𝕮𝖞𝖇𝖊𝖗_𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕

Men have always believed themselves capable of dividing the world.

They drew borders where rivers once wandered freely, they built temples upon sacred ground and named themselves the voices of gods they had never met, they wrote laws on parchment and believed the forest ought to obey them.

Yet the earth has never learned the language of men. The moon does not ask whom it may love before it rises, the river does not turn away the wolf because it has already embraced the lake. Spring does not bloom only for the worthy.

Love, perhaps, is the oldest rebellion of all. Somewhere beyond the reach of church bells and gilded hands, where no map dared stay for long, the river continued its endless song. It did not know of treaties. It did not care for crowns, nor temples, or the names men gave themselves in hopes of feeling important. It knew only the mountains from which it had been born and the sea to which it would one day return.

Perhaps that was freedom. Or maybe freedom was something else entirely. Perhaps it was the feeling of cold water embracing bare skin, of drawing breath without waiting for permission, of loving without asking whether the world would approve.

The forest had given you both that much.

Morning had only just begun. Mist drifted above the surface, soft as breath, while birds hidden somewhere beyond the willows greeted the day with lovely melody.

The current curled around your ankles as you stepped carefully over smooth stones, your dress long abandoned on the grassy bank alongside Leon's torn clothes. The water stole a quiet gasp from your lips, cool enough to make every inch of you shiver before the warmth of the morning sun settled over your shoulders once more.

You smiled to yourself. Leon stood farther, sunlight scattered over the rippling surface, breaking against the broad planes of his shoulders and the countless pale scars that crossed his skin, old stories carved into bark. Some were thin enough to disappear whenever the light shifted, others were jagged, silvered with age. You wondered how many lives they carried.

"It is colder than I imagined." you spoke, laughing softly to yourself.

Behind you, the river hardly seemed to notice another body entering. Leon walked into the current without haste. Water climbed the long lines of his legs as though reluctant to let him pass. His hair, unbound this morning, rested against his shoulders in pale strands that caught the light filtering through the leaves.

He looked less like a man than something the river itself had remembered.

His golden eyes found you almost immediately.

"You will grow used to it."

"I am beginning to believe you say that about everything."

A smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Because it is often true."

You shook your head, though your own smile betrayed you. The current reached your waist now, carrying little ribbons of sunlight around your body. You dipped your hands beneath the surface before splashing cool water over your shoulders.

Leon watched yet not greedily as though every morning he still expected to wake and find the forest had dreamed you into existence.

"What?"

"You are smiling."

Your cheeks warmed. "So are you."

"I rarely smiled before you." You lowered your eyes to the rippling water. "I find that difficult to believe."

"It is no less true."

Silence settled again, but it never asked anything of either of you. The river spoke enough.

You crouched until the water reached your shoulders, sighing as the chill finally became pleasant. When you rose again, your hair clung to your neck in heavy strands. Leon had moved closer without your noticing.

Only an arm length separated you now.

He reached toward you and his fingers brushed a leaf tangled in your damp hair. "It followed you."

You blinked. "A leaf?"

"It appears the forest is unwilling to surrender you, even for a bath."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "You tease me."

"I speak only what I witness."

"You are.. impossible."

"So I have been told." He held the little green leaf between two fingers before letting the current steal it away.

"Well—" You watched it drift downstream. "It will find another home.."

"As everything should." His voice was quiet.

You looked up, eyes wide as the noon star. "I think.." You hesitated. "I spent so long believing I belonged nowhere." the confession slipped out "The village never wanted us, the church wished only to use us. Even my own home never truly felt—" You searched for the word. "Safe."

Leon listened without interruption. Now he stepped closer, the water barely reaching the middle of his chest. "It grieves me.." he said softly "That you learned loneliness before you learned peace."

You swallowed. His hand rose to your face, rough fingers brushing a strand of wet hair behind your ear. "But the forest knew." You looked into those impossible golden eyes. "And I knew." Something inside your chest tightened.

"I wish I had known it was you."

"I am glad you did not."

"You are?"

"You spoke freely." His thumb rested lightly against your cheek. "You never feared my judgment. You told me every sorrow your heart carried."

A watery laugh escaped you. "I told you my secrets."

"You entrusted them to a wolf."

Your smile grew. "Perhaps I always trusted you."

His expression softened into something so unbearably gentle it almost hurt to witness.

"I believe–" he murmured "That part of your soul remembered mine long before your mind could."

The water curled around your bodies, carrying away the last traces of dried blood that still lingered beneath your nails even after all these days.

You looked down as the water washed over your hands. "So much has happened."

"It has."

"It almost feels.." You searched again. "As though I have lived two lives." Leon lifted your hand from the river as droplets fell between your joined fingers.

"You have." He turned your palm over then pressed his lips against the center of it. "This one shall be kinder."

You could think of nothing to say as your forehead rested against his chest. The river flowed around you both without complaint, it had been waiting years to carry the reflection of two souls standing where once there had only ever been one.

The forest had begun to remember your footsteps. Where once every thorn had seemed eager to catch your ankles and every branch had an adoration to tangling into your hair they now greeted you with the familiarity reserved for creatures that belonged. The animals no longer startled at your scent and birds resumed their songs long before you had passed. Even the wind had ceased testing you, weaving through your hair with the affection of an old fried.

Maybe the forest had accepted you. Or perhaps it had only followed its king's example.

The days passed without measure and you had stopped counting them after the first week. There seemed little purpose in it now for the world beyond the trees still existed.

That afternoon, rain lingered somewhere beyond the hills, carried upon a breeze that smelled of wet earth long before the clouds themselves arrived like a sleepy prince. Leon walked ahead of you, his broad shoulders parting ferns that slowly rose again after he passed.

You had long since learned that he never wandered without reason. When he stepped away from the familiar trail, you followed without question at first, though before long curiosity overtook your silence. "This is not the way."

"No." His answer came simply.

"We are going elsewhere?" You glanced toward the trees surrounding you. "Have you hunted something?"

A faint smile on rosy lips "No."

He offered nothing more. You sighed softly through your nose, a childish pout on your face. "You are terribly fond of secrets."

"They are only secrets until we arrive."

The climb grew steeper beneath your feet. Moss covered stones emerged from the earth like bones and ivy climbed the trunks so thickly it became difficult to tell where bark ended and vine began.

Then the trees opened and nestled beneath the shelter of the hillside stood a small cabin.

It seemed almost grown rather than built, as though the forest had slowly wrapped its arms around it through the years. One of its wooden shutters hung crooked, stirring gently each time the breeze wandered through the clearing.

"There is... a house?" Leon stopped beside you. "There is."

Your eyes stayed on it. No smoke drifted from the chimney and no footprints disturbed the gravel leading to the door. Even the windows reflected only trees.

"It has been empty for many years."

You approached almost scared, your fingertips brushing across weathered timber worn smooth by rain and countless winters. The wood felt cool beneath your skin. "It doesn't feel abandoned.."

"No." He watched you rather than the cabin itself. "It remembers."

You turned toward him. "What does?"

"The people who once laughed inside it."

You found yourself imagining things that were no longer there. Boots drying beside the hearth, a kettle humming over the angry fire, a little girl humming to herself while snow settled outside.

Ghosts, yes, gentle ones.

Leon pushed the door open. Its hinges protested softly, though not enough to disturb the peace sleeping inside. Dust floated lazily through ribbons of afternoon light. A rough hewn table rested near the hearth, one corner polished smoother than the rest by years of patient hands. A single bed stood beneath the window, covered by a thick wool blanket that time had faded but never stolen. Bundles of dried herbs still hung from the rafters, their fragrance only barely surviving the passing seasons.

Your gaze wandered slowly through the room until it settled upon Leon once more.

"It is beautiful.."

"It is old."

"So are you."

Silence followed, then unexpectedly, Leon laughed. "You have become bold, my dear."

Heat climbed into your cheeks, red as pansies. "I have lived with a wolf for weeks.."

"Ah, a poor influence."

"The worst."

His smile lingered longer this time. You walked farther inside, trailing your fingers across the edge of the table before pausing beside the window. Beyond the glass, the forest stretched endlessly, untouched by walls or roads or church spires.

It was only then that you noticed what Leon had been carrying over one shoulder. A bundle wrapped carefully in linen. He set it upon the table with surprising care before unfolding the cloth. Inside lay simple things. A wooden comb, a warm wool cloak dyed the deep green of pine needles, a pair of sturdy leather boots scarcely worn, a small iron kettle, a basket filled with dried herbs, mushrooms, and berries gathered that very morning.

You stared at them, blushed. "Leon.."

"I thought—" he said quietly "That the forest is home to me because I was born beneath its sky."

His fingers rested lightly against the back of the chair. "But you were not, my brave fawn." You looked up to him. "You deserve more than stones beneath your back every night."

The words settled somewhere deep behind your wild heart. He had thought of it all before you ever had. He had understood that loving the forest did not mean you ceased being human.

Without thinking, you crossed the room, your arms slipping around his waist. For a second he remained completely still, almost startled by the suddenness of it, then his own arms closed around you with a gentleness that belied their strength.

He rested his cheek against the crown of your head, his embrace tightening ever so slightly, as though he feared the wind itself might think to steal you away.

"It is not much."

A quiet laugh escaped you, though it caught somewhere behind the tears gathering in your eyes.

"No..." Your fingers curled into the coarse fabric at his back, holding him just a little tighter. "It is everything." You lifted your gaze around the little cabin once more. It was humble, forgotten by the world. Yet no palace built by kings could ever have felt half as precious. "I love it."

Your voice was scarcely louder than the rain stirring beyond the walls. Leon looked at you for a long while before one of his rough hands rose to cradle your face. His thumb brushed away the tear that had escaped despite your smile.

"You still cry so easily, sweet little girl."

A sheepish laugh slipped from your lips. "These are happy tears.."

"I know." Joy upon your face remained a miracle he had not yet grown accustomed to witnessing. "It suits you far better than sorrow."

His forehead came to rest gently against yours.

"If I spend the rest of my days giving you reasons to smile like this..." he murmured "Then I shall think my long life was finally spent well."

Your heart swelled so painfully you thought it might burst. "I love you.." you whispered. The corners of his mouth softened into that smile which belonged only to you. "I know."

His lips found your forehead in a kiss so tender. "And there is nothing beneath this moon that I cherish more than you."

The cabin door scraped softly against the floor as it opened. You barely looked up from the loaf beneath your hands. "You've taken your time."

Rain answered before he did. A few cold drops found the wooden floorboards, followed by the unmistakable weight of heavy paws crossing the threshold. The scent of damp earth drifted through the little cabin, wrapping itself around the warmth of fresh bread and burning cedar.

"You've been all over the mountain today, haven't you?" you asked, dusting flour from your fingers before glancing over your shoulder.

The words died halfway to your lips as dark pawprints wandered lazily across the floorboards, beginning at the door and disappearing farther into the cabin, as though some woodland spirit had decided to leave its mark upon every plank you'd spent the morning scrubbing.

"Leon—" He had nearly reached the hearth before your voice found him.

The great wolf slowed, turning his head just enough for one golden eye to settle on you. Your gaze dropped to the floor then back to him. "You cannot expect me to believe you did not notice."

For a long moment, nothing happened. The fire cracked behind him, rain hit against the roof then, with complete composure, he resumed walking.

"You truly mean to ignore me?"

You crossed the room, stepping around the muddy prints as though afraid making more of them would somehow make the offence worse.

When you reached him, you planted yourself squarely in his path. "You know..." you began, folding your arms beneath your chest "I was rather pleased with this floor." The wolf looked past you toward the table.

"You are listening?" His ears gave the smallest twitch. "I swept beneath the bed. I moved the table... I even found one of your stockings."

That earned you a little glance from the wolf. "There!" You pointed triumphantly. "So you do hear me!"

Another minute passed before the familiar ripple moved through his body. The broad frame of the wolf gave way to the man you'd come to love, rainwater still clinging to pale hair and broad shoulders alike.

He followed your finger toward the floor, studying the muddy trail with thoughtful seriousness.

"I see."

"You see?"

"I may have left... a few."

"Wh— A few?"

He considered it. "Several."

You let out a laugh that was meant to sound exasperated. "You are— impossible!"

"So you tell me."

"I mean it!"

"I know."

You stooped to reach for the bucket resting beside the hearth. "I suppose I shall fetch more water."

Before your fingers could touch the handle, another hand closed gently around your wrist. "Leave it."

His expression held none of the amusement that had been there only moments before. Instead he studied you with that same impossible tenderness that still managed to leave you breathless, as though every ordinary little thing you did remained a wonder to him.

"I have done something dreadful.." Leon spoke.

"You have.." A frown threads your brows together.

"I ought to make amends."

"I-I should think so.."

He stepped closer, tilting his head. "So stern."

"You have earned it!"

"I believe I have."

You tried to hold his gaze, determined not to surrender so easily. It lasted only until his thumb brushed the dusting of flour from your cheek.

"You have flour.." he said softly, almost to himself.

"I know.." You tut.

"No." His smile was faint. "I do not think you do." His thumb lingered against your hot skin. "It suits you."

"You sly wolf.. You are changing the subject."

"I am."

"And it will not save you."

"No?"

"No!"

He closed the last inch between you. "I fear—" he whispered "I have neglected something more important than your floor."

Your brows lifted. "And what might that be?"

"You." Before you could think of something clever enough to answer, he bent his head and kissed you slowly and his lips were still cool from the rain.

His lips lingered against yours for one lingering heartbeat before he drew away, though not by much.

"Will you permit me to make amends now?"

You looked at him through narrowed eyes, though there was hardly any annoyance left in them. "That depends."

"Upon what?"

"How sincere your apology proves to be."

A thoughtful hum escaped him. "Then I fear words alone shall not suffice."

"No.." you agreed, far too pleased with yourself. "I do not believe they will."

His thumb idly traced the inside of your wrist.

"Then... Will you finally allow me to relieve you of these troublesome skirts?"

"Leon..."

"Or would you sooner keep them on, so that they might remind me of my crimes?"

A laugh threatened to escape before you stopped it.

"Must I get upon my knees and beg your forgiveness, my dear?"

You pretended to consider it. "Perhaps." His brow lifted. "Though not to scrub the floor."

"No?"

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling now. "Leon! You are only teasing me."

"A little."

"Far more than a little!"

His smile remained small, almost secret. "Can you blame me? You are a lovely sight when you are cross."

"I am not cross!"

"No?"

"Not terribly.."

"Ah." His fingers brushed another streak of flour from your cheek. "Then I have already begun to earn my pardon."

"Do not grow so confident."

"I would not dare."

"You are doing it this very moment."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. You looked at him for another long moment before sighing in theatrical defeat. "Do you truly believe you need to ask anything of me?"

Something softened in his expression. "No." Leon admitted quietly. "But I should like to all the same."

"Why?"

"Because what is freely given is a far greater gift than anything taken."

Your heart melted. "I suppose.." lowering your eyes with a smile you could not hide. "I shall allow you the chance to apologize."

Leon's own smile deepened, warm enough to banish the last of the rain from the room.

"Then apologize.." he said softly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. "I shall, my sweetest girl."

The easy amusement had gone quiet, replaced by that familiar hunger which always seemed to surface whenever the two of you found yourselves alone. It reminded you, for the briefest of moments, that before he had ever been the man who gave you a home, he had belonged to the forest, the beast many feared.

"Come here." he said softly.

You smiled. "I am already here."

"Clever little thing.." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Closer."

Leon's fingers slipped higher, tracing the length of your arm until they settled at your shoulder. "May I?"

You answered by leaning into him.

"My sweet doe..." His fingertips found the fastening at your shoulder. They lingered there only for a bit before easing it free with patience, never taking his eyes from yours. The fabric loosened beneath his hands, falling ever so slightly, and he paused again, watching you as he pulled on it lower, lower, until your chest lay fully bare before him.

"There you are.." he whispered. You laughed quietly, your face warm beneath his gaze.

"You look at me as though you've never seen me before.."

"That is because.." He bent his head then, pressing a lingering kiss to the hollow of your collarbone before another found the warm skin between your breasts. "I fear I shall never grow accustomed to the privilege." His forehead rested there for a brief moment, as though he wished to remember the sound of your heartbeat, before his arms gathered you gently against him.

"The moon has been generous to me already." he said quietly, leading you toward the warmth of the little bed. "Yet I find myself growing greedy." His smile was small, almost sheepish. "If spring should find you carrying our little ones..." His eyes searched yours "I will count myself the richest soul these woods have ever known." before his mouth latched onto one of your pebbled nipples.

"Oh, Leon.."

"Would your heart welcome such a gift, my dear girl?" He continues, both of you now fully on the bed. "Full of my child.."

"Yes.. I– ah!" Your answer dissolved into a trembling breath as the last of your garments slipped away beneath his rough claws. Leon's gaze lingered.

"You are altogether too pure for me.." he murmured, his voice roughened "It is a cruel thing.. for the thoughts that fill my head are anything but innocent." His kisses wandered lower, lingering over and beneath your ribs before settling against your tummy.

"I do not mind it—" you whispered, fingers disappearing into his pale hair. "You know I do not.."

"Oh, I know." He laughs mean as two thick fingers brushed your lips. "Open."

You opened for him without hesitation. His eyes never left yours as your lips closed around them, your tongue tracing the rough calluses earned from centuries of hunting. Satisfaction flickered across his face before he slowly withdrew them.

Those same fingers drifted lower. He gathered the slick warmth waiting between your folds with slow strokes, spreading it over his hand before gently parting you.

"My lovely girl.."

One finger eased inside. Your breath caught instantly, no matter how many times he'd done it, the feeling always left you breathless.

A second soon followed. "There... Still so tight."

"Oh, my— Leon.."

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh while his fingers moved, stretching you little by little. His tongue swept hurried across your swollen bud, hungry, impatient. He lapped up thirsty everything you were willing to give.

"I don't think I shall ever get tired of tasting you.." Leon huffs against your glistening cunt while his fingers plunge deep. Your juices coated his fingers and the stubble of his face, soft growls escaping him as he devoured. Your walls squeezed around his thick fingers and he knew you were close. The melody that were your moans while your whole body was writhing urged him on, and in no time you came over the edge, that familiar feeling washing away any and all thoughts.

"That's it.."

Leon withdrew his fingers slowly before lifting them to his swollen lips. Without breaking eye contact, he dragged his tongue across them. His free hand wandered lazily over your body, settling around the softness of your breast before twisting one nipple until you yelped from the pain.

"Leon–" You reached for him, hands catching at his waist, trying to pull him closer.

"So... I have earned your forgiveness?" he laughed beneath his breath and you nod your head. "Please, please.. I forgave you long ago– do not make me wait."

He smiled to himself, quiet and terribly pleased. "Is that so?"

"Yes, yes— it is."

"So I shouldn't keep you waiting any longer.." as he reaches to free his painfully hard cock. "Please don't.." You're already teary eyed.

His length slid against your sopping entrance, teasing and pressing against it but not entering. Your breath stopped for a bit, thighs trembling as you tried to pull him closer, show him how much you needed it, him.

"When have you become this greedy?" and with that he eases himself within your flower, and your whole body vibrates as a sting spreads through it, the sheer size of him still something you have yet to grow accustomed to. Your walls squeeze around him once, twice and he moans a shy sound before plunging straight into you. Your mouth fell open, a trembling cry spilling free as tears shimmered at the corners of your eyes. Shame would have found you, had it not been for the way Leon looked at you, as though you were the finest wonder ever created beneath the heavens.

"I shall never weary of this.." Leon breathed, his voice rough as his hips snapped up, up into you, hitting your cervix dead on. "Never shall I tire of filling you up with my cock, sweet, sweet girl of the moon."

With each relentless thrust, he drew your legs higher upon the broad span of his shoulders, rough hands holding you there effortlessly. Leon's brows knit in concentration, every measured movement guided by an instinct that knew your body almost as well as his own, the tip of his cock perfectly kissing that spongy spot that made your head spin and fill with stars. He was persistent, yes, determined to have you fall apart as many times as your mortal body would allow. One broad hand settled low against your belly, guiding you nearer still, fucking deeper than you had thought possible. The change in your expression did not escape him. Your eyes flew open at once finding his, wide with astonishment.

"L-Leon, I— Mnh!" The words dissolved into a helpless cry as your back arched from the mattress, your fingers twisting helplessly into the soft woollen sheets beneath you.

Wonder softened every line of his face, as though, after all the centuries he had wandered this earth, nothing had ever compared to the sight before him.

"Sweet heavens..." he breathed, scarcely above a whisper. "How has the moon seen fit to bless me so?"

"P-Please do not stop, hah, my—" Whatever words you had meant to speak were lost to breathless fragments, warmth and wonder robbing you of every coherent thought. Whatever enchantment he had woven over your body had claimed you entirely.

"I will not." he breathed, giving the faintest shake of his head. "I could not, even if I were to try, your cunt is— oh, my dear, it is bliss."

With those words, the last of his restraint deserted him. His movements grew desperate, driven by something maybe older than reason itself. A great wave swept through you, stealing the very strength from your already weak limbs.

