyl.”

After class, he hands you a piece of paper. You take it, looking confused as you glance down at it and back up at him.

He gestures toward sheet in your hand. “Your number.”

You blink. “My phone number?”

Passing you a pen as confirmation, you think he could’ve passed you his phone instead—but sure. This works too.

“If I need more help. You do well with this subject.”

“Yeah, of course!” You beam at the compliment. “Always happy to be of assistance.” You think, just for the faintest moment, there may be the slight chance of the smallest smile on his face. Or you’re crazy.

As he’s going to leave, “I like your sweater. Purple is a nice color on you.”

Later that afternoon, you burst into Enjin’s apartment without knocking. “Zodyl asked for my phone number. Well, sort of. He didn’t really ask—”

Enjin barely reacts to the intrusion—you do this all the time—mid-sip of his beer.

“Bug-man?” He asks, eyeing you as you pace around his kitchen.

“Yes, bug-man,” you’re practically doing laps around the room. “But he’s not actually that scary up close.”

“He was up close?”

“He moved to the seat next to mine. And then asked if it was okay that he stayed there.” Pause. “It was kind of cute.”

“So now bugs are cute?”

You grab an apple off his counter and throw it at him. “Shut up, Jin’. I’m trying to tell you what happened.”

Enjin holds his free hand up in mock surrender. “My bad, mama. Continue.”

Your pacing begins again, along with the rambling. “He kept staring at me. Like, a lot. At first it was uncomfortable. Full eye contact, no blinking. I thought he was glitching.”

“Some people pay extra for that kind of attention.”

“What did I tell you about shutting up? Anyway, he asked for my number. Said it was for ‘help with class,’ but then he complimented my sweater.”

Putting your hands on your hips, you grin at Enjin, all teeth and bright eyes. “So now I’m kind of flattered by the staring. Maybe you were right. Maybe he does think I’m cute.”

Enjin tilts his head, “Of course he thinks you’re cute,” a beer is tossed to you. “I’ve been saying that. Took someone long enough to catch up.”

He gestures his can towards you. “Just don’t let him steal my spotlight.”

Which, unfortunately, after a few weeks, kind of started happening.

You were talking to Zodyl more. In class, obviously—but outside of it too. Sure, sometimes it was about lecture stuff—he did need help here and there. But he’d also start talking about projects he was working on, random ideas, or things he was building.

You still made time for Enjin, it would’ve been crazy not to. The routine included being at his place constantly, or he was at yours, or you were out somewhere with the group, or at one of his parties. You saw him pretty much every day.

But now, sometimes your phone would buzz and you’d glance down mid-conversation. Or you’d cut yourself off to respond to a text. Or you’d casually bring up bug-man (the nickname stuck).

It wasn’t that you had a new guy friend. You’ve always had them. You and Enjin share a huge friend group—you’re close with Gris, with Follo, with August and Corvus—even the dweeb kids Zanka and Rudo that Enjin somehow adopted during his fraternity service hours at the high school. You being friends with other guys has never been new, never been weird, and never been a problem.

What was new was that this guy was clearly into you.

And, again, Enjin knows how guys are. Enjin is guys. Mr. Easy. Mr. I-know-exactly-what-they’re-thinking-because-I’m-thinking-it-too. So yeah, it made him stressed. Not because he thought you couldn’t handle yourself—but because he knew how quickly things could flip. He didn’t like the idea of you getting played, used, or fed some bullshit.

You were his to look out for.

At first he didn’t pay much attention to Zodyl. But now? His guard was fully up, because if anyone was going to rescue you from a bad situation, it was him.

He crashed out a little when you skipped your weekly fast-food movie night to study with that… thing. You hadn’t missed one since you started them as teenagers. Sick? He’d just show up at yours. Busy? You’d make it work.

But no. Here comes the cockroach, interrupting tradition.

It didn’t help that Zodyl knew who he was, too. Which, okay—fair. Enjin was known campus-wide for more than a few reasons. That wasn’t the shocking part. What was shocking was how much he knew.