You trembled beneath him, scarcely able to draw breath, while Leon gathered you against him as though afraid you might come apart entirely. His hands roamed over your shaking frame, soothing what only moments before he had so mercilessly unraveled. His hips did not stop, oh no, for the thought of spring, of the future he had whispered into your ear, had stirred something within him. His movements grew instinctive, untamed, each one punctuated by a rough growl torn from deep in his chest. The sound surrounded you, wild, the language of a creature far older than anything you've known. You barely knew where your own breath ended and his began, your body yielding as he filled you up completely and those animal sounds kept you somewhat awake.

"I pray it takes. May the moon grant it.." he rasped. "No— she will. I know she will. You will bear me strong little ones. I can smell it upon you." He buried his face against your neck, drawing a slow breath before another quiet rumble escaped him.

"This is where you belong. In my arms... filled by me, loved by me, beneath my care."

"Yes, yes.." you nodded helplessly.

His lips found your temple, but there was nothing delicate about the way he held you now. Instinct had claimed him entirely. His arms locked around you, drawing you tight against his body as his movements faltered at last. He buried his face against your throat, breathing you in with famished, uneven breaths, another feral growl vibrating against your skin as he painted your velvet walls with warm spurts, the base of his cock swelling more, more as he pulled you there, allowing you to feel him, well, in your guts.

You lay against him, merely able to keep your eyes open. Every breath came slow, your limbs wonderfully heavy, your cheek tucked beneath his chin where you could hear the steady beat of his heart.

Leon did not move, he only held you. "Too much again?" he asked at last, his voice quieter. You managed the smallest shake of your head. "No..."

The word came little more like a sleepy murmur.

His hand wandered gently through your hair. "Tell me if I have ever asked more of you than you could bear."

"Never, Leon.."

He lowered his head, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to find his, your breathing evening beneath the shelter of his arms.

Rain lashed against the carriage window, blurring the world outside into a smear of weeping gray and green. It was a fitting for the day your life was to end, or at least, the life you’d known. The carriage wheels sank into the mud, as you rolled down the road.

The iron gates of Saint Mirasel groaned open like the jaws of some great, stone beast, hungry to swallow you whole. Your father’s last words still rang in your ears, colder than the autumn wind. Humiliation. Reputation. Tame that spirit of yours before it damns you entirely. Damn me? you thought with a smirk that felt sharp and brittle on your lips. you were already in hell.

As the carriage lurched to a final, jarring halt before the looming grey spires that clawed at the bruised sky, you knew it for what it was: a tomb. A beautifully carved, piously maintained tomb for the living. The convent was a fortress of gray stone, its spires clawing at a bruised sky.

As you stepped down from the carriage, a relentless rain, a miserable drizzle that had plagued the entire journey, slicked the ancient stones and plastered your hair to your cheeks.   

Two sisters, their faces pale and impassive as communion wafers, glided out to meet you. They did not offer a hand, only took your travel case with a silent, synchronized motion that was deeply unsettling. Their wimples were starched to an impossible stiffness, framing faces that held no curiosity, no pity, only a bland acceptance.

“Welcome to the Convent of Saint Mirasel, child,” the taller one said, her voice dry like the rustle of leaves. “Your father has made a generous donation for your spiritual education.”

“He bought my cage, you mean,” you muttered, the words sharp and bitter on your tongue.

The second nun’s lips thinned into a bloodless line. “Pride is a sin one must purge.”

They guided you through a labyrinth of whitewashed corridors that smelled of old wax, damp stone, and something else, a cloying scent like wilted lilies. Every footstep echoed, a profane intrusion into the hallowed quiet.

They led you not to a comfortable warm room, but to a small cold prison-like chamber with a stone floors and a single high, barred window. They took your silks first. The deep emerald velvet of your traveling dress, the fine lace cuffs, the small pearl earrings your mother had left you.

They unwound your hair from its intricate braids, letting it fall in a damp, tangled mess down your back. You stood there in your thin chemise, shivering as much from humiliation as from the chill that seeped from the very walls. They didn’t just strip you of your clothes; they were peeling away your identity, layer by layer, until only the defiant woman remained.

Then came the habit. A shapeless, scratchy woolen tunic the color of dishwater. A coarse rope for a belt. A simple veil to cover your hair. The wool chafed your skin, a constant irritation. When you looked at your faint reflection in the murky glass of the window, you saw a stranger. A ghost of a woman who was to be a prisoner of a forced propriety.

The days that followed blurred into a suffocating routine. Matins before dawn, the air in the chapel so cold your breath plumed like a prayer. Lauds. Prime. Terce. Sext. None. Vespers. Compline. The hours were marked not by a clock, but by the tolling of a bell and the shuffling of sandaled feet on stone.

In the refectory, you ate stale bread and thin soup in absolute silence, the only sound the scrape of spoons against wooden bowls. The garden walls were so high they blocked out the world, trapping the sky in a perfect, damning square of blue.

This was meant to tame you. The Convent was meant to quiet your unruly thoughts, the labor to humble your hands, the prayers to soothe your rebellious heart, It did the opposite.

The silence only made the thoughts in your head scream louder. you replayed every forbidden dance, every stolen kiss with the stable boy, his hands rough on your waist, his mouth tasting sweet and of rebellion. you imagined your father’s face, tight with fury and shame, and a fresh wave of resentment would wash over you.

Your defiance became a small, secret war. you would let a smirk touch your lips during the rosary, tracing the lines of a lover’s face in your mind instead of meditating on the teachings of god. You would “accidentally” knock over a bucket of water in the scullery, just to hear the satisfying clatter break the quiet. When Sister Agatha chided you for your posture, telling you to sit straight and “present a modest heart to God,” you slouched further, your spine a deliberate insolent curve.

“You have a devil in you, child,” she would hiss, her eyes like chips of flint.

“Perhaps he finds the company in here dreadfully dull,” you’d reply, earning yourself another night of scrubbing floors on your knees until the lye soap ate at your skin.

It was during the third week of your incarceration that he arrived. Rumors had trickled through the hushed ranks of the novices. The old Father Michel, had finally succumbed to his wheezing cough. A new priest was being sent from the diocese to oversee the convent’ in his place.

We were all gathered in the main chapel for the Sunday sermon, the air thick with incense and the scent of damp wool. you were in your usual place in the back, half-slumped against the cold stone pillar, your mind a million miles away. The nuns began to murmur, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a rustle of anticipation.

Then he stepped to the pulpit, he was not old and stooped like Father Michel. He was tall and moved with a fluid grace that seemed out of place in his black cassock. But it was his face that made the breath catch in your throat, His skin was a deep startling indigo, and his eyes, when they swept over the congregation, glowed with the unsettling light of yellow embers. Two fingers on each hand, three toes on each foot, a long prehensile tail that twitched almost imperceptibly beneath the heavy fabric of his vestments. A faint, almost subliminal scent of sulfur and ozone, like the air after a lightning strike, cut through the cloying sweetness of the incense.

He cleared his throat, and the sound was a low hum that vibrated through the stone floor and up your spine. “In the Gospel of Matthew,” he began, his voice a rich, velvety baritone with a melodic accent.

“we are told, ‘If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’” His gaze continued its slow, deliberate sweep of the chapel, and for a heart-stopping moment, his glowing yellow eyes met yours.

They didn’t hold condemnation or judgment. They held… something else. A profound, ancient sadness, and a flicker of what looked like understanding. It was as if he could see right through the drab habit, past the defiant smirk, and into the raging heart caged in your chest.

“But what of the temptations that do not come from without?” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that still carried to every corner of the cavernous space.

“What of the darkness that is already within us? The shadows that coil in the quietest corners of our own hearts? We cannot simply pluck out a part of our own soul.” His eyes were still on you and a shiver entirely different from the chapel’s chill, traced its way down your arms.

For the first time since arriving at Saint Mirasel, you were not bored, you were not angry, you were utterly and irrevocably fascinated. The sermon droned on, words about sin and redemption, but you heard none of it. you only heard the hypnotic cadence of his voice and felt the burn of his otherworldly gaze as he spoke of a darkness, you knew all too well.

The whispers started the moment Father Kurt descended from the pulpit, a tide of fear and awe that followed him into the sacristy. Sister Agatha made the sign of the cross so vigorously you thought she might sprain a wrist. Young Sister Marie, a girl barely sixteen with eyes like a startled fawn, looked pale enough to faint.

They saw the pointed ears that peeked from his dark, blue-streaked curls, the faint outline of spaded tail, restless beneath his cassock, and they saw a test from God. A monster sent to prove their faith, you however saw something beautiful.

Where they averted their eyes, you found you could not look away. The image of him was seared into your mind, skin the color of a midnight sky, eyes like twin dying suns, and a mouth that, despite the hint of fangs at the corners, seemed shaped for gentle words.

The incense, usually so cloying, now mingled with that strange, clean scent of ozone he carried, creating a perfume that was both holy and electric. The hollow-eyed sisters, the endless prayers, the suffocating piety of Saint Mirasel, all of it faded into a grey backdrop against the vivid, shocking color of him.

After that your rebellion found a new, singular focus. It was no longer a scattered, petty war against the convent itself, but a focused campaign to understand the unholy holy father. Your curiosity, once a mischievous spark, sharpened into something venomous and sweet. you wanted to know what lay beneath that placid, priestly exterior. you wanted to see if you could make those golden eyes flare with something other than piousness.

Your first move was to volunteer for library duty, a tedious task of dusting ancient crumbling hymnals that no one ever wanted. The library was his domain, a small vaulted chamber where he prepared his sermons. You waited, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, until you heard his distinctive near-silent footfalls. He had two broad toes on each foot, a detail you’d noticed as he walked to the pulpit, and they made a unique scuffing sound on the stone. He entered, and the small room suddenly felt charged, the air humming. He inclined his head, a gesture of polite acknowledgment.

“Sister,” he murmured, his voice that gentle baritone, with a slight accent that seemed to vibrate in your bones.

“Father Kurt,” you said, your own voice sounding sweet and girlish. You held up a heavy tome. “I was hoping you could help me. This passage on the Nephilim… it speaks of angels who fell to earth, drawn by the beauty of mortal women. It seems a great weakness for a divine being.” Your eyes were locked on his in challenge.

He moved closer, and you had to fight the urge to step even closer than what one would consider acceptable. The scent of brimstone and rain was stronger now. He looked down at the page, his long, three-fingered hand hovering near yours. you could see the fine, dark fur that covered his skin, the glint of black claws at the tips of his fingers.

“The capacity for love, for beauty… it is not a weakness, child,” he said softly, his gaze still on the book. “It is a reflection of God’s own heart. The sin was not in the loving, but in the abandonment of duty. In choosing the self over the divine plan.” His golden eyes lifted from the page and met yours.

For a breath, just a single stolen breath, his formal mask slipped. you saw a flicker of something in their depths. Then, he looked away, his gaze dropping back to the scripture. “The line between devotion and desire is often… perilously thin.”

Emboldened by what you saw in his eyes you began to linger after Vespers. As the other sisters filed out, their whispers trailing behind them, you would find a reason to stay. A misplaced rosary, a prayer book to return. We would speak of faith, of repentance, but you would twist the conversation, nudging it toward the raw edges of the soul.

“Is it possible for a soul to hunger for something it does not know, Father?” you asked one evening, as the last of the light from the stained-glass windows painted jewels on the stone floor.

His tail gave a single, soft thump against the leg of the pew he was tidying. “The soul hungers for God, always.”

“But what if it feels… different?” you pressed him, stepping closer. “What if the hunger is not for psalms and incense, but for… understanding? For a connection that feels more real than a prayer whispered to an empty ceiling?”

He turned to face you fully then. The shadows in the chapel were deepening, making his indigo skin seem black, his eyes burn even brighter.

“That is a dangerous path, my child. It is the path of pride. To believe your own hunger is truer than faith.” His voice was still gentle, but there was a new firmness in it, a warning. And yet, his eyes held yours, and you saw the conflict there. He was a priest, speaking doctrine, but under that he was also something else, something that recognized the hunger you spoke of.

Your final, boldest move was the confessional. The small, dark box was intimacy in itself, a space designed for secrets. you knelt on the worn cushion, the scent of old wood and his unique, sulfurous presence filling the enclosed space. you could see the silhouette of his pointed ear through the screen.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, the words feeling like a lie coming from your lips. “It has been four days since my last confession.” you paused, letting the silence stretch. “My thoughts wander during prayer.”

“To what do they wander, my child?” His voice was a low rumble in the darkness.

“To you, Father.” The silence on the other side of the screen was deafening. you could hear your own blood rushing in your ears. you imagined his hand freezing over his missal, his tail going still.

“I think of your sermon,” you continued quickly, pulling a thread of truth into your fabrication. “About the darkness within. I find myself… drawn to it. I want to understand it...I want to understand you.”

You heard him take a slow, deep breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained, tighter than you had ever heard it.

“To be curious about God’s mysteries is not a sin. But to fixate on the vessel instead of the message… that is a form of idolatry.” He sounded like he was reciting a lesson to himself as much as to you. “For your penance, you will say ten Hail Mary’s, and you will pray for clarity, child. Pray that God shows you the difference between spiritual curiosity… and temptation.”

He made the sign of the cross, his voice a strained whisper as he spoke the Latin words of absolution. you pushed yourself up, your knees aching, and slid the door open, stepping back out into the candlelit gloom of the chapel. Your heart was hammering not with guilt, but with a wild, triumphant thrill. you had touched the crack in his composure. you had made the unholy holy father falter yet again.

Dawn became a clandestine sacrament. Long before the matins bell shook the other sisters from their thin mattresses, you would slip from your cell. The cloisters were a labyrinth of blue-grey shadows, the air still and cold, thick with the scent of old wax and older secrets. you’d find him in the chapel, lighting the votive candles. The small flames would catch on the indigo planes of his face, making his golden eyes glitter like treasure in a tomb.

He would be arranging his missal or polishing the silver chalice, and your arrival would make him pause. He never seemed surprised, only resigned.

“You are awake early, Sister,” he would say, his voice a low thread of darkness in the quiet hall.

“The silence is too loud in my room, Father,” you’d reply, moving to stand beside the flickering candles. “I came to hear a voice that can make sense of it.”

Your discussions were a careful, dangerous dance. you’d ask about Lucifer’s fall, framing it as a question of passion. He would answer with careful scripture, his words a shield against the true meaning of your questions, but you saw the truth in the details.

you saw it in the way his hands, would tremble as he adjusted a wick. you watched his long, prehensile tail twitch with emotion beneath his cassock, a restless tell he could not control. He would grip his rosary, the black beads clicking through his fingers in a frantic, silent prayer as you pressed closer, your questions becoming more pointed and personal.

The older nuns began to take notice as well, Sister Agatha’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits whenever she saw you.

“The girl spends more time seeking counsel than a Borgia Pope,” she hissed to another sister, loud enough for you to hear. “Penance is meant to cleanse the soul, not provide an excuse for distraction.”

Your punishments grew, more floors to scrub, more prayers to recite on the cold stones of the chapel. But kneeling in penance only gave you more time to think of him, your Hail Mary’s became a litany of his features, the curve of his pointed ears, the glow of his eyes, the imagined texture of the fur on his skin. Your soul never hungering for God; it was ravenous for him.

Then the storm season came, breaking over the mountains with biblical fury. The sky turned a purple-grey, and the wind howled around the spires of Saint Mirasel like a hungry wolf. The convent became even more claustrophobic, the air heavy and electric with the coming storm. Restlessness coiled in your gut, a frantic energy with nowhere to go. you felt caged, suffocated by the smell of wet stone and piety.

That evening, you couldn’t bear it. you slipped out of Vespers early, forgoing your veil, your scapular, everything but the simple, scratchy habit. you needed to feel the wind, the rain, something real and untamed. The cloister gardens were a frenzy of motion, rose bushes thrashing, ancient trees groaning.

Rain began to fall, first as fat heavy drops, then as a torrential downpour. It soaked your hair in seconds, plastering the thin wool of your habit to your body, the fabric turning dark and heavy, clinging to your breasts, your waist, your legs. you threw your head back, letting the cold-water stream down your face, a violent but welcome baptism.

You were in the open courtyard, lost in the storm’s embrace, when a flash of lightning bleached the world white. And in that moment when the sky lit up, he was there. Standing at the edge of the covered walkway, his form a dark silhouette against the stone. The next roll of thunder covered the sound of his approach, you only knew he was there when his hand closed around your wrist.

His grip was not that of a priest’s. It was not the gentle, hesitant touch of our clandestine meetings. It was strong and desperate, concern etched through every finger wrapped around you.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. “You will catch your death and your head is uncovered...T-This is madness!”

His reprimand was a torrent of words, but you barely heard them, all you could feel was his hand. Through the soaked wool of your sleeve, his skin was a shocking heat. you could feel the strange configuration of his fingers, the slight sharp pressure of his claws against your skin. The scent of him, ozone, sulfur, and something deeply masculine and wild, overwhelmed the smell of the rain.

You both froze and the world narrowed to that of his grip, the rain sluicing down around you both, the thunder crackling directly overhead, drowning out the sound of your own frantic breaths. you looked from his hand on your wrist up to his face.

His eyes were wide, glowing in the gloom, and they were full of a terrifying, beautiful war. There was the priest’s concern, yes, but beneath it, raw and undeniable, was longing. A desperate, hungry wanting that mirrored the ache in your own chest. And under it all was a deep, profound self-hatred that twisted his features into a mask of anguish. It was the most honest expression you had ever seen on his face.

He saw that you saw it and his mouth opened, a soundless gasp. Then, as if your skin had turned to hot iron, he snatched his hand back. He stumbled away from you, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

He didn’t say another word, just turned and fled back into the shadows of the cloister, his tail lashing once, a violent whip of black against the grey stone. He left you standing alone in the heart of the storm, the heat of his touch a brand on your wrist, the image of his tormented eyes burned forever into your soul.

He had left you in the storm, but the storm had followed you inside. It raged not in the sky, but in your blood, a tempest of heat. The brand of his touch on your wrist did not fade. you could feel it in your sleep, a phantom heat that bloomed and spread through your entire body.

Sleep was no longer a refuge, your dreams became a blasphemous tapestry woven from that moment in the rain. You dreamt you were kneeling at the altar, but instead of receiving the Eucharist, his mouth would descend on yours, the taste of him more sacred and damning than any communion wine.

You saw him bowing in penance before you, the long, spade-tipped tail that he kept so carefully hidden now free, coiling around your ankle, then your calf, its supple strength a shockingly intimate touch that made you gasp awake in the dark.

The confessional screen would melt like hot wax under your gaze, leaving nothing between you and his golden eyes would burn with the same fever you felt in your own soul.

The scent of sandalwood and incense, once a smell of piety, became carnal. It was the scent of his skin in your dreams, the smoke clinging to the dark fur of his arms as he reached for you, his Latin prayers turning to low moans against the skin of your throat.

You would wake flushed and trembling, the sheets tangled around your legs, your hands moving to your throat, your waist, reliving the phantom touches of a beautiful demon you had invited into your prayers. These were visions that could never, ever reach the confessional.

The daylight hours became an exercise in exquisite torture. The convent, once merely suffocating, was now a stage for your silent, secret play. A glance across the refectory as you ate your meager soup, his eyes would find yours over the heads of the other novices, and the world would fall away. In those seconds, you spoke volumes. I see you. I feel it too. Don’t stop.

you began to manufacture sins. you invented lapses in faith, moments of pride, petty cruelties to the other girls, all for the sole purpose of earning a private audience with him. you needed to be near the fire that was consuming you, even if it meant getting burned.

“Father,” you’d say, your voice a demure whisper in the heavy silence of the library, “I was cruel to Sister Marie today. I coveted the smoothness of her hands, untouched by lye soap.”

He would stand by the shelves, not looking at you, his knuckles white where he gripped a heavy theological text. A faint, dark flush would creep up from the collar of his cassock, a blush of color against his indigo skin.

“Vanity is a simple sin, Sister,” he would reply, his voice tight, strained. “Pray for humility.” But his eyes would be fixed on your hands, red and raw from scrubbing floors, and you knew he wasn’t thinking of your vanity. He was thinking of the storm, of his fingers wrapped around your wrist, of the sin we were committing with every shared breath. The silence between you became more charged than any words.

One afternoon, you were tasked with polishing the silver, and he was there, transcribing a passage from Isaiah. The room was small, the air still. The only sounds were the soft scrape of his quill on parchment and the rhythmic whisper of your cloth against the chalice.

you watched his hand trembling, a barely perceptible tremor that sent a corresponding shiver through you. He could feel you watching him. you knew it as surely as you knew your own name.

He set the quill down with a sharp, definitive click. “Is there something you require, Sister?” he asked, his voice rough.

you stopped polishing, your gaze lifting from his hand to his face. “Only salvation, Father,” you murmured, your lips curving into a small, guilty smile.

His jaw tightened and for a long agonizing moment, he simply stared at you, his golden eyes filled with a desperate burning inferno. He looked like a man being torn in two.

Then he pushed back from the table abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, stalking from the room without another word. His tail lashing once, a sharp agitated flick of his cassock before the heavy oak door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone with the scent of him and the thunder of your own heart.

Sleep was a battlefield you had already lost. Tonight, the visions were not enough. The phantom touches, the dreamed-of heat, they were pale imitations of the fire he had lit on your wrist in the storm. Restlessness was a physical sickness, a frantic energy coiling in your belly.

You slipped from your room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floors. The rain had returned, a soft persistent tapping against the high stained-glass windows of the cloister, a mournful drumbeat counting down to something you could feel in your bones.

You didn’t know where you were going until you saw the faint, flickering light spilling from the chapel’s half-open doors. A magnet on your soul as you pushed the heavy oak door; the groan of its hinges lost in a distant roll of thunder.

The air inside was thick with incense, wax, and the palpable weight of his prayer. He was there, kneeling before the main altar, his back to you, a dark silhouette against the eternal flame of the sanctuary lamp. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped in a posture of utter defeat. His voice was a low, broken murmur, Latin prayers fraying at the edges, not a plea for salvation but a confession of despair, he was as undone as you were.

You should have left, you should have turned and fled back to the cold safety of your room, each step was a conscious sin. you walked down the central aisle, drawn by the undeniable pulse of warmth that seemed to roll off him in waves, a physical heat in the damp chill of the chapel. He sensed you before you were halfway there, his prayer faltered, his broad shoulders tensing. He did not turn. He knew.

“Y/N.” It left his lips not as a question, not as a reprimand, but as a plea. A prayer for a disaster that had already arrived. The sound of it, spoken in that voice, in this place, broke the last thread of your resolve.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you stammered, the excuse sounding pathetic and thin even to your own ears, as you stopped a few feet behind him.

“You should not be here,” he whispered, his voice weary. “Go back to your room. Please.” The crack in his tone was a chasm. The priest was gone, only the tormented man remained.

You took another step, closing the distance between you until you were kneeling beside him on the cold marble steps of the altar, your habits brushed. you could feel the heat of his body, smell the sulfur and ozone clinging to him like a shroud.

You reached out, your hand hovering in the space between you, not knowing what you meant to do, he shifted and your hands met. It was an accident, a simple brush of skin, your fingers against the back of his furred hand. His skin was fire, a fever you wanted to catch, the fine dark fur impossibly soft, the hard ridges of his knuckles. Neither of you withdrew.

“Are you not afraid of me?” he asks at last, and the quiet is a chapel all its own around him.

You shake your head without looking away. “I’m… mesmerized by your beauty.”

He makes a soft sound like a wounded animal. “Do not say such things. I am trying—” He bites off the sentence with a click of fang.

“Trying to be holy?” you ask.

“Yes.” He swallows, the sound loud in the candlelit church. “Trying to keep you holy.”

You shift into the sliver of space that remains between his body and the unforgiving stone of the altar. “What if I don’t want to be?”

His head turns slowly, and his glowing golden eyes meet yours. They are filled with utter ruin. All the fight, the years of pious restraint, has been burned away, leaving only a raw, bottomless hunger that mirrors the ache in your own soul.

“God help me,” he breathes, and it sounds less like a prayer and more like a curse upon himself, a helpless sound tears from his throat as he moves.

The discipline of months, of years, of a lifetime of penance, forgotten as he lunges forward towards you, it steals the very air from your lungs. His lips crashing against yours, in a frantic collision of lips and tongues. It is the kiss of a drowning man finding air, of a starving man finding bread.

A thrilling sting of pain blossoms on your bottom lip as his fangs graze the tender flesh. His hands tangle in your hair, cradling your head as if you are a fragile holy relic he is about to shatter into a million pieces.

A moan spills from your throat into his mouth, your arms snake around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper. His warmth, a furnace against you, pulls a little cry from you. “—ah—”

He devours the sound, a shudder wracking his frame. When the tip of his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open for him without a thought. The rough, wet rasp of his tongue against yours drags a sob from the depths of your chest. “Nnnh—Kurt—”

He flinches, as if his own name is a brand against his skin, then surges forward into you. “Again,” he begs against your lips, his voice a whisper. “Say it again, Engel—”

“Kurt.” You breathe his name, and he trembles from head to foot. His prehensile tail coils around your waist, his strength makes your knees buckle. He catches you effortlessly, his claws tracing the slope of your spine, mapping each vertebra as if to memorize all of you.

With a low whine, he mouths at your collarbone, his fangs grazing your skin until you jolt with each careful nip. And then he is guiding you backward, his body and tail pressing you against the altar until the cold, unforgiving stone bites into the backs of your thighs.

He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, his hands bracketing your hips. Setting you down, his chest heaving, and presses his forehead to your sternum.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice raw, each word pulled from him with agonizing force. “Tell me to stop—” He swallows, a tremor running through his whole body.

“I need you, Kurt,” you breathe, your voice fierce despite the tremor in your own body. “Please.”

Whispers of denial”we can’t” and  “this is a sin, verdammt” are lost between gasps, swallowed by the wet consuming heat of your mouths. The altar candle flickers wildly, its flame dancing in the draft. His hands fumble with the coarse rope at your waist, pulling at the scratchy wool of your habit.

“Kurt,” you breathe, and he moans, the indecent sound echoes in the house of God, He lowers his head, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat. “Vergib mir…”

He shoves the rough fabric of your habit upward, exposing you to the cold air and his burning, golden gaze. He drops to his knees between your legs, his hands tracing the line of your thighs, his claws a torturous caress. He kneels at the altar like a penitent and pushes your knees apart, the pad of his thumb stroking soothing circles into your inner thigh.

“Shh,” he murmurs when your muscles jump and quiver under his touch. His warm breath ghosts over you as he leans in.

The lap of his tongue is devastating, a rough velvet that catches on every sensitive peak, a rasp that makes your hips jolt upward with a cry that ricochets off the cold stone walls.

“—oh! God—” You clamp a hand over your mouth, but you couldn’t care less how loud you are. He growls low in his throat, the sound a pleased vibration against your cunt that makes something behind your navel flare blindingly bright.

Your back arches off the stone, your hands gripping the edge of the altar until your knuckles are white. The holy place, the scent of frankincense, the crucifix hanging in the gloom, it all dissolves into a vortex of pure unholy sensation.

He eats you like he’s starving, like you are the Eucharist and he is taking communion for the first time. His claws score the edge of the altar beside your hips, carving deep crescent moons into the wood. His tail cinches tighter at your waist, tugging you back down when you try to writhe away, to escape into his mouth.

“Gut,” he mumbles into you, the word dragged from deep in his throat. “So gut—” His tongue presses along your folds, flicks and circles your clit, and when he opens his mouth wider and pulls you in with a soft suck you almost come right there, Your fingers fist in the thick, indigo hair at his crown, your head thrown back so far the world becomes a stained-glass blur.

You writhe as he pins you, his hands slide under your thighs to spread you more, to hold you steady while he worships. Fangs scrape along the soft flesh where thigh becomes hip, and you jerk and gasp “—unhh,” and he flattens his tongue and laves at you until the sting melts into heat.

He doesn’t let up. Not until you are shaking uncontrollably, until you are sobbing his name, breathless.

 “I’m, oh God...Kurt, I’m—”  and then your climax hits, and his mouth is relentless, his rough growl mixed with little pleased hums of “Mmm, ja,” and “Mein Engel,” again and again, like rosary beads warmed between his lips.

When he finally rises, his chin is wet, his mouth stained a dark indigo. His eyes are molten gold, brighter than any candle flame, looking both ruined and renewed. He braces his claws on the altar beside your shoulders, his breath coming in ragged pants against your mouth. His tail crawls higher, curling around your thigh to tease at your still-throbbing core, you shiver so hard your teeth click together.

He is careful stripping off his robes, but the frantic speed betrays him as buttons pop, and a seam gives way with a soft tearing sound. You help him, your fingers tearing at his vestments, needing to feel the skin you have only ever dreamed of touching.

The sight of him in the flickering candlelight was a beautiful blasphemy. The dark indigo fur that covered his chest was not a flat color, but the deep, impossible hue of a twilight sky just after the sun has bled out below the horizon. It was a like velvet, the nap of it catching the light, shifting from near-black to a dark royal blue with the rise and fall of his every breath. It softened the hard swell of his pectorals and clung to the chiseled lines of his abdomen, making him seem both beast and seraph. A darker denser trail lead down the hard planes of his stomach, to his cock, as It rested heavy against his thigh, thick and hard.

Silver scars that laddered his side, a map of past torments now rendered in the dim light. You follow one with your finger and he whines deep in his chest. You press a kiss to it, and he bends his head to press his forehead to yours, cradling your head with his hands. 

His arms, corded with the dense muscle were dusted with the same fine indigo nap. The black claws that he kept close, the tail, long and demonic, twitched, the spade tip brushing against the bare skin of your leg. He was a masterpiece of the divine, a holy creature of the night.

When his cock presses hot and heavy along your thigh, you go lightheaded. He’s thick, heavier at the head, the color a dusky violet, pearls gathering at the tip already. His tail slips from your thigh to your waist and squeezes, claws cupping your hip and soothing you.

“verdammt, entschuldigung,” heat runs down your spine. “I have dreamt of this,” he admits both shame and hunger tainting his voice. “I have gone to the altar and bled from your knees asking for these thoughts to be taken but forgive me they won’t go away.” He swallows. 

“I think of you too. Often, even when praying I can’t stop thinking of you,” you say, voice not steady and not sorry. “I want you, Father.”

His eyes go darker. “Kurt,” he begs. You nod, saying his name sweetly, a whisper into his pointed violet ear, and he shudders so violently it’s as if the whole nave breathes.

He rose up, positioning himself over you, his golden eyes locked on yours, searing you with his shame and desire. “I will burn for this,” he whispered.

“Then burn with me,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist.The crown of him presses into you and you both gasp.

“—Gott,” slips from his mouth that shakes through his entire frame. He stops panting, his claws carving deeper into the oak of the altar. His tail tightens and loosens around your waist.

“Sag mir,” he rasps, his voice raw with effort. “Tell me. Is it too much?”

“I feel...so full,” you sigh, your legs wrapping instinctively tighter around his waist. The rough wool of your habit is bunched at your hips, and the small silver crucifix your father gave you presses coolly against your breastbone. “Don’t stop.”

“Engel,” he groans, the name a prayer on his lips as he pushes deeper. The pressure blooms into bliss, so heavy that it nails you to the altar in the most exquisite way imaginable, a fullness so complete it makes you stupid with pleasure.

When he bottoms out against your cervix, his forehead drops to rest against your jaw. The tremor in his powerful thighs, the rasp of his purr where it thrums from his chest into yours, the soft brush of indigo fur against your ribs, the coil of his tail around your waist. You reach up and stroke the base of one of his pointed ears, and he makes a sound like he is melting into pure joy.

He begins to move. Every thrust is gentle at first, then a little less so. He looks at you as he moves, not at your mouth, not at your breasts now bared where your habit has fallen aside, but directly into your eyes, as if searching for your soul.

“Look at me,” he pleads, and when you do, he murmurs a fast prayer in German, words tumbling out. “Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, sieh, wie schön sie ist, sieh, wie sie mich annimmt—”

You moan and he groans back, hips snapping faster, the clack of the wooden altar and the slap of his body meeting yours. The tail around your waist climbs, slides down your spine and curls gently around your thigh holding you open farther.

“So good,” you choke out shameless. “Fuck me, Father—nhh yes—”

“Kurt,” he whispers insistently, and fucks you harder. “Oh please, ja—”

He changes the angle of his thrusts and a universe of stars explodes behind your eyes. The velvet nap of his chest caresses your nipples with every powerful thrust. The claws of his left hand pin your hip to the altar while his right slides down between your slick bodies to find your clit.

The pads of his fingers are rough, and even the lightest stroke makes you cry out. He is careful with your pleasure, circling and tapping, matching the tempo of his thrusts, listening to your body like scripture. He adjusts when your breath hitches, chasing the pleasure when you gasp, “—there, there, please—oh!”

You cry out for him and he is already there, jostling to nestle deeper, to find a new angle, to press you into the dark with a groan. The stained glass of saints’ faces peek through carved leaves and grapes and watch you come undone, your breath fogs in the cool air of the chapel.

He murmurs, “Entschuldige, entschuldige, I should not, I know, but I am weak,” while his hips snap and you choke “—don’t you dare stop,” and he laughs.

“I…” He breaks off, shuddering. “I will not last. You feel… I am—” You wrap your legs around him and nod, dizzy. “With me.” Your voice is a desperate plea. “Come with me.”

He whimpers, a sound unbecoming of any priest, and his control snaps finally. His thrusts becoming deep, almost brutal if not for the way he presses his forehead to yours, losing himself in your eyes.

Your orgasm hits suddenly, a burning fire down your spine. “Ah! ahh...ah! Kurt—” Your voice breaks as your inner muscles clamp down around him. He gives a strangled yell, his tail tightening around you a groan from his chest echoing through the room.

He fucks you through your climax, as you sob he whispers to you as you shake, nonsense and prayer, German and English, “So, gut. Mein Engel, you are...”

You can’t stop shaking as he kisses your cheeks where tears have dried on your skin. When you come down enough to breathe, no longer sobbing, he stills and presses his mouth to your hairline. The cathedral fills with quiet again, only alive with your gasping breath and his purr.

He collapses, rolling to brace on an elbow, sliding out of you inch by slow inch with a shared hiss of overstimulation. The tail unwound from around you, and he shivers as he looks down at where you glisten, at the mess that was both of you on the sacred altar. A flush stained the fur of his throat a deeper blue.

“I am—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Forgive me.”

You blinked tears away and cup his cheek, the fur on his cheek was even softer then the fur on the rest of his body, the bone beneath strong, as he leaned into your palm like a cat starved of touch.

“There is nothing to forgive,” you said simply, and meant it. “I wanted you. I want you.” He inhales through his nose, and it comes out in a little broken huff. He noses your wrist and kisses the heel of your palm.

“You are so… good.” It is not a word you’ve prized for yourself, but in his mouth, you might believe it.

He lifts you gently from the altar, his movements tender, as he fetches a folded linen cloth, usually set aside for rinsing the chalice and paten.

He cleans you like you are precious, his touch now infinitely careful. When you flinch, your skin oversensitive and raw with pleasure, he makes small apologetic noises, “shh, i know,” and presses soft, apologetic kisses to your knees.

He helps you pull down your habit, smoothing it over your hips, his touch lingering. The act of dressing feels more intimate than the undressing had. He coaxes your hand and places it over his own chest where the purr still hums low and deep. He twines his tail around your waist and rubs slow, comforting circles into the small of your back.

“I do not deserve…” He trails off, his golden gaze flicking to the altar, to the statue of Mary in the side chapel, to the dark beyond the transepts. “I have called my body monstrous. I have believed the voices that told me so. Then you looked at me as if—” He shakes his head, a smile breaking open his face, beautiful and serene. “As if my claws were not sharp. As if my tail could hold you close. As if my fangs could kiss you without making you less holy.”

“Your body is sacrament to me,” you answer, and his breath stutters in his chest. He brushes hair from your forehead with the back of his hand, the gesture impossibly gentle.

“God keep you, Engel,” he says his voice thick with emotion. He kisses your brow, your mouth, the salt from your cheeks. A laugh boils up in the tenderness and escapes him.

“We are going to be in so much trouble,” he says, giddy like a boy.

“We were already,” you remind, and your grin matches his.

He gathers you in his arms, holding you tight against his chest. “Hold on,” he whispers against your ear, and the world dissolves. There is a sound like tearing silk, a gut-wrenching lurch, and the air is violently displaced by the acrid smell of brimstone and purple smoke.

For a single, disorienting second, you are nowhere and then everywhere, pulled through time and space itself. Then, with a soft BAMF, reality snaps back into focus. You are in his private quarters, a room not of a priest but of a scholar, filled with worn leather-bound books and the faint scent of old paper and him. He sets you down on the cool sheets of a real bed. You wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him closer, pulling at his clothes insistently. Once you are both naked again, you push him back onto his small bed. You kiss him and hold him, mapping his body with your caresses, from the napped velvet fur on his chest, to the pointed ears that flick when you touch their tips, to the tail that glides like velvet against your skin. You slip into his arms for the second time that night.

When dawn bleeds into the east, he had finally let himself fall asleep with his head pillowed on your naked chest, his tail draped protectively around your thigh, claws uncurled and harmless against your skin.

He snores, a soft rumble with an underlying purr, ridiculous blend of animal and human so endearing you cant help but smile. You stroke one long, pointed ear until it twitches, then you soothe it, and the calm that settles in your chest feels like an answer to a question you never knew how to put into words.

The bells ring for Lauds. Voices stir in the convent, the sisters will rise and wash and pray. You will, too...eventually. You will wash your neck and hide the faint, love-bitten marks as best you can with habit and braid. You will kneel at the choir stall and watch him from across the chancel as he stands to read, collared and calm, his golden eyes bright with a secret only you share.

He wakes with a start, golden eyes wide, and for a heartbeat, pure fear rakes him, almost as if he was afraid it was all another dream and you wouldn't be there. Your hand is already on his cheek, he sees you and softens. “Guten Morgen,” he whispers, a little hoarse.

“Good morning,” you say, your hand resting over his. “Bless me, Father.”

He laughs, then chokes on the sound and captures your lips in a searing kiss. “Gott segne dich,” he says, his voice fierce and full of love.

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

May your day be full of sin my child, for day 25 is done!! I hope you enjoyed!

Definitely going to hell for this one....all well...may I burn in peace(ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

Sorry this is late, it ended up getting loooong. I hit 4k words and realized I hadn’t even gotten to the smut yet, so by the time midnight rolled around I was too tired to finish. I saved the rest for today, lol. Not sure if I should count this as two days or try to do the other prompt tonight, we’ll see how the rest of today goes.

Translations for the German (again pls don't come for me lol)

Gott segne dich — God bless you

Guten Morgen — Good morning

Engel — Angel

So, gut. Mein Engel — So good. My angel.

verdammt, entschuldigung — damn, sorry

Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, sieh, wie schön sie ist, sieh, wie sie mich annimmt— Holy Mary, Mother of God, look how beautiful she is, look how she accepts me.

ja — yes

Gott — God

Sag mir — Tell me

y/n and Kurt:

…𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝕯𝖆𝖞 ✦✧✦  𝕹𝖊𝖝𝖙 𝕯𝖆𝖞...

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

 This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

  ₍ᐢ .  ̫ . ᐢ₎

Your wedding to Leon was rapidly approaching – less than twelve hours now before you would pledge your fealty and loyalty to one another before the kingdom. And that knowledge made you restless. It had been hours of tossing and turning in bed. Endless remedies to bring sleep – several cups of tea drank in the parlor with your ladies, a warm bath, oils at your temples, reading, counting sheep behind your eyelids. Each attempt failed. You were too excited. 

Of course, the past few days had been slightly easier since Leon’s reassurance of his feelings for you. But there were still worries that weighed on your heart. Worries that he may change his mind, that you would not make a good wife, that you would somehow in some area of his life leave him wanting. This was perhaps your worst fear. The one that plagued your days and haunted your nights. 

No amount of comfort and reassurance from your ladies could quell your worries. Bless them, they tried. Really, they did. But you were worried beyond the point of comfort. You were beyond being calmed by the reassurances of your confidants, their kind words and gentle reassurances falling on deaf ears. You were inconsolable. 

A ragged sigh fell from your lips as you tossed in bed, lying on your side, cheek pressed into the pillow. You were exhausted, frustrated. Beyond irritated that your mind and body denied you sleep. The irritation won over as you sat up, running your hands over your face. There were a few quiet moments of contemplation – things you could do to wear yourself out. Of course, a few ideas popped into your mind but tonight was not the night for such things. A strike of thunder and flash of lightning drew your eyes to the window in your room. 

You threw the covers off your body with a decision in mind, standing and snatching the furlined robe hanging by your bed. After tugging it on and wrapping it around your body, you padded to the french doors that led to the stone balcony in your chambers. The sound and smell of rain had always been soothing to you. Ever since your childhood. There was a ledge over the balcony, just enough cover so you could step out onto the stone without getting wet. 

A calmness washed over your body as you stepped out, the smell of the rain filling your senses, the cool wind thrashing the long train of your robe, the flashes of light and crackles of thunder. It all made you pause, it seemed to stop the worries that plagued you in their tracks. Seeing the mountains in the distance and hearing the roars of thunder reminded you of how small you really were in this life. That the world was wide and you were only one person. 

Yes, you were to be married to the Crown Prince. Expected to bear his heirs and stand by his side. You had big and daunting responsibilities. But what were these responsibilities in comparison to the whole world? Hardly anything. And for some reason, standing in the rain with the wind blowing and the night encapsulating you, it made you feel just a little more at peace. 

The curtains to your room were ripped open in the early hours of the morning. The sun had just begun to crest over the mountains in the distance, the hazy morning light filtering into your chambers. The air was still thick and heavy with fog, and the promise of rain in the later hours of the day. You groaned and buried yourself deeper into the covers and pillows of your bed. It had been mere hours since you had managed to lull yourself asleep – you had left the french doors open, the sound of the rain your lullaby and only aid in drifting into a deep sleep. 

You did not tell your ladies what you had dreamt when they surrounded you and asked how you slept. You lied, promising you slept well once your head hit the pillow. That there had been no disturbances or bad dreams. You felt slightly bad for lying, but this was not the time to delve into your fears. There was much to be done. 