“Okay, so he’s a narc who hangs out with a druggie and now he’s a stalker,” Enjin said at one point, throwing his hands up after you casually mention something Zodyl knew about him that felt way too specific. “How the hell does he know about my lucky umbrella?”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. “First of all, he’s not a druggie and his name is Jabber—”

“The fuck kind of name is Jabber? That’s not helping his case.”

“—Second of all,” you continue over him, “you carry that umbrella everywhere. Even when it’s sunny. Zodyl is just observant.”

“Why am I being observed?” Enjin demands. “And how does he know it’s lucky!”

He didn’t like Zodyl. Not at all. And technically, he didn’t even know him. Even if Zodyl somehow knew too much about him.

One time, Enjin spotted him in passing on the way to class. Decided to be mature about it for you. If this guy was going to be in your life, the least he could do was be polite.

He waved. Gave him his best smile, pearly white canines flashing in greeting. “Hey, man!”

Zodyl didn’t even look at him.

But Enjin had always been your number one complication when it came to men. Either he scared them off—because being best friends with a hot, confident guy is intimidating (see: your last boyfriend)—or he attracted the wrong ones. The kind who only got close to you because they wanted proximity to him.

Zodyl was neither. He didn’t seem repelled by Enjin, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in knowing him personally either. No weird fan behavior. Outside of, okay, maybe some mildly stalker-ish observational habits.

It was a nice change of pace—having someone who seems interested in you and not because of who you’re friends with. Even if Zodyl was kind of weird, and you could never fully get a read on what was going on in his head.

Enjin stayed cordial. For the most part. He’d toss in a comment here and there when you brought Zodyl up—nothing too serious, just enough to let you know he had opinions—but he never outright fought you on it. Unless it was something justified, like ditching movie night. That was so different.

Even with all his side-eyes and sarcastic remarks, he knows you’re an adult. He knows you’re not naïve. If anything, he knows you too well to think you’d let yourself get played without noticing.

That doesn’t mean he stops thinking about it.

Or worrying about it.

~

Follo squints at you, Semiu, and Tomme as you push your way into the kitchen. “What are you three supposed to be?”

It’s Halloween, aka the biggest party of the semester. The house is so packed you can barely see the floor, just a blur of shoes and spilled drinks and strobe lights.

“We’re kiss, marry, kill,” Semiu says, lifting the plastic knife she’s been carrying around all night.

“That’s basic.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “And what are you?”

Follo taps the crooked paper plumbob taped to a headband on his head. “I’m a Sim.”

You laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

Semiu turns to Gris, who’s leaning against the counter with fake blood smeared across his shirt. “And you’re… bloody Adam Sandler?”

“I didn’t have time to get a costume, and the blood is from Corvus fighting for his life with Party City vampire gel. At least I’m not dressed as a prisoner.” Gris nods toward Enjin, who’s standing there in an orange jumpsuit. He just smirks. “It was either Ghostface or this, and I wanted to get handcuffed.”

Semiu clicks her tongue. “Of course you do.”

Tomme glances over her shoulder. “Tamsy’s somewhere in the living room as an angel.” You’re still laughing at everyone, all the shots in your system from the pre-game making things way funnier than they are. “So we’re all just Pinterest stereotypes tonight, let’s call it even.”

You make your way over to Enjin’s side—like you always do—and hold your hand out for his drink. He passes it without question. Your first instinct is to chug, then just as quickly you gag. “Ew, what the hell is in this?”

“A lot,” he takes the cup back. “We all brought different alcohol and just mixed it together. August added grenadine though, so it’s pretty much a cocktail.”

“That’s not a cocktail. I feel like I just drank water straight from Chernobyl.”

He laughs and throws his arm around you, pulling you into his side. In a house this packed, being next to him is the best place. He’s your designated safe spot.

“Are you supposed to be ‘kiss’?” he asks, poking one of the lipstick marks Semiu left on your cheek.

“Well I’m not wearing a veil or holding a knife, am I?” 

“Do I get one?” Enjin puckers his lips dramatically, and you slap your hand over his mouth. “Go find someone to put you in handcuffs so I don’t have to deal with you.”

“I tried, there are no cop girls here. Very disappointing.”

“Should’ve gone with Ghostface. You would’ve gotten laid faster.”