The wedding ceremony was to be held in the afternoon, just before dusk. The celebration would directly follow, expected to last late into the night. Even after you and Leon would retire to bed. Which was a thought you shook from your mind. There was to be a feast, hours of dancing, gifts bestowed to the both of you and the kingdom itself. Socialization with the other nobles and distant members of both your families. Leon’s relatives were travelling a great distance to attend, and your family would be returning solely for the night, only to depart the next morning. 

Claire, Ashley, and Rebecca pulled you out of bed and ushered you into the parlor. There was already a spread of breakfast awaiting you – pastries, breads, different mediums of eggs, fruits, and cured meats, along with teas and coffees. The three ladies sat you down, encouraging you to eat, swearing it would calm your nerves. Which you weren’t sure you quite believed, but you humored them anyway. 

Typically, you were readied and joined Leon for breakfast in the dining hall. Claire, however, informed you that it would be improper for Leon to see you at any point in the day before the ceremony. An old wives tale of misfortune and infidelity linked to such a meeting. So, you would not be seeing your betrothed until you met him at the end of the aisle. 

“I think it’s romantic,” Ashley nodded, sipping her tea. “It’s special. 

You nodded along as if you agreed. But some larger part of you yearned to see Leon. To be comforted and reassured by him. To hear his promise of affection again. Just one last time before it all became real and official and no longer yours. But this was not an option. 

“You do not need to worry, you know.” Claire’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. 

“Yes, I know.” You nodded, looking at her. She had a set on her face. It was almost unreadable, like you could not really tell what she was thinking. 

“It is a silly custom. But not one you need to worry over.” Claire said rather matter-of-factly over her cup of coffee. 

Rebecca nodded along as if she agreed as she spread a glob of jam over her bread. There was a glint in Ashley’s eyes that told she most certainly did not agree, but she did not voice this opinion. These three ladies were a solace to you at this time. Your guiding light, the calm in your storm. The perfect distraction. 

“How are things with Lady Valentine?” You asked, picking at a pastry on your china plate, desperate for any form of distraction. Any way out of the attention that was locked on you at the moment. 

Claire lit up like a candle. There was nothing as distracting and disarming as hearing Claire's escapades with her knight. Once she began to talk, it was difficult to make her stop. She went on and on about the night before, how Jill was an expert with her hands and mouth. How Claire loved to please the knight as well. How their love and pleasure for each other was entirely and solely mutual. Her words made you pause, your eyes locking on her. 

“Claire?” The lady looked at you, stopping instantly. “Could I ask you something?” 

“Of course, princess.” She nodded, setting her cup down and turning more to face you.

“I am aware you are more versed in how to pleasure a woman, but” you hesitated. This was completely inappropriate. But, in twelve hours or less, you would be expected to consummate your marriage to Leon. “I do not know how to please Leon.” 

All three of your ladies froze. The shock of your statement evident on their faces. Ashley choked on her tea, Rebecca blinked blankly, the scone she was eating slipping from her fingers and landing on her skirts. Claire let out a sigh, eyes flicking to the other ladies. She cleared her throat before nodding to them. 

“Why don’t you check on the princess’s dress?” She suggested – although you could tell by the tone of her voice that this was not a suggestion. Ashley and Rebecca knew it as well. 

They both stood, bowing to you and walked swiftly out of the parlor. “You too. The princess and I need time alone.” Claire announced to the guards. Rufus’s eyes caught yours, and with a nod of his head, he and the other stationed guards exited, closing the door behind them. 

Now that you and Claire were alone, she let out a deep sigh. She shook her head, taking your hands in hers. Her eyes met yours, a long moment of silence stretched on, as if she were thinking of what to say and how exactly to say it. Then, after a long time, she spoke.

“Princess, you are right. I do not know how to please a man. But, I do not believe you need to worry about that.” 

You shook your head. “But I do, Claire. What if I am not enough to satisfy him?” 

Your name fell from her lips. Rarely did anyone other than Rufus or Leon use your first name. Your given name. Claire had only used it once before. This was how you knew this was a serious conversation. 

“Trust me, you do not need to worry.” She shook her head. “I have known Leon my whole life. He is a good man. He cares not for that sort of satisfaction.” 

“But it is my duty,” you said softly, eyes downcast, staring at her hands holding yours. Such a comforting action, it made you feel safe and secure, even in the whirlwind of your current situation. 

“Yes, I suppose it is. But it is also your duty to make him happy.” Claire said, head ducking to meet your gaze. Her eyes were full of nothing but security and reassurance. “And that is a duty you already excel at, princess.” 

Hearing her say that made your breath hitch. She sounded so sure, so confident that you had already succeeded in making Leon happy. Which was a fact you had a hard time believing. You had hardly spent any time with him alone, how could you make him happy? He hardly knew you. 

“Trust me, Leon is happy. You satisfy him with your presence alone. You do not need to do anything other than exist to make him happy.” 

Day morphed into early evening, dark clouds had once again rolled in over the mountains, promising a downpour late into the night. Thunder roiled outside the palace walls, matching the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Which had been racing for near hours by now. 

You were in your wedding dress – swathed in white laces, silks, and satins. Gauzy ivory cascaded down your frame, the veil attached to your head trailing down to drag behind you on the floor. Gloves adorned your hands, jewelry laid against your skin. Diamonds and pearls and the ruby dragon scale. The seamstress had tried to convince you not to wear it. She claimed it did not match the dress or the event. But this dragon scale had been Leon’s first personal gift to you. You would not part with it. 

It had been dipped in gold around the edges. That very evening he gave it to you, you had sought out the palace jeweler, requesting it be made into a wearable piece. Two days later, he had brought it to you – the edges and back of the scale encased in gold, the front surface polished and shiny. It was attached to a thin, delicate chain. And since you had put it on, you had not taken it off. And you would not part with it, even today. 

Your ladies had interceded, telling the seamstress of its importance and that as it was your request, you should not be told to take it off. With a heavy sigh, the seamstress had conceded. You had even heard her grumble under her breath that it was beautiful, even if it did not match the occasion. That admission made you smile. 

That smile faded swiftly though, as you stood behind the large wooden double doors of the palace chapel. Your heart raced, your palms sweating. This was it. Your final moments before being tied to a title, a kingdom, a duty. None of which you had chosen. Even if you had come to favor – perhaps even love – Leon, this was still forced upon you. Not your choice. 

Beside you, Rufus seemed to be able to hear your thoughts. He was the one who knew your every worry surrounding this arrangement. He heard your every qualm, every anxiety, every wish to go home. He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. Even Rufus was clothed in the finest of fabrics. Ceremonial robes draped from his shoulders, a gold hilted sword at his hip. He was here to protect you, yes, but also to be your support. 

“You look lovely, princess.” He whispered, head tilted downward. This conversation was just for you. 

“Thank you, Rufus.” 

“It will be over soon, I promise.” He added, his gruff voice as comforting as possible. 

“No,” you breathed, “it will not. This is only the beginning.” 

You heard Rufus let out a sigh, the sound of his boots soft as he stepped back. He knew you were right. This was only the beginning. The start of your new life. The future Queen Consort of a kingdom you were not native to. Married to a perfect stranger. A palace you were not still fully familiar with your new home. All unfamiliar territory. A future you never asked for. A future you never agreed to. 

Though you supposed to outside eyes it was not the worst arrangement – marrying the Crown Prince. One who was handsome and kind and steady. To be the future Queen Consort to a rich and vibrant kingdom who valued its citizens and had a just ruler. There were dragons, as well. There were many upsides to this arrangement, you knew that. But the price? Your freedom. 

Music seeped through the doors, snapping you from your haze. The guards stationed at the doors stepped forward, grasping the handles and hauling them open. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you faced the congregation in the chapel. All eyes turned to you, music continued in a slow lilt as Rufus stepped closer to you. 

Just as you stepped forward, crossing the threshold of the chapel, your eyes met Leon’s from the other side of the aisle. The room went silent, the music faded, everything muffled, as if you were dunked underwater. You blinked, soaking him in. His strong stature, his soft eyes. This was the prize. No other person, no other duty mattered. These people – noble vultures watching with hungry eyes, the counselors with cruel intentions, your ladies with graceful smiles – none of them mattered. Only Leon. 

He was a vision. His tall, broad frame draped in royal robes. Rich hues of deep reds and golds. Velvet fabric cascaded down his shoulders, that ceremonial sword at his side. His crown of gold encircled his brow, the Kennedy crest above his heart, that gold dipped ruby earring hanging from his ear. His hands were gloveless though, and as you slowly walked toward him, you wished your own hands were bare to feel his warmth. 

Your eyes stayed locked on his as you paused at the foot of the altar, dipping into a bow, head ducked in reverence to the divine. Upon rising, you saw Leon’s eyes had dipped down from your face – locked on the scale that rested below your collarbones. Blue eyes snapped back up to meet yours, hand reaching out to assist you in stepping up the stone steps to stand before him. 

This was the prize. Leon was all that mattered. You were his happiness, and he would be yours. And really, this prospect did not sound so bad.

Just as expected, rain pelted down as evening dissolved into night. Rufus had been right – the wedding ceremony itself had not lasted long. Vows were exchanged, rings were donned, and claps and cheers filled the cathedral as you walked out. You and Leon had been immediately ushered to the grand hall for the following celebration. There was a feast prepared, the cake you’d chosen together standing tall in four tiers, flowers and gauzy fabric hung from the ceilings. Truly, no expense had been spared. 

Now, you and Leon sat side by side at the head table at the front of the room. A long line of nobles and representatives at the steps. This had been going on for well over an hour – each noble professing their congratulations and loyalty to the future King and Queen Consort of the kingdom. And of course, gifts. Gold and gems and the finest clothes and jewelry. None of which you needed but accepted anyway because to do otherwise would be an insult. 

You wanted to be far from here. Somewhere quiet and calm. Somewhere you could be alone with Leon. Your lord husband. There was somewhere deep inside you that craved moments alone with him, now that you were wed. There had been no time for you to process, to be alone in each other’s presence. Not after the ceremony. But you supposed there would be ample time for that later in the night. Which made you nauseous at the thought. 

Perhaps you should be grateful. The celebration was a distraction – music and food and people. The volume kept your thoughts at bay. The constant conversation kept your worries buried deep. Yes, Leon’s presence at your side was dizzying, but there was so much else going on you had no time to focus on it. Which was truly a blessing in disguise, you supposed. Not to be wholly consumed with the fact of his closeness. How his warmth was mere inches away. How his eyes periodically found that dragonscale necklace at your chest. 

His attention to the jewelry made you somewhat self-conscious. Should you not have had it made? Should you have not worn it today? Did it mean more to you than it did him? A million assumptions swirled in your head as you sat there, the music droning in the background, a pleasant smile plastered on your face in passing. These overwhelming thoughts were interrupted though as Leon’s voice cut through the noise. 

“Would you care to dance, princess?” He asked, your eyes snapping to him. 

Leon leaned towards you, his face close to your own. He smelled good – like leather and something sharp, perhaps citrus. You blinked, nodding slightly. He stood, hand outstretched. Your hand found his, your gloves long since discarded so now you could feel the warmth of his skin against your own. It was comforting and all-consuming as you stood, walking with him down the steps to the middle of the room. 

It was customary for the wedded couple to share a dance before retiring to their chambers for the night. To consummate their marriage. That reminder sent a spike through your heart, but Leon’s soft touch at your waist calmed any qualm in your mind. He began to gently guide you with the slow music, stepping in time with you. 

“You look beautiful.” He said softly. “I have not had the chance to tell you.” 

Your heart clenched at his words. Leon had called you beautiful before, but this time felt different. Perhaps it was because he was your husband now. Either way, it made your heart flutter.

“Thank you,” you whispered, continuing to sway with him, keeping in time with the soft instrumental music. 

Your eyes danced around the room, the discomfort and awkwardness of the situation causing you not to meet Leon’s eyes. There was a heavy presence in your chest, one you couldn’t seem to will away, no matter how hard you tried. There was no reason to worry - you knew this. It was Leon. Kind and steady and strong. Leon, who was now your husband. Worry had no place in your chest. But stayed there anyway. 

“Are you alright, princess?” He questioned, his voice low and soft. This moment was between the two of you. For no one else to be part of. 

You looked at him, eyes meeting his now. Again, you caught the tail end of a glance of his eyes toward the dragon scale necklace resting against your collarbones. There was something about the necklace that had him in some sort of trance. That stab of insecurity, the one that bloomed from his constant periodic glances at the pendant, flooded your chest again. Really, did it mean more to you than it did him? Well, of course it did. But was he upset that you’d gone and made something out of what was supposed to be nothing? Heat crawled up your neck, blooming onto your face. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” You nodded with a mumble. “This is all just a little overwhelming.” 

Leon hummed under his breath, seeming to understand your statement. Maybe even agree with it. “Yes, it is. There are far too many people.” 

A smile stretched across your lips at his admission of the crowd of people. He was right - there were too many people. The buzz of loud voices, the music, the cheers and shouts of celebration. It was overwhelming. Leon smiled in turn, his eyes a little lighter. He seemed pleased at the prospect that he could make you smile. You liked that he could make you smile. It was a trait about him you loved. 

The music stretched on as you swayed with Leon, his touch gentle and his gaze soft. The crawling feeling of discomfort grew in your stomach as he intermittently glanced down at the pendant against your chest. It made you dizzy – why did he care? Why was he so enamored with the jewelry? Of course, you cherished the scale enough to make it into something to keep. Something to have with you always. When you caught him looking for the dozenth time, you opened your mouth to speak. Then the music immediately stopped. 

You and Leon paused, the sound of the King’s hands clapping together to catch the attention of the room. His eyes – kind and soft, and Leon must have inherited them – found the two of you. His mouth stretched into a wide smile as he began to speak, voice booming across the banquet hall. Leon shifted on his feet, his arm securely wrapped around your middle, keeping you close to his side. And in that embrace, you felt safe. 

The King began what could only be called a speech. He praised his son, the union between you that was presented to him by your own family. And then he praised you – his voice and his eyes warmed as he looked at you. He called you kind, graceful, a welcome addition to the palace and the Kennedy name. He said they were blessed by the gods for your presence. That you would make the best of wives for his son. 

Heat crawled up your neck, your ears burned. You bashfully ducked your head, a small and embarrassed smile stretching across your face. Never had you received such praise. Leon’s grasp on our side tightened, a small squeeze of reassurance. Of agreement. Your eyes cut to him, only to find he was looking at you. His lips were curled in that soft smile he reserved only for you. You blinked rapidly and looked back up at the King. He was smiling down fondly at the two of you, his hands coming together in a cheerful applause that the entire room followed in suit. This was your send off. 

That realization sunk into your chest, panic settling into your bloodstream. Leon took a step back, his hand gentle at the small of your back. He dipped his head a sort of bow, and you followed, returning the gesture of respect. He held out a hand, waiting for you to take it. You slipped your hand into his, his palm warm against your own skin. He turned you around, almost like he was showing you off to the room. And you supposed he was, slowly spinning you around, his eyes on you fondly. He then began to step forward, walking through the hall toward the large double doors. 

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, your heart pounding in your throat. Warmth spread over your skin. This was it. The night you had spent the last weeks dreading. 

Leon’s chambers were sprawling. You had thought yours were huge. Leon’s were bigger. You could fit your own rooms inside his with over half the space left over. You weren’t sure why someone would need so much space. But he was the Crown Prince. You supposed space was his right. 

The room was warm and dimly lit, a fire crackling in the large stone fireplace. Just like the night before, lightning crackled across the sky, thunder rumbling over the mountains. You stood awkwardly by the fireplace, fingers twisting the rich silk robe tied at your waist. After you had initially arrived at his chambers, your ladies had been waiting. They had ushered you into the connected parlor. That lacy set of negligée the seamstress presented to you that morning waited. Claire, Rebecca, and Ashley helped you out of your wedding gown, carefully tucking it into a velvet lined box. They assisted you in donning the lace, tying bows and securing threads. They topped it all with a white silk robe tied at your waist. 

When they left, it was just you and Leon. It was eerily quiet, and you felt vastly uncomfortable. Leon stood at an end table by the fireplace, his royal robes discarded. He handled a glass decanter of honey wine, pouring the shimmering amber liquid into two small crystal glasses. Your hands twiddled at your front, nerves settling deep into your stomach. It was so quiet, so still in these sprawling chambers that you had no idea what to do with yourself. Except to stand silently and watch your husband’s every movement. 

Your husband. After a few moments, Leon turned to you, crystal glasses in hand and stepped toward you. His eyes were soft still, his steps almost careful, like he was afraid one wrong move would send you bolting from the room. Which you supposed was true. You were tense, almost scared. This was the moment you had spent weeks worrying over. Losing sleep. And he was acting as if it were any other night. 

“Relax, princess.” Leon said lowly, his voice soft and reassuring. He held out one of the glasses for you to take. “Sit, you’ve had a long day.” 

You followed him as he led you to a cushioned sofa by the fireplace, his hand gentle at the small of your back. The thick rug was soft against your bare feet, the air in the room heavy with a spark of hesitation. From the both of you. You sat down on the sofa, your posture was stiff, muscles laced with discomfort. Leon noticed as he settled down beside you, eyes locked on you with a curious mixture of concern and humor. He looked at you, observing your stiff frame as you sat perched on the edge of the sofa. 

Then he let out a laugh. Deep and warm – the kind of comfort that melted your bones. Your eyes snapped over to him as he laughed, your favorite sound in the world. “You look like a stone carving. Please, relax, my love.” 

My love. Two simple words. One plain phrase. It sent your heart racing. You stared at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads, your eyes blinking as your face grew increasingly hot. My love. It was not anything unheard of, a man referring to his wife in such an affectionate manner. You had grown up with your own father calling your mother ‘my dear’. And in the few weeks you had been in the Palais du Levallon, you had heard the King refer to the Queen as many things, such as ‘darling’ or ‘amore’ – which you’d come to know was a term in one of the prominent languages in the region, meaning ‘love’. 

So no, it was not strange for a man to use terms of endearments on his wife. But it did feel strange to be on the receiving end of this affection. Let alone from Leon. Your eyes fell from his face to stare down at the honey wine in the glass cupped between your hands. A sudden crash of thunder made you flinch, taking you by surprise. There was now a heavy silence between you and your now husband. One that settled in as his laughter faded. Stopping completely when he noticed how rigid his comment had made the set of your shoulders. 

“Should I not refer to you that way?” He asked softly, drawing your attention back to him. 

Your eyes went wide as you stared at him, shock and embarrassment swirled in your belly. “No, no… it isn’t that.” 

“Would you prefer something different?” Leon’s voice was still soft and sweet, careful as he questioned. “Darling? Or something simple? Or should I only call you by your given name?”

Still, you stared at him. And it was in this moment as he floundered on what to call you now that you were married, that you realized he was as worried as you were. As scared and anxious about this whole arrangement. It had never once occurred to you that Leon would be troubled by this arrangement or any interaction between the two of you. But as he spoke now, you realized that he must be. Especially if he was now focusing on something as trivial as a pet name. 

“Princess –” 

“No,” you shook your head, very suddenly finding your voice. You met his gaze, seeing the abrupt shock – or maybe fear – in his eyes. “Anything but that. Anything. That feels too… formal.” 

Ever since you met Leon the night you arrived all those weeks ago, he had called you princess. It was your title. Your given duty upon your birth. If he were going to spend the rest of your life calling you anything, you did not want it to be that. It was your one request. It felt too much like a responsibility. Like a requirement for his calling you that. 

“I only meant with respect.” He said softly, once more taking you by surprise. Leon was always full of surprises. “I do not see it as just a title. I mean it with all the love and affection I have for you, tesoro.”

Love and affection. That somehow made you dizzier. You blinked rapidly, trying to shake the whirlwind of thoughts from your head. Trying to focus on him in front of you. The word that slipped from his lips had been almost hesitant. Like he was testing it out. You did not know what it meant, you had never heard it before. It was certainly not a word in your native language. As you replayed the word over and over in your mind, you looked up at him, brow tight with confusion. “What does that mean?” You asked gingerly, your voice timid. “That word? What is it?” 

Leon blinked, looking at you, almost as if he hadn’t realized what he said. It seemed it had just slipped out. “Tesoro.” He said softly. “It is a term of endearment, from the native language locally. It means treasure.” 

He was soft as he explained, his voice gentle. He did not speak to you as if you were simple. He explained plainly, with facts. You sat there, sitting in the meaning of the word. It meant treasure. You could think of the word from your own region with the same meaning. The same intent behind the word. You reached to set the crystal glass in your hands aside on the low wooden table in front of the sofa. Then, you sat deeper in the upholstered velvet sofa, facing him now.

“Trésor,” you whispered softly. “That is the word for treasure in my region.” 

It was small, but it was a connection. A small word, said differently between two people from two different kingdoms. It seemed to join you. You longed to reach for him, to have his hand wrapped around your own. A yearning deep in your chest to feel the warmth of his skin against the palm of your hand. But, you did not yet dare to cross such a boundary. But it seemed you did not need to as Leon crossed it for you. His touch was soft and so full of gentleness it made your head spin as he reached out, hand closing around yours. His hands were so much larger than your own, the skin of his palms rough with years of battle training and riding dragon back. But his touch was so gentle. 

Your heart all but lurched as he held your hand, his opposite one coming to rest atop yours, wrapping it in his warmth. The heat radiated off his skin, seeping into your own, warming you from the inside out. Lightning flashed again, but this time you did not flinch. You felt so safe with Leon, even just sitting next to him, with your hand cradled in his. Security wrapped around you like a shawl, a blanket of warmth and contentment. One you never wanted to leave. 

His eyes flicked between your own, a moment of heavy silence tinged with sparks and tension that you could never escape. There was a flicker in his eyes – that beautiful baby blue that you could only dream of drowning in. It looked almost like hesitation. Like he was afraid to make any movement lest he scared you off. But you yearned for him to kiss you again. Just once more. As he had in the gardens days ago. The gentle touch of his palm to your cheek, his soft breaths, the warm press of his lips to yours. You had dreamt of that moment ever since. In your sleep and your waking hours. You longed to feel his lips again. 

And while Leon seemed to know this – or at least assume this – he made no real move to kiss you again. You wished he would. So, in a moment of blind confidence that you were sure you would never feel again, you inched closer on the sofa. Now, your knees brushed his, your noses inches away. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your mouth. Baby blue eyes flickered over your face. Going between your eyes and your lips in a triangle over and over again. He wanted to kiss you too, it seemed. Or at least, that is what you allowed yourself to believe. 

“Tesoro,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the air between you. His eyes were flitting between yours once more, his body seeming to move on its own as he leaned toward you. “May I kiss you?” 

Leon’s question shocked you. He did not need to ask. He had no reason to ask to kiss you – he was your husband. But he did. And you realized it was because he respected you. He loved you, he had told you this before. But now you knew he respected you. He would not do something you would not want. He would not touch you or claim you as his if he were not sure you wanted to be. He needed the assurance and confirmation that you did. This made you only fall deeper into love with him than you already were. 

With a nod and a nearly inaudible whisper of “yes” falling from your lips, he let out a shuddered breath. As if not knowing if he could advance had pained him.

Leon lifted a hand, his palm gingerly coming up to cup your cheek. The calloused pad of his thumb ran over your cheekbone in soft, soothing motions. He inhaled deeply, his eyes now locked on your lips as he inched closer and closer until his lips met yours. 

It felt like it had been an eternity since you last felt this feeling. His lips meeting yours, slotting between your own, his warmth filling your senses. This time though, you were prepared. You leaned back into it, head tilting to the side as he kissed you, allowing your lips to match like perfect pieces of a puzzle. His hand ran down your face, caressing your neck and coasting down to rest at your back. With a small tug, he urged you forward, your knees now slotted between his open thighs. You wished to be closer, impossibly closer. To absorb his warmth, to bathe in his smell, to be his wholly and fully. 

You felt bold, that impossible surge of confidence burning in your chest as you wrapped your arms around his neck. That felt natural enough, like the right move to make. Leon seemed pleased with this. His breath hitched and his other hand came to rest at the base of your spine. His fingers dug into your skin through the silky fabric of your robe, the heat of his skin seeping into your own. You allowed him to lead, all for the fact that you had no clue what you were doing. You had no prior experience, no inclination of how to proceed. So, you let him lead you. 

And lead you he did. His large hands wrapped around your body, pulling you in closer to him, his warmth melding with your own. It made you feverish, hot and impossibly impatient, the way he pulled you into him, causing you to shift on the sofa. His hands ran up and down your sides, settling on the dip below your hips, fingers digging into the plush flesh there. Never had you been touched there. With anyone else, it would have been improper. But with Leon, it felt right, welcomed, even. He tugged at you, bringing you closer, one hand dragging down to grip the fat of your thigh, pulling you to settle onto his lap. 

Heat pulsed at your cheeks, your heart picking up faster as you straddled his thighs, your own caging his hips. This felt wildly inappropriate, as if you were not supposed to be in this position, but Leon? He loved it. You could tell as his breath hitched once the weight of you settled on him. He pulled back, only a mere few inches, his nose bumping yours. 

“Are you comfortable with this, miele?” Leon asked, voice a rough whisper. He sounded completely out of breath. His thumbs traced gentle patterns over the fat of your thighs as his hands settled there.

It shocked you that he seemed to genuinely care about your comfort and what you wanted. Well, it was Leon, of course he cared. But, you had heard the stories of how many husbands treated their wives your whole life. That they did not care for their wives’ comfort or pleasure in bed. So that is why his concern was a shock to you. 

“Yes,” you nodded, voice just as quiet and hesitant. And you really were comfortable, you wanted this. There was something deep inside you that yearned for Leon in this way. To be as physically close with him as humanly possible. 

Leon’s eyes darted between yours for a moment longer, as if he were gauging whether or not you were telling the truth. Once he seemed satisfied, he kissed you again. Warm and sweet, but deeper this time. His lips slotted between yours, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. Like he wanted to go further, but wanted to be careful with you. You parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to explore the soft inside of your mouth. It wasn’t wet or vulgar like you thought french kissing would be – Claire had once described what it was to you, and you had physically cringed, thinking you would never enjoy or want to experience it yourself. It was pleasant, at least with Leon. 

His teeth gingerly bit down on the plush of your bottom lip as he pulled back, tugging it with him before he let go, his face now buried in the crook of your neck. His nose traced along your skin, breathing you in as he left open mouthed kisses along the expanse of your neck and shoulder. One hand came up to pull the silk robe off your shoulder, pressing kisses to the warm, exposed skin. He was worshipping you. His hands running along your body, his mouth kissing your skin. His hand planted on your hip urged you to move, pressing you down on his lap. A gasp fell from your lips as you felt the hard outline of him through his slacks. Your hands gripped his shoulders, the fabric of his blouse fisted in your hands. 

The friction of his hardness between your legs made your head spin, your heart raced faster in your chest, the pulsing you felt in your core deepening. His hands pressed you down again, causing a whine to rip from your throat. You’d never imagined this, that something as simple and soft as kissing him would lead to you no more than humping him. But you did not want to stop, you couldn’t bring yourself to. And Leon encouraged you, keeping his hands firm on your hips as he kissed over every square inch of exposed skin he could find, leaving soft and open mouthed kisses there. 

“Leon,” his name came from your lips in a gasp, your brows pulled taut as you ground down on his lap. 

“Feeling good?” He murmured; his lips still attached to the skin at the cap of your shoulder. He seemed pleased that you were enjoying yourself, using him to feel good. 

“Yes…yes,” you gasped, grinding down harder and faster on his lap. The friction of him was unreal, unlike anything you’d ever felt. 

But, in an instant, that friction was gone. A whine drug from your lips as Leon grasped your body, hauling you up as he stood. His mouth returned to yours, effectively muffling any sounds of protest that sounded from you. He carried you across his chambers, stopping at the edge of the sprawling bed. He was careful and gentle as he set you down, bending at the waist so he would not separate from you. 

After a moment of lingering kisses, he leaned back, a smirk curling at the corner of his kiss bitten lips at how you chased him. “May I touch you?” He asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes,” you nodded, once again shocked at how he asked you for permission. 

He smiled, pressing a soft peck to your nose before he guided you to lie back on the bed. The plush mattress dipped as you laid back, the untouched velvet bedspread soft and cool against your heated skin. His hands ran up your hips and down your thighs, gingerly parting them enough for him to stand between your legs. His calloused fingers coasted over your plush thighs, stopping at the edge of your underwear. His eyes finally dipped down away from your own as he felt the lacy fabric against his fingertips. 

You watched as his brow furrowed slightly, then his hands moved to untie and part the silken robe that adorned your body. A sudden urge to shrink away from him overwhelmed you. Never had a man seen you in such a state of undress. However, this was your husband. He was allowed to see this. And by the look in his eyes, he wanted to see this. Leon let out an exhale, soft and almost disbelieving. 

“So beautiful, miele.” He whispered against your skin as he began to press kisses against your collarbones. His soft lips trailed down your chest and stomach, stopping at your hip with a lingering kiss before he pulled back mere inches. His finger dipped into the waistband of the lacy underwear, and he slowly pulled them down. Softly and gently, he pulled them off your legs, his hands running up your thighs now that you were bare. “Fuck, so beautiful.” 

Your face and neck flushed hot, the suddenness and rawness of his confession made you want to shrink into the mattress. His hands gripped your hips, plush skin soft against the calloused pads of his fingertips. Leon’s lips pressed to your hipbone, eyes fluttering closed as he kissed you there again, then to the junction of your hip, and down your inner thigh. It felt improper for him to have his head ducked between your thighs. For his hands to be grasping you this way, his lips trailing over your thighs.

“You smell so sweet,” he murmured against your skin, nose nudging the fatty junction of your hip before pressing yet another kiss there. He met your gaze through his eyelashes, pupils blown out and face flushed, his brows pulled together as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. 

Leon’s dominant hand ran down your thigh, coming to cup your heat between your legs. Despite there being little to no real friction with the movement, it still made you gasp. His fingers were slow and gentle as he touched, his middle finger now coming into contact with your cunt. Hot and wet and pulsing. He groaned softly, eyes snapping down to look as he gathered your wetness and spread it around. He studied you for a moment – or really, he studied your pussy. It was so fucking pretty. Wet and ready for him. After what felt like forever if his just rubbing your slick around you, he looked back up at you. Baby blue eyes met yours as he lifted his hand and placed his ring and middle finger in his mouth. His eyes fluttered closed as he sucked your slick from his fingers, groaning as he tasted you. 

“You taste sweet too.” He mumbled, opening his eyes to meet your gaze again. “I suppose it makes sense.” 

Leon seemed pleased with his own comment, hand falling back to your thigh as he ducked his head back down between your legs. Your face was hot, heart racing as you processed the obscenity of what he’d just done. He had tasted you. And proclaimed you to be sweet. You felt dizzy, head spinning as you watched and felt him press a kiss to your mound. Then, his thumbs parted your lips and he kissed you again. But this time it felt different. The feeling made you mewl, your head falling back onto the mattress. His lips closed around your clit, sucking before he let go with a pop of his lips and began to lap at it with his tongue. The feeling of his tongue on you had you gasping, chest heaving as he relentlessly attacked your clit. His dominant hand trailed down to your opening once more, fingers gathering and spreading your wetness before he pushed a single digit into you. He began to shallowly fuck his finger in and out of you, curling upwards as he thrusted it. 

“Does that feel good?” He murmured against your clit, the vibration of his words making your body jerk. You couldn’t seem to give a verbal answer, only managing a nod against the mattress. “Words, tesoro.”

“Yes!” You gasped out at his encouragement, chest heaving. His relentless pace had your thighs shaking, threatening to close around his head. 

Leon kept this pace, continuing to lap and flick his tongue against your clit, adding another finger to fuck in and our of your cunt. You whined, hands fisting the bedspread as you felt a tight coil deep in your belly. He noticed, all because your breathing picked up, your whines and moans getting louder by the second. In an instant, you felt the tightness snap inside you, hot waves of pleasure racking your entire body, legs shaking and back arching off the bed. You came with Leon’s name on your tongue, his name between broken whimpers and cries of building overstimulation. And Leon drank every drop you had to give. His tongue licked your pussy clean, his fingers retreating from you. And he licked those clean as well. 

He sucked your cum off his fingers as he stood from where he knelt before the bed, his own breathing heavy as he placed his warm hands on your sides again. “Are you still with me?”

Your eyes blinked open as you heard Leon’s voice, your mind still hazy and skin still hot as he knelt on the bed over your body. “Yes,” you nodded. 

“Good,” he whispered, smiling down at you with a fondness that made your heart ache. He leaned down, kissing you deeply. And as you tasted yourself on his tongue, you realized you were sweet, as he’d proclaimed. 

Your hands shook as you reached up to cup his face, fingers trembling as you caressed his cheeks, lips parting as he kissed you deeply. His tongue licked in your mouth, his hands caging your ribs, thumbs pressing into the skin below your breasts. He pressed kisses to the corner of your lips, the tip of your nose, your cheeks, and trailing down your neck again. He paused at your collarbone, head resting against your shoulder, lips brushing the dragonscale pendant between your collarbones. The heat of his breath fanned against your chest, his hands gripping your ribs.

“Can I show how much I care for you?” He whispered against your heated skin. “Would you allow me this?” 

You breathed him in – the smell of his skin and the oils he wore. His smell alone made you dizzy. “I would want nothing more.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to his spider silk hair. 

Leon exhaled a heavy and shaky breath, the heat of his breath against your skin making you gasp. His hands were soft and full of what could only be reverence as he pushed away the silky robe that hung off your shoulders. Next, he was careful as he unlaced the soft, lacy bralette that adorned your chest, pushing the fabric off your skin. Your nipples hardened and pebbled against the cool air as they were exposed, his hands running up your sides to cup the soft fat of your breasts. He kneaded them, his soft plush against his palms, until his thumb trailed up to brush against the dragonscale pendant at your chest. His mouth found yours again, hot and deep and needy. You were now completely laid bare to him, your thighs parted as he pressed his still clothed hips against yours. 

Your own hands wandered down his front, finding the bottom hem of his blouse, pushing the fabric up and off his body. His mouth met yours again as your hands ran over his middle appreciatively, fingers coursing over the dips and planes of his body. He was hard built muscle and callouses, where you were soft skin and warm hands. You had never known a day of work, and he had spent his life training and taming dragons. His hard-earned physique and scars made you appreciate him all the more. Fingers running down his front, you reached the tie at the front of his slacks, slowly beginning to untie them. As you did, Leon leaned back, seeming to be impatient. 

Shifting up to lean back on your elbows, you watched as he unlaced his slacks, stepping out of them, and was now completely bare before you. Of course, he was a sight. If he claimed you to be beautiful, then there must not be a word in existence for what he was. His milky skin peppered with dots and moles, his arms were strong and dotted with scars – the most noticeable at his left shoulder, a star-shaped scar that ran straight through, one you wanted to know the story of someday – his thighs were thick and muscular, a scar along the front surface of his left thigh. The sheer size of him had your heart stuttering. Your husband was overall a large man, tall and muscular and broad. But the size of him… perhaps it was because this was the one cock you’d ever really seen. It stood proud, hard and flushed at the tip. Never had you imagined that you would think a cock was pretty, but Leon’s was pretty. Thick and leaking at the tip. Your eyes drug back up to meet his, seeing his flushed face and blown out pupils. 

You were left in absolute awe of him. Angelic was the only word you could really think of. Leon’s eyes met yours again as his knee dipped on the mattress between your spread thighs. His hands caged your head, nose bumping against yours as he kissed you. It was deep and sweet. He pumped his cock a few times before dragging the flushed tip through your slick. It bumped against your clit, making you gasp at the sensation. He lined himself up at your entrance, the tip notched at your slit. 

“Are you ready?” He asked, lips brushing against yours as he seemed to refuse to part too far from you. You nodded breathlessly, unable to form words over your heart lodged in your throat. “You can still change your mind, amore mio.” 

You shook your head again, gasping into his mouth as your hands came up to cup his face again. “No, no, Leon, I want this. I want you.”

Leon’s eyes searched yours again for a second longer before he nodded, nose nudging against yours. “Deep breath,” 

You obeyed, and felt the first inch of him push into you. Your mouth fell open, a gasp pulling through your throat as he pushed his way into you, inch by inch. Leon’s head dipped forward until his forehead rested against yours, his hair tickling your face. It felt like an eternity before he was fully sheathed in you, his hips pressed flush to your own. Your chest heaved, your face hot as your chest pressed to his.

“Good, you did good.” Leon whispered, his hand running up your side to cup your cheek, thumb swiping affectionately over your cheekbone. “So good. Tell me if it hurts at all and I will stop.” 

You nodded against him, mouth chasing his again as he shallowly began to move. The feeling of him fully seated inside you, and now thrusting in and out made your head spin. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs parting wider for him as he began to slowly and deeply fuck you. Your eyes fell closed as he moved, finding a rhythm that felt good for both him and you. Mouth hanging open, pants fell from your lips, his mouth capturing yours in one of his deep, sweet kisses. It wasn’t long before the initial discomfort of the size of him was replaced by deep pleasure. And he could clearly tell by the way you were squeezing him. 

“There we go, beautiful girl.” He whispered against your mouth, his pace unrelenting. “Does that feel good?” 

“Yes, Leon, yes,” you gasped between broken whines and moans. 

Leon smiled against your lips, kissing you again as he picked up the pace. Your arms were wrapped securely around his neck, fingers threading through the hair at the base of his neck. His hair was just as soft as you had imagined – exactly like the spider silk you loved to compare it to. Your hands gently fisted his hair, and he let out a groan against your mouth. Experimentally, you pulled again. His cock jerked inside of you. Oh, he liked that. You did it again and again, keeping your grip on his hair tight but not so that it would be uncomfortable. His hips snapped against yours as he adjusted the angle of his hips. You weren’t sure why, you were comfortable beneath him. Maybe he was uncomfortable on top of you. 

But then you felt it. He hunched over you, one hand coming down to grasp the underside of your thigh and hiked it up around his hip. You gasped, loud and high pitched as the tip of his cock nudged that sensitive spot inside you. He groaned, voice muffled as his lips were locked on yours. “There it is.” 

You weren’t sure what he was talking about, but it felt so good it made you dizzy. Your heart pounded in your ears, toes curling, and gasps getting louder as he fucked you. No, as he made love to you. This was a proclamation of his love and his want for you. This was far more than the duty between husband and wife to produce heirs. This was truly for pleasure and love. You could feel it by the way his dick moved in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you over and over again. Your hands ran down his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as your own hips began to cant up against his. 

“Leon,” you whined, head turning to the side before you ducked your face into the crook of his neck. 

“I know,” he whispered against your skin, tongue laving at your shoulder as he continued the same pace. 

Leon kissed and nipped and sucked at your skin in encouragement, holding your body to his, chest pressed against yours. His hips pistoned into you, your breaths mingling in the small space between your faces. Your noses bumped and nudged together as you tilted your face forward, lips chasing his for the relief of his kiss. He obliged you, lips slotting between yours as you finally came. You gasped into his mouth, nails clawing at his back as you shook and trembled beneath him. Stars danced behind your eyelids, your pulse racing as you whined and mewled, the sounds muffled against his mouth. 

Your orgasm lasted for what felt like ages, the feeling of him continuing to move inside you prolonging the waves of indescribable pleasure. Leon’s own movements were jerky, messy and uncoordinated. His hips stuttered against yours, his face ducking to bury in the crook of your neck. As you felt the waves of your pleasure ebb away, you could tell Leon’s own was just starting. He snapped his hips against yours harshly, punctuating each deep thrust with a pant of hot breath against your skin. 

“I love you.” He whispered, lips brushing against your neck. “I have since the day–” he cut himself off, a groan falling from his lips. “The day of our portrait. Gods, your smile. I love it. I love you.”

Leon gasped, his body curling into yours as he came, spilling deep inside you. He punctuated his orgasm with a last few deep thrusts before he stilled inside you. Your blood roared in your ears at his confession, mixed with the feeling of his cum spilling inside you. Your hands gently ran up and down his back, soothing him through his own peak of pleasure. It was mindless, your movement of comfort. Because your head was spinning. Leon had loved you almost instantly. He had fallen for you so soon. Much sooner than you had. Of course, since the night you met him you had been enamored with him. However, your love for him came later. You couldn’t even properly place it, when the love for him became real to you. Perhaps the night of your betrothal ball. Or when he kissed you in the gardens. Though, really, you thought it must have been when he gifted you one of Shirsos’ scales. That scale dipped in gold around the edges that now rested between your breasts.

“I love you too.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair, hands still soothing his back. 

You swore you felt him flinch, or heard a gasp. His arms snaked around your middle as he laid his weight atop you, his cock softening inside you. Leon held you close to him, his face still buried in your neck. As if he could not bear to meet your gaze. However, you wished to see his eyes. Those gorgeous cerulean eyes you loved so much. Your dominant hand trailed up his back and shoulder until you cupped his cheek, urging him to lift his head. At the sight you saw, your heart almost damn near stopped. 

Leon’s eyes were watery and red rimmed. His face was covered in that deep beautiful flush, his brows curved up, lips downturned as his eyes swam with unshed tears. Your chest clenched at the sight, at the knowledge that he was crying. Your thumb smoothed over his cheekbone, catching a stray tear that finally fell. Eyes searched each other as you thought of what on earth to say to him. How to offer him any semblance of comfort. 

“Leon, I love you too.” You whispered, your own voice hoarse and rough. 

This second and affirming admission was what really broke him. His eyes squeezed shut, his face nuzzling into your palm. Despite the silent tears that coursed down his cheeks, he had a smile on his lips. Soft and what could only be described as content. Happy, fulfilled. 

Life as the Crown Prince’s wife had proven quite enjoyable. Your days were filled with good company and undying love. From your new family, your ladies, your future subjects, and most importantly, your husband. Your husband. 

Leon was your greatest blessing. The night of your wedding had been spent in a tangle of limbs, trading kisses and admissions of love. Leon told you he first knew he loved you the day of your portrait. Or really, when he had taken you to the stables to meet Shirsos. He confessed he had never previously believed in any legend of dragons seeing into the soul of a person. But his view on that changed when Shirsos met you. The dragon loved you, almost more than she loved Leon. 