Gris leans over Enjin’s shoulder, eyeing you. “So. Where’s your boyfriend?” Heat flushes your face. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Enjin feels something hot twist in his chest. He couldn’t even get thirty minutes of standing next to you without that thing getting brought up. “He doesn’t seem like the party type anyway,” Enjin’s jaw clenches, voice tight.

“Yeah, but I asked if he wanted to come anyway. He wasn’t interested.”

Thank fucking God, he thinks.

And then, like clockwork, your phone lights up.

Every ounce of relief he had evaporates the second he sees the name on your screen.

“He can’t get enough of you, huh?” Follo throws in.

Enjin is actually going to punch someone.

You look down at your phone, and your lips curve softly. Your face lights up in a way that makes something in him snap. Before he even thinks about it, he snatches the phone out of your hand and lifts it above your head.

“Enjin!” you shout, jumping for it. “Give it back!”

“Get off your phone,” he holds it higher as you try to climb him. “Live in the moment.” The messages are still open. He sees the photos you sent earlier—your costume and a selfie of your trio.

zodyl !!

You look pretty.

Have fun tonight.

His grip tightens around your phone. For a split second he considers smashing it. Instead, he locks the screen and shoves it into his pocket. “No more phone tonight.”

“Whatever,” you shrug him off, visibly annoyed. “What is your problem?”

He doesn’t answer.

“C’mon,” you grab Semiu and Tomme’s hands. “I wanna dance.”

You drag them away to the group of people that are dancing in the living room, but never leaving Enjin’s line of sight. He never let you at parties.

Listen, you haven’t had a boyfriend since high school. You’ve never really shown much interest in dating either. So the idea of you actually having something with this guy?

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Leaning back and watching you dance, Enjin decides to actually look at you. Like, really look at you. Figure out what it is that’s suddenly pulling Zodyl’s attention your way.

He starts with your face. Glitter highlight catching the lights, eyeshadow sparkling every time you turn your head. That loose, drunk smile painted in lipstick that matches the kiss prints on your cheeks and collarbones. Your hair falling in messy pieces around your face, swaying as you move.

Then lower.

The lace bra strap peeking out from under your little red dress, the fabric hugging you just right to leave very little to the imagination. His eyes trace the dip of your back. Your eyes. Your hair. Your neck. Your lips.

Your tits and ass.

You.

Oh.

Oh shit.

When did you get this hot?

He suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how you stand out from everyone else in the room.

You’re the most attractive girl at this party. And not in a “she’s my best friend so I’m obligated to think that” kind of way. 

It’s a “I’ve suddenly opened my eyes and realized my best friend would be more than capable of getting my dick hard” kind of way.

He’s never thought you were ugly, of course he’s always known you’re pretty.

It’s just—back in high school, you were so dorky. In his head, that’s kind of where you stayed. His silly best bud. 

When you’ve known someone that long, they sort of freeze in your mind. You stop updating the image. So he’s always seen you as that teenage girl he met freshman year.

He realizes you’re not that girl anymore. You’re grown. You’ve been grown.

Fuck, when did that happen?

Had you always gotten this kind of attention looking like this, and he just never clocked it? How did he, of all slutty men, miss your glaring sex appeal?

Is that why all of his past lovers got so angered by you? Because you—who’s objectively funny, smart, and clearly very attractive—were his girl best friend?

He always brushed it off as jealousy over the attention. And yeah, sure, he gave you a lot of it. Now he’s starting to think that wasn’t it. They weren’t just annoyed, they were threatened. Just as bad as the guys who saw him with you.

You were competition.

And if he were in their shoes? He’d feel insecure standing next to you too.

Now, knowing there are guys looking at you like that, something fires up under his skin. It doesn’t feel protective anymore, not like it usually does.

It feels territorial.

You’re his girl. You’ve always been his girl—and now there are other men looking at you?

Absolutely not.

That doesn’t work for him. That’s never been how this goes.

~

It becomes Enjin’s number one mission to steer Zodyl away from you. Or better yet, steal you back. Not that you’d actually been taken from him, but his ego took a hit that night, and something in him shifted. There’s this new awareness when he looks at you—and he doesn’t know what to do with it except act.