You had told him your love began when he gifted you Shirsos’ scale. That scale – it had nearly killed him. That night, after you had come down from your highs with him still nestled deep inside you, he told you what that scale around your neck did to him. To Leon, it may as well have been a proclamation of your belonging to him. Conscious or not. He loved seeing it around your neck, nestled comfortably between your collarbones, which was one of his own favorite places to be. 

Leon never pushed duty on you. Never rushed you to bear his children. In fact, he declared to you he wanted you all to himself for a while before you even began the discussion of children. That alone made you happy. He did not hold you to any expectation other than being you. And you were happy to be his wife, but he also saw you as more than just his wife. You were his everything. And in turn, he was yours. 

Tales and stories of your love circled the globe. How despite being sold off to each other, you found love and home in each other. A comfort to many a royal or noble across lands. Citizens of your own continent and many others swore Leon would rule with grace and a level head, and you at his side cemented these theories. He was firm in war council until you walked in. He was regal at the head of banquets until he took his seat next to you. He was viewed as cold and unloving and incapable of feelings until he married you. The world knew Leon of House Kennedy was soft for his wife, and he would have it no other way. 

Leon was your greatest blessing from the divine. And all it took was a simple political negotiation, and a single bloodred dragonscale dipped in gold around the edges. 

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“What?” you hiccup.

“You’re shivering.”

As if to prove his point, his hands—calloused and strong from years of use—dance along your sides. They move from the dip of your hips to where your breasts bulge at their sides.

Sighing, you say, “Well, when you do that…” and bury your face into the mattress.

Leon laughs and your body absorbs it like it’s your own. As if your bones are conductors, the sound sends an addictive jolt to the pulsing organ in your chest and between your thighs.

“We don’t have to do this, you know, if you’re too nervous.”

You’re quick to shake your head and even quicker to arch back into him. A little absently, you think then about how in this position, you two slot perfectly together—like you were made to fit.

“Want to,” you add weakly. “Wanna do this with you, Lee. Please.” For good measure (as if your words in all their breathy, whiney nature weren’t indicative of how you felt), you start to roll your hips back. Leon groans loud.

His flushed, hot tip rests just inches away from your weepy hole. He watches you flutter on nothing; as the slick pooling there catches the silvery moonlight strobing through the bedroom window. You look so pretty like this, he thinks. God-sent and lovely and all his. To take, to have, to hold…

Your hips move again, slowly, dangerously, and Leon stops you with a hard hand to the dip of your spine, making you squeak. “Baby…” he warns.

“Leon, please. Please, honey…wan’ you so much.”

Leon inhales, all sharp and shaky. “Alright…yeah, yeah, okay. …Whatever you want, baby.” He kisses your spine once more as he crawls up your body.

With his thighs bracketing yours, he pushes down on you with the hard line of his abs. His pecs—all swollen and round and slick with sweat—cement to your shoulders. The sheer mass of his body feels as if it’s swallowing you whole. You preen at the contact, letting out a mewl so pathetic you even surprise yourself.

Gradually then, with the kind of control and calculation he exhibits at work, Leon pushes his thick head through your gummy walls. He’s so painfully hard that it takes everything in him to go slow. And, by the time his pelvis is flush to your ass, he already feels spent.

The crook of Leon’s chin hooks around your shoulder ensuring his face is firmly pressed against yours. He pants heavy in your ear, and out of the corner of your vision, you see his face flush a berry-red.

“Fuck, baby. You—shit—y’feel—”

“Leon…‘m ready.”

The man nods, mainly to himself, before pressing a chaste kiss to your collarbone. Slowly—just as slowly as he entered you—his hips draw back. The languid drag of him has you grasping aimlessly at the sheets; the thick vein that curves around his even thicker cock is relentless in catching the ridges of your walls. In this position, you’re able to feel all of him. “God, Leon...”

Of course, sex with Leon has always been something else entirely…but this? There aren’t enough words in any language to describe the way you’re feeling right now.

“I know, baby, I know. I need you just as bad,” Leon purrs. You just nod along, jaw falling as Leon slowly slides back into you. He braces himself then, arching and tightly curving over your figure.

“How do you want it, baby? Like this?” His hips speed up then, shallow thrusts that have your thighs immediately stinging with the friction of being stationary. Still, you groan, eyes rolling back into your head as he keeps pace. After a while, Leon shifts over top of you again. “Or do you want it like this?” With steady hips, he suddenly slams forward, the action practically punching your soul straight out of your body. You cry when his head shoves directly into that spongey notch deep inside you.

Desperately, you reach for the hand braced by your head. Leon locks your fingers with his before bringing them to the soft skin of his mouth.

“Hm, you like that?” You try to crane your head so that you can meet your boyfriend’s eyes, but Leon ‘tsks’ at you. You aren’t at all ashamed by the attempt or his response, though. It’s done without any sort of malice. Nothing more than light teasing, born from a place of reverence and pure, unadulterated love. “Use your words, baby. Gotta know you want it. Need to know I’m making you feel good, y’know?”

“Shit, Le—yes. Yes, like that. Fuck—“ you manage to eventually get the words out, only for another thrust to leave you blubbering.

Leon lets go of your hand, but only for the briefest of moments, before his fingers come up under your jaw. He cradles your face as he finds your mouth, a curtain of his blonde hair hanging low over your eyes. He licks at your own tongue, at the corners of your lips, behind your teeth… Any and every inch of space he can reach becomes learned in a matter of seconds (as if he already wasn’t so intimately accustomed).

Because of the pillow beneath your hips, Leon’s able to fix his grip on you every once in a while—whether the pads of his fingers are digging into the tempting plains of your waist, or the fat of your shuddering thighs. Each thrust has his pubic bone bouncing against your ass in an even, but incredibly hard-hitting pace.

Leon nips at your earlobe, gently tugging on the loose flesh so as strengthen (or perhaps ground) his dwindling resolve. In little time, he feels the effects of his impending orgasm: his balls tightening against your puffy clit, dick swelling deep within your walls…

You’re just so warm, and so wet, and so…so good to him, so good for him, Leon can’t resist the flurry of emotions threatening to escape him. “Fuck, I love you. Love you so much, baby. Always so tight for me. Shit. Y’love sucking me in like this, don’t you?”

“Leon…” is all you can manage to say. It’s the only warning your hazy brain can conjure up; the only thing on the tip of your tongue other than another strangled whimper.

Leon understands though. He always does.

You’re close. Really, really close. The sound of your squelching slick as he rifles through you over and over; the way your spine arches and your feet start to helplessly kick out from beneath you—it’s all the confirmation he needs.

The muscles in his arms have begun to strain, a sharp tightness that blooms from his wrist all the way up to his shoulders. He takes the opportunity then to collapse onto you, carefully accommodating some of his weight with his knees so as not to smother you entirely (though he would without question if that’s what you asked).

The sounds of your whines pitch higher and higher with every snap of his hips. You’re shaking again, though this time it’s for sure an unconscious act. In relieving his arms from the awkward angle, Leon’s able to wrap an arm around your head, and you nearly choke on spit when you realize what he’s doing.

Leon’s arm—meaty bicep, veins, and all—rests safely against your collarbone, holding you snug to his chest. His cheek is pressed to yours again, so close that you’re convinced you’re practically becoming one (as if you haven’t already…). You’re both two halves of one heart stitched together; all haphazard, but terrifyingly real.

“I need you to come for me. Can you do that, baby? Can you make a mess for me?” His voice is a beautiful ragged sound—one that in any other situation would have you pushing your hips back to meet his. But not this time. Leon has you locked in place, pliant and safe as the knot of your orgasm pulls tighter and tighter, threatening to snap.

So with that, you opt to just nod into Leon’s arm, albeit rather weakly. Suddenly, you feel a different kind of pressure come up between your hips.

Leon somehow managed to sneak his free hand down to your cunt, calculated fingers once again toying with your clit in easy circles. And that alone that has you coming with a sharp and stuttered gasp. While you shudder and twitch, Leon continues his ministrations; humping and grinding into you while his own release crests.

He grunts and huffs as he spills into you, as if his fucked-out body can’t decide on which sound it wants or needs to make. Regardless, all that really matters is that you’re holding on tight to him, whispering something about how good he makes you feel and how much you love him.

Of course, Leon has to return the sentiment tenfold. He doesn’t say it exactly like how you did (he’s never been the best with words), but as he cleans you up, petting your head and kissing everywhere the damp cloth doesn’t—from the inner curve of your knee, to your navel, to the hollow of your throat—he knows that you understand.

You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.

The board flickered.

For a split second, everything went dark.

Then the names snapped into place.

#1 — YOU #2 — LEON KENNEDY

The reaction was immediate.

A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.

You didn’t smile.

Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.

Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.

He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.

That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.

“Congrats.”

The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.

“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”

A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”

There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.

You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.

Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.

Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.

Then he turned away.

As if the conversation hadn’t mattered. As if you hadn’t mattered.

Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.

He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.

The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.

As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.

You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.

The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.

“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”

The reaction was immediate and universal.

Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.

You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.

It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.

Conference Room A.

You grimaced internally.

The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.

You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.

Of course.

Leon was already there.

Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.

There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.

Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.

Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.

No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.

Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.

The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.

Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.

“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”

Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.

“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”

The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.

“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”

You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”

A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.

“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”

You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”

For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.

A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.

You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.

Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.

And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.

As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.

It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.

Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.

You refused to glance at him.

The handler cleared their throat sharply.

“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.

Leon didn’t move at all.

Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.

The briefing ended the way most did.

Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.

The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.

It couldn’t.

Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.

You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.

“You. Kennedy. Stay.”

Your spine stiffened.

Of course.

Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.

The rest of the room emptied fast.

Too fast.

Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.

Click.

The sound echoed.

Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.

The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.

They looked unimpressed.

Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.

Their gaze flicked to you.

Then to Leon.

Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.

“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”

Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.

You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.

The handler tapped the remote.

The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.

THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT

A private gala supporting global medical innovation.

You scoffed quietly.

The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.

“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”

Another click.

A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.

“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”

Your focus sharpened despite yourself.

“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.

Leon beat you by half a second.

“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”

You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.

The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.

“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”

Too clean.

You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”

“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”

Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.

“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.

“Already handled.”

The handler clicked again.

The screen changed.

Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.

A couple.

Your stomach dropped.

You read it once.

Then again.

And again.

Couple profile.

You looked up slowly. “No.”

The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”

You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”

Leon still hadn’t spoken.

His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.

His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.

If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.

“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”

You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”

“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”

Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”

“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”

You opened your mouth.

“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”

Leon finally spoke.

“And if we refuse?”

Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.

The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”

Cold. Final.

You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”

“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”

“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.

Leon glanced at you then.

Brief. Sharp.

Unreadable.

He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.

He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.

You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.

The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.

“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”

The words landed hard. Because they were true.

Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.

Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.

“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”

You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.

“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”

They looked at you both.

“Try not to embarrass me.”

The door unlocked with a hiss.

You didn’t move.

Neither did Leon.

The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.

You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.

The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.

The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.

A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.

One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.

And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.

UNDERCOVER COHABITATION PROFILE — COUPLE LEGEND BUILD

You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.

“Sit,” the handler said.

Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.

The handler slid two clipboards across the table.

“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”

They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”

Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.

You hated him a little extra for it.

“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”

The door shut.

Click.

You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.

You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.

How did you meet?

When did you move in together?

Anniversary date:

Pet names used in public:

Pet peeves:

Shared routines:

Preferred terms of endearment (optional):

Your jaw clenched.

“This is ridiculous.”

Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”

You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”

He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”

The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”

Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”

His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”

You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”

“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”

“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”

Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”

“And Vienna isn’t?”

“It’s believable.”

“So is Prague.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”

“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”

“Wow. Growth.”

The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.

Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”

You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”

“It’s memorable.”

“It makes me clumsy.”

“It explains why we talked.”

You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”

“And?”

“It makes me the asshole.”

You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”

For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.

“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.

“November,” Leon said without hesitation.

“Why November?”

“Forgettable.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”

You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”

His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.”

You wrote it down anyway.

Pet peeves.

You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”

Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”

“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”

“What’s yours?” he countered.

“Men who think silence counts as depth.”

His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“That’s not a pet peeve.”

“It is when it’s constant.”

Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”

“Observant.”

Next line.

Pet names used in public.

You stared at it like it might explode.

“No.”

“We need something.”

“Something neutral.”

“Babe.”

You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Try again.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Honey.”

Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”

“It’s normal.”

“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

“Pick one.”

You exhaled hard. “Love.”

He froze.

“What?” you snapped.

“It’s… British.”

“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”

He did.

Your stomach did something annoying.

You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”

Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”

He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.

“You’re insane,” you muttered.

“It’s my job.”

The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.

“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”

The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.

Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.

This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.

Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.

You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.

Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.

“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”

Lucky me.

Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.

“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.

The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”

The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.

You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.

You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.

The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.

He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.

Too close.

His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.

“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.

You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”

You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.

Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.

Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.

You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.

“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.

Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”

It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.

“Again,” the handler barked.

The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.

“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.

“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.

“You’re predictable.”

“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”

“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.

You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.

He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.

By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.

You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.

“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”

The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.

You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.

A target snapped up from a left-side port.

You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -

Leon moved.

No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.

He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.

Protective. Automatic.

The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.

Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.

“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.

Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.

You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.

The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.

Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.

Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.

This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.

You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.

Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.

You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.

The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.

Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.

No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.

Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”

“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.

Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.

His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.

He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”

You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”

Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.

A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.

Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”

His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”

“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”

“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”

You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.

Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.

An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.

Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.

“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.

Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”

You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”

“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.

“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”

You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”

“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”

The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.

As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.

The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.

He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.

You were starting to resent how good he was at it.

A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.

“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.

“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”

You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.

“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”

You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.

“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”

Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”

Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”

The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.

“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.

Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”

“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.

There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.

You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”

“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”

He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.

The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.

He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.

You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”

A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”

He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.

“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.

“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.

“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”

“You’re leading.”

“I am not.”

“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”

You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”

He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”

The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.

Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.

It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.

Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.

The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.

The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.

Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”

You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.

His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.

You were still holding on. And so was he.

Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.

“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”

He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”

He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.

Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.

He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.

Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.

"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."

But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.

One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.

And then his mouth is on yours.

It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.

The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.

His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.

And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.

But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.

You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.

"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."

Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.

"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.

The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.

Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."

"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.

He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.

You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.

The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.

You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.

The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.

You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.

Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.

“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”

Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.

“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”

You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”

“We gain speed.”

“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”

Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.

“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”

You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”

“It accounts for us adapting.”

“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”

His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.

“I’m playing it smart,” he says.

You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”

A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.

The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”

“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”

“We won’t,” he says too fast.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”

For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”

“And if comms drop?” you ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”

The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”

You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.

“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”

Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.

You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.

The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.

A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.

You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.

You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.

You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.

Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.

“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”

A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”

“Where?”

“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”

Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.

“Leon,” you hiss.

“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”

“Working on it.”

Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.

“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.

“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”

A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.

“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”

You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.

“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”

“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.

“Move,” he says.

You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.

You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.

It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.

Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.

A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.

Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.

“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”

“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”

As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.

These are Umbrella’s.

The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.

Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.

“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”

Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.

“You okay?” he asks, already moving.

“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”

“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.

A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.

Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”

“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.

Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.

A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.

Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”

You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.

Two Umbrella operatives are already there.

No time for thought.

You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.

The man drops.

Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.

Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.

Back-to-back.

It happens instinctively.

No discussion. No argument. No ego.

Just movement.

Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”

You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”

“Copy.”

You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.

The first wave hits.

A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.

Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.

The man goes down.

Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.

You fire.

Leon fires.

Two bodies fall.

You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.

And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.

He moves like he belongs here.

So do you.

A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.

“Stay low,” he murmurs.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.

Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”

You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.

You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.

It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.

You fight the same way.

Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.

You both make decisions in fractions of a second.

You both adjust without needing to speak.

You both anticipate.

Mirrors.

The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.

And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.

Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.

A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.

“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.

Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”

You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.

You clear him and keep moving.

The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.

For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.

Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.

You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.

He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”

“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”

He shakes his head once.

Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”

Leon’s gaze meets yours.

And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.

Just certainty.

“We finish this,” he says.

You swallow, pulse still pounding.

“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”

Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.

Like you were always meant to.

You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.

The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.

You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.

Leon turns toward you immediately.

“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.

“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.

His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.

You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”

Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”

“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”

“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”

The word lands heavier than either of you expect.

You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”

Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”

You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”

“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.

You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”

Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”

The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.

Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.

Your pulse finally begins to slow.

You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.

It clicks.

He never underestimated you.

Not once.

All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.

But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.

He wasn’t looking down on you.

He was matching you.

Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.

Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.

His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he says.

Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.

Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”

You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”

He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.

Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.

The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.

It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.

Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.

You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.

He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.

You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.

You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.

Done.

For now.

Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.

Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.

A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.

Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.

You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.

But there is nothing to chase.

No alarms. No targets.

Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.

Your body is remembering you’re human.

It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.

The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.

You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.

Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”

He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.

Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.

“Sit,” Leon says.

It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.

“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.

Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.

He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.

You watch him for half a second too long.

The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.

A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.

He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.

So he’s not untouched either.

That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.

It doesn’t.

It makes your throat tighten.

“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.

You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”

He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”

The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.

You should refuse out of principle.

Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.

Leon takes your hand.

His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s blood.”

You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”

A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.

He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.

You hate that.

“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.

Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”

The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.

He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.

You feel it like a spark.

You hate that you feel it.

Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.

Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.

The silence returns.

He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.

You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.

The strip light hums.

Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.

The first time you tried to speak to him.

The way he ignored you.

The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.

It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.

You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.

But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.

“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”

Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.

You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.

You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.

You blink. “What?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”

Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.

Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”

You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.

Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”

The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.

“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.

Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”

He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”

His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.

“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.

Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”

“So you said nothing.”

“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”

Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.

It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.

The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.

You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.

“Leon,” you say, voice low.

He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.

Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.

You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.

“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.

Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.

“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”

Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.

“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”

Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”

Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”

The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”

The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.

“I noticed,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Noticed what?”

“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”

He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”

You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”

“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”

“In what?” you ask quietly.

“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.

The air between you changes.

Not explosively. Not dramatically.

It settles.

You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.

Equals.

“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.

Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”

That shouldn’t undo you.

It does.

Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.

Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”

“Same thing.”

For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.

You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again.  You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.

Leon doesn’t retreat.

His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.

Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.

The moment teeters.

It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.

Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.

Your heart stutters.

Then -

A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.

Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.

“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”

The spell shatters.

Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.

You exchange one look.

Not rivals. Not enemies.

Partners.

“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.

Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”

You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.

Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.

Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.

The first impact hits the door like a warning.

Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.

Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.

“Move,” he says at the same time you do.

The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.

Darkness swallows the room.

For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.

Then the world explodes.

Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.

“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.

Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.

Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.

“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.

Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”

Personal, then.

Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.

A message.

A punishment.

You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.

Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.

“On my mark,” you murmur.

“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.

The door buckles.

A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.

You fire first.

A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.

Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.

“Push!” Leon barks.

You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.

You don’t think.

You move.

Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.

“Left,” he snaps.

A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.

Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.

You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.

More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.

Leon shifts behind you.

Back-to-back, without discussion.

The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.

A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.

“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?

“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.

Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.

For a second, you don’t register what happened.

Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.

He staggers.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

“Leon!” you gasp, turning-

He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.

Blood. Too much.

His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.

“I’m fine,” he grits out.

“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”

Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.

“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.

You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”

Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”

“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”

He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.

The sight guts you.

The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.

“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.

Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.

Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.

The corridor fills with footsteps again.

You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.

You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.

“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”

Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”

You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.

An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.

You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.

Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.

That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.

You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.

The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.

You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.

You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.

You don’t remember sitting.

You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.

Leon is alive.

The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.

Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.

Now it’s just the two of you again.

Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.

You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You should sit,” he says quietly.

You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.

The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.

Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.

“I scared you,” he says.

It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.

It’s a statement.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

Another silence. Thicker. More honest.

“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.

“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”

Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”

“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.

You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.

The hesitation is mutual.

“You don’t have to-” he starts.

“I want to,” you say softly.

The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.

Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.

You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.

This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.

You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.

When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.

Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.

It’s nothing like the kiss before.

There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.

Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.

His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.

His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.

He doesn’t comment.

He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.

When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.

You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.

When you pull back, it’s slow.

Reluctant.

Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.

When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.

“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”

You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”

The silence returns again after that.

But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.

It simply lets you be.

The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.

Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.

You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.

The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.

“Extraction successful,” they say. “Data secured. Umbrella assets neutralised. Collateral contained.”

You nod. Leon nods.

Professional. Controlled.

There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.

The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.

“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”

High praise, coming from them.

They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.

Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.

But it feels different.

You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.

For a split second, the screen goes dark.

Then the names appear.

You stop.

So does Leon.

#1 — YOU

#1 — LEON KENNEDY

Perfectly even.

Tied.

You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.

It doesn’t come.

Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.

That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.

You are almost naked — barely a piece of cloth draped over your intimate parts — on the warm stone bench, skin gleaming from the cream, on display like an offering for his eyes. You don’t touch each other and yet, you do.

Your shoulders sag slightly when you hear him call you out on your foolishness; the corners of your mouth pull upwards as you look at him, staring through half-lidded eyes at his beauty like he is another sun and you may go blind.

“Don’t be mean! Not everyone has the energy to make a scientific discovery when breathing alone takes away any motivation!” you whine at him with mouth full of cold grapes, which results in him rolling his eyes at you.

Alas, he’s also standing up and stepping closer.

You watch him take a piece of the peeled orange, only to eat it in front of you. And that would have been enough for your eyes to follow his lips, as well as for your heart to speed up, but Veritas takes it a step further and slowly wipes away the juice dripping down his chin with his thumb, before bringing it to his mouth and licking it off. Your brain immediately screams at you for being so obvious, stupidly fascinated by the man as you stare at his wet thumb, then at his tongue and lastly at his beautiful lips.

At this point, you have already forgotten what you were saying before he interrupted you.

“You might not possess any desire to concoct hypotheses, nor do you long for scientific development, but seem to be perfectly capable of thinking lustful of me.”

This makes you drop the bunch of grapes you had been about to eat and splutter in denial, scrambling to collect them off the floor. They’re dusty now, so you try to clean the residue in water. It doesn’t work as well as you wish it did, but once again, you fail to realise Veritas staring at you.

He waits patiently for you to finish cleaning up after yourself, sitting next to you. Clearly amused at your display of nervousness, his palm travelling along your spine and pulling the cloth just an inch to the side to let it slide on its own from your body. You look at him wide-eyed, at the small smirk on his lips and the intensity of his eyes; it takes you a moment to comprehend what is happening.

He pats his thigh and you sit there on the mosaics, biting your lower lip and pretending not to want to wrap your legs around his waist and nibble on his neck. But he can see through you.

He always does.

“I can spare you some time. Don’t waste it, indulge yourself. Come here,” he orders and you do so immediately, nearly dropping the grapes again in your haste to obey.

The cloth uncovers your entire chest by the time you straddle his lap and he sighs contentedly at your nakedness, stroking your sides from ribcage to your breasts, weighing your tits before he leans forward, taking it into his mouth and biting down slightly, making you yelp.

You circle your arms around his shoulders, pull him closer to you and press your lips against his neck, murmuring his name, all while he moves his hands to your ass, grabbing on the soft flesh and pulling your pelvis closer to his own.

It makes you want to bite down on the ivory skin on his shoulder, but instead, you mutter out, “this won’t help us cool down…”

And he replies, “as if I’m going to believe you won’t pout at me if we stop now. Would you really like to part with me?” as he says it, his thumbs swipe like feathers up your buds, eating a shudder consuming your entire silhouette.

He looks down to see your nipples harden, before you embrace him tighter and place a sloppy peck on his cheek, arms hugging him from behind, fingertips pressing into his back to have an excuse to make him not stare. You can feel his smirk against your neck.

This time he lets you lead, fingers threading through his hair as you make out with him in the empty atrium. He sits perfectly still beneath you, athletic legs spreading your own apart even more until there is no room for doubts that he likes what you do to him — your folds sliding along the hot length of his cock. His tongue runs over yours when you slip it inside his mouth, exploring him like you did not already do that once, and twice, and countless times.

You remember when he showed you how to kiss properly and gave you instructions on how to make him pleased. You were innocent then, shy as he made you take off your tunic and examine his naked form. Now, you yearn for his body as he does for yours, trembling in anticipation when he uncovers his perfect skin.

He used to teach you all sorts of things, but they all led to this very moment when he lets you ride him in his own house, feeding you his fruits and welcoming you anytime you wish to busy his precious time.

Your arms lock behind his neck, pulling him even closer, fingers entangled in his long hair as you continue making out. He takes a hold of your hips and stills you, rubbing his thumbs into the soft flesh before letting go, sliding down your ass to rest on your thighs.

He likes this, the feeling of your hands in his hair, your fingers playing with his long tresses, taking the strands between your digits and making them dance and wave like silk. He enjoys it more than you do.

And when you hear his exhale, it sends shivers up your spine — a moan right into your mouth as you both enjoy the other. You notice the tip of his tongue peeking out of his lips and you capture it with your own, closing your mouth around it and sucking gently. His nails dig into your flesh when you do this, sharp and unannounced, but definitely not unwanted.

“Already?” he whispers with a tint of mockery in his voice, feeling your shaky fist sneaking between your bodies to find his cock. Your finger brushes against the wet slit at the head, stroking him teasingly, just like he showed you before. But it’s obvious by now that you’re one mewl away from pouncing at him, trying to fit his entire girth inside.

However, Veritas has a little more self-control than you do and when he senses your impatience, he places his hand on top of yours and stops your ministrations. Then he leans in and pecks your lips before guiding your palm away from his hard length, placing it back on his chest.

You sigh against his lips, clearly disappointed.

“I know well that you want it just as much as I do…”

“Perhaps.”

“Then…? Please?”

He tilts his head to the side and takes in the sight of your naked form, bare for his eyes to drink you in and make you feel exposed, vulnerable. Then he glances down, lets his gaze trail from your face to your chest, takes in the view of your nipples — peaked and glistening from his saliva — before lowering it even more and shamelessly staring at your cunt.

You gasp quietly at his intense stare, feeling yourself drip when he parts your lower lips with two fingers and, with a subtle roll of his hips, let the glossy cockhead greet the revealed clit. It is merely a moment, yet you could see how good it would feel if he were to slide in.

But he doesn’t do that.

He leaves you there on the edge, all bothered and horny, covered in your own slick.

His tongue slides along his lower lip as he reaches down to squeeze himself in hand, smearing your wetness all over the shaft, coating it in your nectar.

The sigh he lets out is enough to make your legs weak and for you to press yourself against him, bare skin sticking together with sweat — the sweetest kind.

“Use your words.”

You huff in frustration at that, shamelessly rutting against him, desperate to have him inside. Your own juices flow freely down your thighs as you pant into his ear, incoherent pleads leaving your mouth before you finally manage to form a sentence.

“Inside… Please, let’s just continue. I want you in me…” you whisper against his lips and he sighs, lifting you up like you weigh nothing and slipping inside. Your body gives in easily, swallowing him to the hilt with a sweet moan that he kisses out of you.

“Happy now?” he asks and you nod. It is quite indescribable.

“Happy. Happy with you.”

His smile is genuine and your eyes flutter closed when he moves your hips up and down, thrusting into you slowly at the same time. It sends a wave of pleasure through your entire body and your soft pussy pulses, drooling arousal around his shaft until it’s too easy to glide deep enough to meet your womb.

The afternoon heat makes the entire scene feel like a dream.

It is too hot to move, but the water soaks into your skin, cooling you down. His fingers squeeze your asscheeks, spreading them apart, leaving them covered in goosebumps. You moan his name loudly when he leans in to smooch your nipple and then suck on it gently, all while moving you against his pelvis, putting more force into every thrust as he rolls his hips, burying himself inside you.

Veritas shudders with every small noise that leaves your lips, his eyelids heavy as he watches you — face twisted in pleasure, head thrown back and hands grasping at his shoulders for support. He places his palm over your stomach, pressing down to force you to tighten, feeling your muscles throb with life inside you.

When he bucks up into you, a lewd wet sound fills the air, making your cunt contract around his cock.

The soft click of his tongue between teeth is enough to let you know he likes it. You try to look at him through hazy eyes, but you don’t last long before your lids close once again and you surrender yourself to his ministrations.

Then he smiles against your lips, teasing you by pulling away just when you lean in for a kiss.

You squeeze your thighs together as much as possible to hold him inside, but he only needs to pry your legs apart to continue the pleasurable dance. There is a faint sound of water dripping from the aqueduct outside his atrium and it echoes against the walls.

You try to grind your hips down to meet his thrusts, but he only moves slower, murmuring into your ear that you will not like it if you overdo it. It feels almost overwhelming at this point. You let out a groan when he cups your tit, presses it up, rubs his thumb against the stiff nipple and leans down to nip on it again, tracing around the areola before gently nibbling on the bud, feeling your pussy contract every time he bites.

His other hand slides up your spine, between your shoulder blades and then up your neck, tangling in your hair. You can barely stay up at this point, with his girth inside you, keeping you full and his teeth biting into your skin — if it weren’t for him holding you close to his body, you would collapse onto the floor, spent.

There is no time for teasing as he thrusts into you again, harder than before, almost lifting you up. When he starts moving your hips for you, you can only moan, clinging to him, fingers clutching at his hair.

He fucks you like this for a moment, feeling your cunt pulse around him, slick dripping from you with every push of his length inside you. It makes a mess on his thighs, leaking down onto the floor, and you beg him to come soon before you give in to the pleasure rush yourself.

It does not take long for him to lean back, support himself with one arm against the mosaic floor and hold your hips still as he buries himself deep into you. His breathing is shaky and laboured, making you worry he might lie down or lose balance, but then he sits up, embraces you tightly and buries his face in the crook of your neck, trying to calm down.

Warmth coming from within, his cum filling you up, a scorching heat of desire that could only rival the temperature outside. You feel him throb with every drop that spills out, in tandem grinding your clit closer to his skin and prolonging your own orgasm. The entire experience makes you whimper his name softly and press closer to him, your breasts squished to his chest. He feels you hug him, hear you sniffling quietly as you shudder with every wave of pleasure passing through your body, rubbing your cheek against his shoulder and crying out when it gets too much.

Veritas doesn’t want to part from you just yet.

So he stays inside you, chest rising and falling with heavy breathing, lips leaving soft kisses on your shoulder. He picks up a grape, feeds it to you, listens to you chewing on it and chuckle as you frown, clearly confused at the gift to bite on but happy with the ripe taste. You look up at him and ask if he is finally satisfied.

And he responds, “with you? Yes.”

He doesn’t know the affectionate names a mother would call their child, or the scoldings she would scream if they misbehaved. He can’t even count high enough to count the fingers on his hand, and the alphabet is foreign to him. 

What little he knows about the culture of his people comes from the stories he’s heard from the Kremnoan detachment, or a book or two from his library. What he’s experienced of the culture is limited in its own right. Being denied the right to his land since birth has left him with no understanding of the tongue his mother had spoken to him upon his birth. (Gorgo is dead. He did not get enough time with her, and what time he did receive is time he cannot even recall, and he knows this well. But rather than mourn, he’s decided that learning her language might be the only way to tether himself to her in this world—even if she’s already passed on to the next.) 

You find him with a book today, sitting with it opened on the table as he rakes his eyes over the words carefully.

Mydei does not spend his free time reading often. His free time consists of sparring and bathing and cooking. (Maybe fucking, too, if you’re around). It consists of headaches about a prophecy, and the people of Amphoreus, and protecting this world from things like the Black Tide. It consists of many things, but it does not consist of reading—not as far as you know of, at least.

Mydei has never been the best student when it comes to book learning, either, but you suppose he can be good at learning when he’s interested. He just hardly has interest in studying. (Although, interest in the Kremnoan language is something he has plenty of, luckily).

“What have you got there?” you ask over his shoulder, peering down at the words. 

You don’t recognize them. They seem like foreign words and characters and there is little you can make out of them until you glance at the definitions beside them.

“A dictionary,” he mumbles.

“For what?”

“The Kremnoan language,” he responds absent mindedly as he continues to soak in definition after definition while he can. 

“What do you need that for?” you rest your chin on his shoulder. 

He sighs. His eyes leave the pages of the book before he leans back in his chair and glances sideways at you. You take your opportunity to kiss his cheek as he does and pretend you don’t notice the small flush of red on his ears. 

“To learn the language,” he huffs, “for what other purpose would I read a dictionary willingly.”

“Don’t be mean,” you pout dramatically.

He softens instantly, like a muscle that contracts involuntarily. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“So gullible,” you snort, “I wasn’t actually hurt—now, teach me what you know. Let’s learn together.”

“And what would you need to know the Kremnoan language for?” he quirks a brow, partially curious, and partially amused. 

“So if you ever say something about me to my face, I’ll know,” you counter.

“Do you think me to be a scoundrel?”

“HKS,” you beam, “is that right?”

“Yes,” he rolls his eyes, “that’s right.”

────────────────────────

You and Mydei are a healthy couple. You have healthy communication and healthy boundaries and a healthy amount of desire for each other, which means you also have a healthy amount of sex. And when Mydei holds you after sex, you listen to his heart. It’s routine by now—letting him fuck you, letting him hold you, and listening to his heartbeat. You like it that way.

He moves under you to get comfortable, still caging you in his arms as you kiss his bare chest, rubbing over the ridged, hard surface of his abdomen. He shivers under your touch, letting out a soft breath.

“How’s the language studying going?” you murmur.

He snorts. “Still on about that?”

“I like hearing about your progress.”

“You like making fun of my lack of progress,” he corrects. You don’t argue with it, and he rolls his eyes at the default agreement your silence brings about.

“How would I say, my heart?” you ask instead, looking up at him curiously.

He pauses. Blinks once, twice, then looks away, mumbling gruffly, “Why do you want to know?”

“So that I can tell you you’re my heart,” you beam.

“There are no words for that in the Kremnoan language,” he insists, words mumbled behind pink cheeks and slightly pouty lips.

(Yes, Mydei can pout—it’s something you think he might not be very aware of when he does it, though.

Mydei is also shy, sometimes. More than most would assume, and especially with you. He’s shy when you’re gentle with him, he’s shy when you’re romantic, and he’s shy when you’re intimate with the absence of sex. He’s shy when you say such blatantly affectionate things to him because responding to affection isn’t something he’s ever done, and responding to your affection is even more foreign than new words he tests on his tongue with every definition he reads in the dictionary.)

“Well, how do you say heart?” you raise a brow.

Heart, he says instantly.

“And my?” you press.

My, he says through a sigh, as though he’s entertaining you.

My heart, you say, putting the words together and repeating the syllables as best as you can, mimicking the phonetic sounds he makes to whisper words that mean something somewhere else in this world that you share with him. You speak again: Mydei is my heart.

(At least, you think you do. It means something different in Kremnoan, but it makes his lungs feel like collapsing all the same from how much wind is knocked out of them.)

But, instead of being shy this time, he cracks a smile—amused. “You realize you just said I’m your cardiac muscle, right?”

You pout, “What?!”

“That’s what you said,” he confirms.

“Well, then you didn’t translate correctly!”

“I did,” he chuckles, “heart in Kremnoan is technically just cardiac muscle.”

“So then how would I say you’re my heart?” you slump into his chest, deflating as he lets out a low, rough laugh.

“You can’t,” he hums, rubbing your hip with a large, warm hand. “I told you. Such words do not exist in the Kremnoan language.”

“Fine,” you say defiantly, something sparking in your eyes, “then I’ll find some way to call you mine in Kremnoan. Some way that’s poetic.”

“It’s not a very poetic language,” he points out.

“Every language can be,” you counter. “You just have to find the right words.”

— — — — —

<ERROR: kremno.lang_fragment detected> 

> Unauthorized lexical recall: █ █ █  █ █  █ █ █ █

> USER: MYDEIMOS_003 

> Memory integrity: COMPROMISED 

> Current Cycle ID: 33,550,336

[REBOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED] 

> Memory source detected: previous cycle

> Previous Cycle ID: 33,550,335

[REBOOT COMPLETE] 

> All systems nominal 

> Memory fragment retention: [UNRESOLVED]

> Intervention not authorized

— — — — —

You are in the kitchen when Mydei comes behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as his lips meet the shell of your ear.

You are the beat of my heart.

You pause at the sounds rolling off of his tongue, thick, resonant words that you don’t recognize. You don’t have to be fluent in any language to hear the affection his words hold, though.

“What does that mean?” You whisper. “New discovery?”

“No,” he murmurs. Then, he hesitates, “I…I’ve heard my mother say it. In my dreams.”

“Is that so?” Your head tilts in fascination, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck as he inhales your scent and nods. “What does it mean?”

“You are the beat of my heart—the Kremnoan equivalent of you’re my heart.”

You blink at the translation, processing his words.

“So there is a phrase for you’re my heart after all?” you question.

“Why wouldn’t there be?” His question comes almost confused, like he doesn’t understand why you’d think that such a phrase couldn’t exist.

“You said there wasn’t,” you point out.

“I did not,” he frowns. “I’ve heard this phrase in my dreams since I was a child. Krateros has confirmed it is a real phrase in the Kremnoan language.”

“But you said…” you trail off, thinking for a moment before snorting as you realize. “Oh, Mydei. You’re so stubborn. You never change,” you shake your head in amusement.

He looks at you in confusion for a moment before shrugging it off as you turn, bringing him into a soft kiss while your arms wrap around his neck and you pull him closer. His eyes flutter shut and he melts against your touch in an instant.

You are the beat of my heart, he tells you.

You are the beat of my heart, you repeat back to him.

He doesn’t want to admit he’s wrong, you think. That’s all it must be, really—his pride and his stubbornness. But you don’t mind it. Mydei has never liked being caught without an answer, especially not to something he thinks he should have known. You’d asked him about a phrase, he didn’t know how to answer it—didn’t recognize it, couldn’t translate it. Now, he’s pretending that conversation never happened at all. As if you’d never asked. As if he’d never claimed the words didn’t exist.

You roll your eyes and chalk it up to him being ridiculous. Pride is practically a Kremnoan virtue, and Mydei wears it like a badge. If pretending he was right all along makes him feel better, you’ll let him have it. Only because you know—deep in your heart, you know that Mydei mourns this part of himself. The part of him that feels like he is not who his blood tells him he is. The part that thinks that for a man who cannot speak the tongue of his mother, is it really fair to call himself her son?

You understand Mydei. Because you love him. Because he is your heart. Because you are his heart, as well. And in the Kremnoan language, somehow, that’s the one thing he’s never shy about saying.

────────────────────────

There are words that Mydei learns over time that he chooses to keep to himself.

Most times, he teaches you some basics. Little things here and there that help you form the foundations of his mother tongue with him as he teaches himself what he can—Lady Tribbie has always said that when one can teach to others after learning themselves, it is the truest proof that they have mastered what they’ve learned. 

Your understanding of the Kremnoan language is minimal. You. Me. I. Us. We. Ours. They. Theirs. Boy. Girl. Man. Woman. Friend. Teacher. Come. Go. Time. Now. Later. Before. Beginning. End. Okay. Yes. No. Eat. Food. Water. Fire. Day. Night. Sky.

It is night now, you tell him sometimes. Yes. Another night with you, he murmurs back. 

Eat food with me before you go, you plead other times. Okay. For you, I will make time, he’ll smile. 

But, the basics aren’t enough for you. You cannot tease him in the Kremnoan language, nor can you whisper words of affection. You cannot tell him what he means to you or how his presence makes you feel. You cannot whisper words that make him feel cherished and at home, and you cannot fill in the pieces that are missing from his heart—stripped from him not long after he was born and never returned to him like he deserved. 

You cannot whisper words to him that make him feel loved. So you ask him, one day—sat beside him as you watch the sun set through your window. 

“What is the word for angel?” you ask, throwing him a teasing grin as you add, “so I can call you my angel boy.”

“There is no word for angel in the Kremnoan language,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei’s ears get pink when he lies. He doesn’t lie often—he’s too good of a person. You watch as the tips of his ears flush.

“There is,” you murmur. “Isn’t there?”

“There isn’t,” he grunts.

“There is,” you sing.

Mydei does not use pet names for you. He doesn’t call you by terms of endearment—it isn’t a habit he’s ever had to make himself acquainted with before he fell in love with you.

He doesn’t call you baby, instead, he says: you insane woman.

He doesn’t call you sweetheart, but sometimes, he says: aren’t you a pretty thing?

He doesn’t call you angel or my love or beloved. They aren’t the kind of words he’s had the pleasure of growing up hearing—or saying, either, for that matter. 

(But he does call you mine, and that’s often enough to make you feel like you’re going to die—just a little—from how it lands in your chest. And then you don’t particularly long for him to say anything else.)

“How do you say angel, Mydei?” you pout, “don’t you love me enough to teach me? So I can love you?”

“You do love me,” he grunts out, not meeting your eyes as you turn to look at him better. 

“But, I could love you more. Don’t you want to be loved more?”

“You love me just enough,” he argues.

“Nonsense! Nothing is ever enough!”

In the end, he caves. Because he always does. You are too difficult of an obstacle for him, and he will never conquer the obstacle that is you. When you ask something of him, the word no does not exist in his dictionary no matter what language he is speaking. And if it does, it is quickly erased from existence—like an obsolete word that no longer holds any meaning, no longer recognized or understood. 

Angel, he finally mumbles out. 

Angel, you test the word on your tongue for a moment. And then: Mydei is my angel boy. 

(Not long after, he silences you from repeating that phrase too many times in a row—through a method that makes you anything but silent, of course, but a method that makes words difficult to form all the same. When you can barely even say just his name as his cock drills into you, then you cannot form words that make him feel like his heart will bleed out.)

────────────────────────

Mydei comes home from sparring with Phainon with sore muscles regularly. Your humble little home is not able to house as luxurious of a bath as the hero’s bath, but you draw him a warm one anyway to ease the aches he pretends not to have. 

“I do not need a bath just because I did some light sparring—”

“Don’t be stubborn,” you tug at his robes, undoing them from his body as he fidgets, “just take your clothes off and get in that bath—I saw you wincing as you moved!”

He stands still once your hands roam over his waist, undoing the belt that keeps his robes in place. He pauses, cracking a grin before he coos, “Ah…I see. You want to see me nude. I understand now.”

“Mydei!” You scold him, becoming flustered as you swat at his chest. He laughs brightly. “Be quiet and get in that bath!”

“Alright, alright, I will be nude in the bath. Just for you.”

“Enough!”

He lets out another soft chuckle before helping you take the remainder of his clothes off. With a soft sigh, he settles himself into the tub, humming appreciatively when the warmth instantly soothes his overworked muscles. (And there are lots of muscles when it comes to Mydei.)

“How do you say bath?” you pester as you poke his cheek.

“Join me and maybe I’ll tell you,” he hums.

Fine then, you think. If joining him for a bath is how you have to get answers out of him, then joining him for a bath you will. You rid yourself of your clothes—a spectacle he watches with very interested eyes and a loose smirk that would make you scold him if you weren’t eager to get something out of him. 

He shifts, making room for you to sit between his legs as you sink down into the water yourself, leaning back against his chest.

“Bath,” you repeat, “how do you say it?”

Bath, he says softly. 

“And what about clothes?”

He gives you a funny look, eyeing you for a moment before murmuring, Clothes.

I like baths. Because Mydei has no clothes, you say through a cheeky grin. You’ve learned enough to string together that much properly. 

The reaction comes instantly. A stiff body behind you that you feel in real time become rigid, and a small, delicate hitch in the back of his throat that you barely make out, but you hear all the same. You bite your lip to keep the smile at bay, and Mydei clicks his teeth in a flustered display of irritation. 

“Think yourself to be funny, do you?” he huffs, “I’m not teaching you words anymore.”

“Don’t  be dramatic,” you snort, “I say worse to you without the Kremnoan language all the time!”

“Yes, but when you say them in the Kremnoan language, somehow you find a way to be even cheekier.”

“I’m a romantic,” you huff, “I keep this romance interesting. You should try it sometime.”

“There is no word for romance in the Kremnoan language,” he grumbles, turning his face away from you as you glance up at him to see his flushed cheeks. 

“You’re lying,” you accuse with a giggle. 

“I’m being serious,” he says earnestly, “there really is no word for it.”

You shift, moving closer into him—there’s something stiff that pokes your back. It’s hard and warm and proof that even without the word existing in his language, someone like Mydei is still capable of romance. His large hands grab your hips, pulling back against him as he grinds into you and grants himself some friction against his erection, letting out a low, soft groan right against your ear as he nibbles on the skin at your shoulder. 

“Well,” you whisper shakily, feeling a familiar ache that builds up between your own legs, “I suppose we don’t need that word. We’re doing just fine without it.”

“Mmmh,” he makes a low sound of approval, “yes. We’re doing rather excellent.”

— — — — —

<ERROR: kremno.lang_fragment detected> 

> Unauthorized lexical recall: █ █ █ █ █ █ █ 

> USER: MYDEIMOS_003 

> Memory integrity: COMPROMISED 

> Current Cycle ID: 33,550,336

[REBOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED] 

> Memory source detected: previous cycle

> Previous Cycle ID: 33,550,335

[REBOOT COMPLETE] 

> All systems nominal 

> Memory fragment retention: [UNRESOLVED]

> Intervention not authorized

— — — — —

If Mydei wasn’t a man, he could have been your wife—that’s what you like to tell him teasingly. He doesn’t take any offense to it, just gives you an odd look as you giggle every time and tell him: it’s because you’re so good at doing housework. You could almost pass as a wife.

But he’s a good lover. An exceedingly good one, at that. 

He makes you dinner and washes your dishes and does your laundry and folds them when you whine about that part, too. (He still blushes every time you wiggle your brows when your panties are in his hands, though.)

But he folds your laundry better than you do, in all honesty—his folds are more precise and he somehow just always makes it neater than you no matter what you do. You like to watch him while he does, sitting and noticing the concentrated look in his eyes as he carefully folds your robes. 

Like now. 

“You know,” you sing, drawing out the syllables in a way that already tells him you’re about to tease him, “the clothes always feel softer after you fold them. I think you should just handle it from now on.”

“You’re very good at slyly shrugging off your chores,” he snorts, picking up a sleep gown and studying it for a moment. “This cannot be comfortable. Maybe your clothes just aren’t soft at all.”

“It is comfortable,” you argue. He gives you a knowing look, and you deflate. “Okay. Maybe not the most comfortable sleepwear out there, but it’s sexy!”

“Who are you trying to impress?” He scoffs at your words, giving you a confused look. 

An idiot, you think. Sometimes, Mydei is an idiot. (A lot of times.)

“You,” comes your baffled reply, “obviously I’m trying to impress you, silly. Don’t you ever notice I wear this whenever I want something from you?”

He thinks back on it for a moment. Oh. Yes, he realizes—you do wear this particularly sheer, low-cut, easy-to-pull-up thing on nights when you’re especially forward. When your hands wander, your voice dips, and you say his name like it’s a siren call. When you make it incredibly difficult not to press you down into the mattress and slide that damn thing up past your hips.

He’s starting to understand now.

“You don’t need to impress me in our own home,” he blinks, “I’ll want you regardless. I always do.”

You have to ignore the sharp, aching sincerity of his words and the way they clutch your heart tight, in favor of a playful eye roll, “Mydei. You walk around shirtless all day, so there’s not much you have to do. Every once in a while, I’d like to keep this romance interesting.”

He laughs at that. His hair is honey in the sunlight, and his eyes crinkle as they close, and he laughs soft and easy as he fills in the space of your home wholly with the sound of him. 

“Well,” he chuckles, “aren’t you sweet? I always assumed that you were trying to be romantic when you freshly squeezed me pomegranate juice or polished my armor. But, seducing me in our bed is not an unwelcome act, though.”

“I’m not seducing you,” you sputter, “I’m trying to bond.”

You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it infuriatingly easily. 

“I thought you were trying to be romantic,” he teases. 

“I am!” You glare, pouting as you add, “no wonder there’s no word for romance in the Kremnoan language. You hardly understand it in this one.”

“It does,” he huffs. Then he says, Romance.

You blink. “That’s the word for it?”

“Yes,” he nods, “why wouldn’t there be a word for it?”

“Because you said there wasn’t,” you frown. 

“I did not…?”

“You did? Just the other day you told me that!”

Mydei, you realize, looks genuinely confused. Confused enough that you really wonder if he’s actually pretending he never told you that to save his pride, or…or if he really doesn’t recall saying such a word does not exist. 

It feels odd. But you brush it off quickly as you notice the way his face twists into a bothered look—like he’s disturbed by the fact that he’d ever tell you that. 

“I don’t understand—”

“I think I must be remembering wrong,” you shake your head. “It was probably some other word and I’m getting confused. You do like to say plenty of words don’t exist just for your advantage,” you make a pointed face. 

He cracks a small grin. “I suppose I am guilty of that, yes,” he snorts. 

────────────────────────

The more words Mydei learns in the Kremnoan language, and the more he seems to master it, the less there seems to exist in the language’s vocabulary at all. You think it’s funny how that works. 

“You could have told me,” you shove at his shoulder, frowning with a glare, “you could have told me that you were entering Nikador’s trial!”

“For the last time,” he groans, “I had no intentions of entering that trial. It just happened.”

“It just happened,” you repeat, voice almost mocking him as disbelief drips from every word and seeps into his skin, settling underneath it like an itch he cannot scratch. It irritates him enough that he scowls at you.

“Yes,” he almost hisses, “yes, it merely happened. Deliverer was having issues, and it was my responsibility to step in and save the fool. Such is the duties of a Chrysos Heir.”

“I know the duties of a Chrysos Heir, Mydeimos,” you spit his full name out like it tastes acrid on your tongue, “I do not choose to love you with delusional fantasies. I am well aware of what the risks are to loving a man like you—but you could have told me you planned on entering that trial.”

“I didn’t,” he says in exasperation, “I didn’t plan on it. It happened—was I supposed to return here, seek your permission first, and then rescue him from that trial? When it could have been too late?”

You’re scared. 

When Mydei is with you, you forget about his duties. You forget that he is but a mere piece in the Flamechase Journey that he falls into, and some pieces are bound to get lost. The man you love cannot die—it’s a simple curse bestowed upon him that he carries the weight of valiantly. Selfishly, to you, it is nothing but a blessing.

The man you love cannot die. You don’t really see the flaw in that, even if it has its costs. 

But the man you love is not immune to the costs of ascending to divinity. Sure, immune to death is something he might be, but you are not naive enough to be ignorant to the fact that there are crueler, much worse fates than death. And when you are faced with the realization that Mydei—your soft, gentle, delicate Mydei beneath the brutish exterior—is a mere piece in this journey, you’re scared. 

“You could have told me,” you repeat, lips wobbling, “if something had happened to you…and…and I didn’t know—that…that could have been the last time we…”

You’re scared. And Mydei knows. 

He pulls you into his arms and holds you like he always does when you’re scared. You like being in his arms. They’re safe. Strong. Large, too—and usually, that is merely just an aesthetic plus for you, but sometimes, like now, it shields you from the world and buries you into the sheer size of him. You realize there are more perks than one at times like these. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, “I’m still here.”

“I got scared,” you sob, “so I got mad. I’m sorry. Are…are you mad, too?”

“Why would I be mad?” his eyes soften.

“You’re not mad that I got mad?” you sniffle pitifully. He fights back a grin—it wouldn’t be appropriate, he tells himself. 

“No,” he chuckles, “I’m not mad. I’m sorry I scared you. If I enter that trial, I will always tell you beforehand if I can.”

“Were you scared?” you whisper, “to enter?”

You know he was. You know him better than words can describe. Better than you know any words in any language, you know Mydei. You don’t need to be fluent in any tongue to be fluent in loving the man that stands in front of you. Mydei is not scared of dying, or pain, or fighting any battle. But he is scared of failure—of losing himself and becoming something worse than his past and his people’s woes. He is scared of repeating the mistakes of others that he was forced to take the responsibilites of. He is scared of suffering—not his, but of others. 

He won’t ever tell you, though. 

“Scared?” he scoffs, “there is no word for scared in the Kremnoan language!”

“You,” you huff, sniffling loudly, “you are impossible.”

He holds you tighter, and you hold him back. You’re scared, and so is he, and you are not scared for the same reasons, but you can still be scared together. 

────────────────────────

When Mydei feels guilty, he lets you have your way more. He always lets you have your way, but you know how far to push when it comes to taking that to your advantage. You know when to quit and let him have some peace. 

But, when he’s guilty, you push more. You know he’ll let it happen. 

“It’s pretty, De,” you tease, tracing the tip of his cock with your finger. He stiffens, gritting his jaw as he inhales sharply. He doesn’t like being teased—usually, you don’t tease him for too long because you know he doesn’t enjoy it. 

But there’s no response. He’s always been a little stubborn, though, so it’s to be expected. (No matter, you think—getting under Mydei’s skin is what you do best, anyway.) And since he’s guilty, and you know that, you let yourself cross some lines while he lets it happen. In fact, he takes it valiantly and tries to offer you no indication of it getting to him and riling him up. 

“It’s really, really pretty,” you purr, “you have the prettiest little cock I’ve ever seen.”

His lips do a small, downwards twitch at that. “It’s far from little,” he counters gruffly, “if you’ve seen as many as you like to claim, that is a fact you should know well.”

“Confident,” you giggle. “Is there a word for that in the Kremnoan language?”

Confident. He whispers the foreign sound on his tongue in response to that. It slowly tapers off into a breathy moan at the end as your finger traces along his slit. There is, in fact, a word for confident in the Kremnoan language, and Mydei happens to know it—probably because it benefits him at this moment as he flashes you a somewhat victorious grin, even despite the way you continue to tease him with the barest touch of your finger.

“You’re getting rather good at speaking your native tongue,” you comment. 

He looks a little pleased with himself. 

“I can listen and read it just fine now,” he says proudly, “but…I’m still working on writing.”

“Impressive,” you breathe against his neck as you lean in and nibble on the skin, sucking and licking at the sensitive spots you know like second nature. Like a language you’re fluent in that you don’t think about the sounds and syllables your mouth produces in tune with your thoughts. 

You touch Mydei like that, too. Touch him so in tune with your memories, it feels like a sign of fluency. 

“Don’t tease,” he finally cracks, cock all but swelling at your praise. You giggle, kissing his jaw before your hand wraps around the girth of him, squeezing gently as he groans. “Fuck.”

“That’s a naughty word,” you hum, “do you know it in the Kremnoan tongue, too?” 

“Your curiosity tells me you favor the naughtier words in every language,” he chuckles. 

“I do,” you grin. “You sound hot when you say them.”

“And you look shameless when you listen,” he rolls his eyes.

You stroke him slowly, gliding your fist along his cock and watching as his eyes flutter shut as his head tips back. It’s pretty. He’s always pretty, but you think there’s something extra pretty about the way he looks helpless to your touch. It’s warm and tight to fit into your hand, and you give him a satisfying amount of friction that makes his head spin. 

“Slow…slow down,” he pants, “w-wait—”

You don’t listen. You quicken your pace, if anything. The nice thing about having a boyfriend who never dies, who’s physically much more gifted than the average person by a curse he cannot control, is that his body recovers fast. Incredibly fast. 

Mydei’s stamina is good. Too good, even. He can recover fast and still give you more, so you never listen when he tells you to slow down because you know he doesn’t need to. (It’s just his pride. He doesn’t like coming undone before you, but after he gave you that scare earlier with the trial, you think you deserve to put your wants first. And you want to see Mydei fall apart.)

“Fuck,” he gasps, rutting into your hand involuntarily despite his protests, “you…you need to slow down. Or…or I’ll—”

“Come on then,” you hum, kissing his jaw before littering kisses against his parted lips, “let me watch. I like when you cum—you look so, so pretty. Have I ever told you that?”

“P-plenty,” he says, voice coming out as a hoarse croak. 

He twitches in your hand. You know it’s only a matter of a few seconds before he falls apart, so you tighten your grip and stroke faster, the wet, filthy noise of your hand stroking along his cock harmonizing with his loud groans. You squeeze at the base and roll your palm over the tip the way he likes, and one stroke becomes two, and two strokes are all it takes for him to unravel. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum spill into your hand, and you watch unashamed as his cock twitches with every rope he releases. 

“Hah,” he gasps, “k-keep…keep going,” he encourages, too far gone from the pleasure to care about stopping anymore. 

You do. You stroke him through his high, working him along the pleasure as you watch the way every touch pulls his face into a blissed out expression. His lips part, and soft, breathy sounds pour out of his mouth. Sounds that you quickly lean to drink in and swallow as you kiss his lips. 

You watch as his eyes roll back, closing slowly as his brows pinch together slightly. He looks pretty. He’s always pretty. 

You tell him that, too. Pretty, you whisper, using the language he taught you so carefully with trust. Giving you pieces of himself and his history and the fiber of who he is with every careful word he added to your vocabulary. Mydei is always pretty. 

He makes a choked sound at that—maybe even a whine. You grin, and if he wasn’t in the middle of a rather overwhelming orgasm, you’re certain he'd throw you a glare your way. 

“You…” he pants as he finishes, eyeing the mess on your hand and his abdomen as he fights back a deeper flush on his cheeks, “you only wanted to learn this language to kill me.”

“You can’t die,” you giggle. 

“Well I thought so,” he grunts, “but you make me question that fact.”

“I’m getting pretty good, aren’t I?” You ask excitedly, almost childlike as you wait for his praise. “You’re a good teacher.”

“Maybe you’re just a good student,” he hums. 

He pulls you close, holds you against his body as he feels the weight of you in his arms while you’re sitting comfortably on his lap. 

You are the beat of my heart, he whispers into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe. 

You giggle, pulling away at the ticklish feeling. You are the beat of my heart, you repeat back. 

And soon, if he’s hard between your bodies again, you don’t say anything. He doesn’t either, just flips you over to lay on your back as he hovers over you and kisses your lips senseless. There are not enough words in any language to convey how much you need him and how much he needs you, so you both settle for no words at all. You use your actions. 

“I’ve been thinking,” you breathe in between kisses, the sloppy, messy, addicting press of his lips giving you little openings to talk. 

But you manage anyway. 

“That’s never good,” he mumbles before pecking your swollen lips again. You roll your eyes, but they flutter closed when he kisses you deeper—and when you open them, he looks rather smug. 

“You could always practice your mastery of the Kremnoan language during sex,” you offer, reaching between your bodies to grab his aching cock and guide him to your entrance, giving him one last languid stroke before pressing the thick, swollen tip to push past your folds.

“And how should I go about that?” he raises a brow.

“Dirty talk,” you wink cheekily as he sinks deep into you, inch by inch. His cock nudges against your walls, making you gasp. “Actually, are there even enough words for dirty talk in the Kremnoan language?”

He gives you an unimpressed look. “Why wouldn’t there be?” 

He angles his hips, rolling into you and molding perfectly into your tight, wet cunt. You’re so familiar with him, you anticipate the feeling of his tip pressing against the back of your walls before it even reaches that delicious, sensitive spot. 

And when it does, you gasp. 

“Well,” you say breathlessly, “there are just so little words in your language—you’re always telling me a word doesn’t exist. So I just assumed….”

You’re taunting him. And Mydei, even though he knows this, still has something to prove. 

“Is that so?”

Your legs are thrown over his shoulders and your knees practically meet your shoulders as he folds you in half. Presses you completely into yourself as his hips snap and he bullies his cock into your pussy with harsh, quick thrusts that leave you even more breathless than before. 

Then he speaks. 

Some words, you recognize. Some, you don’t. Most of what he says, you can make out through bits and pieces that he’s taught you, but Mydei has mastered more than he’s taught you, and you don’t know all of what he’s saying. But you know it’s filthy. 

You were made for me. You’re so tight, and wet, you were made to fit me. Take it. Take my cock—I’ll mold you to fit only me. Only I can have you. Only I can touch you. Only I can fuck you. 

He whispers the words right against your ear before he licks the shell of it, making you whine. He chuckles. It’s smug, and it’s proud, and it’s dizzying. 

“Mydei, M-Mydei, wait—”

Don’t tell me to wait. I can’t—I can’t wait if it’s you. I want to fill you up. Do you feel me? How deep I am? How deep I fit into you? How much I stretch you open? You’re so tight and warm—so good. My good girl. 

You know that last part well. Very well. He’s never called you that in the Kremnoan tongue before now, but you’ve had fantasies. Dreams. Wicked, filthy, dirty dreams where he’d call you his good girl in that deep, heavy accent with those thick words he teaches you. 

“Fuck, Mydei,” you sob, “y-you’re so…so deep. Fuck, s’too much. Too much!”

You say that every time, he chuckles, but you’re a good girl. My good girl. And you’ll take me. You’ll fit me, and then you’ll fall apart. And when I fill you up, you’ll take every drop because you’re always a good girl. 

You’re close. The words coax you to your climax faster, and the way he knows your body so well only makes it worse. His thick tip practically bruises your walls, burying deep into the spongy spot in your cunt that makes you wail. And when his thumb reaches to run circles over your clit, you think you won’t even survive. You can’t. You won’t. The Kremnoan people are known for how easily they can kill—and right now, you think he’ll kill you. 

“M’c-close—so close, De.”

“I know,” he chuckles, switching languages easily for a moment to tell you in the words you understand: “I know you are. You always fall apart when I touch you, don’t you? It’s easy.”

“S-stop!”

“Shy?” He grins, “well, alright. I’ll say it in words you don’t understand so that you don’t have to feel so shy.”

You’re so beautiful. You take my cock so well, and you look so pretty when you do it. I like when you cry—it makes your eyes look bigger. Cry more for me. Let me hear you. 

You cum hard. You always cum hard when Mydei fucks you, but something about now feels euphoric in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s almost too much. You’ve only started, and it’s only the first round, but still you feel like it’s too much. Like you’re already too sensitive to do anything else beyond this point. 

Your orgasm crashes over you like waves of an ocean you can’t break your head over the surface of. Every word is muffled, like there’s water in your ears. You can’t hear him properly. Can’t make out what he says. But you know he’s speaking, and you know it’s downright filthy. 

That’s it, go on. Good—I knew you were close. So am I. I’m going to fill you up now, okay? That’s a good girl—my perfect girl. You are the beat of my heart. 

He finishes as he says the last part. His lips find yours in a wet, sloppy kiss, and he groans loudly into your mouth as he cums a second time. This time, he paints your walls white. Hot, thick, sticky ropes of his release fill you up just like he said he would. And he does. He fucks his release deep into your cunt, thick droplets of release spilling along your thighs as he pumps more and more into you. 

“Tight,” he rasps, “you’re so tight. Always take it so well—my good girl, aren’t you? Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you sob, “yes, yes—I am! I’m your good girl.” And then you say it, too. Good girl. I’m your good girl. 

He groans lowly at that, cock twitching at the sound of those words falling from your tongue. His words. The words of his people that he shared with you because you’re his person. 

“I love you,” he breathes. 

“I love you, too,” you gasp out. 

You don’t need words or language to tell each other that. You feel it with every wave of pleasure he brings you and every wave of pleasure you give him back. 

And when he’s done, Mydei pulls you into his arms. He falls into the mattress beside you and gathers you in his arms. You lean up and kiss his jaw, and he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“You’re awfully snuggly after sex,” you tease.

“And you’re awfully chatty,” he grunts.

“You were chatty,” you snort, “that’s quite a lot you had to say.”

He gives you a lopsided grin—proud. “Well,” he murmurs, “now you know there are plenty of words in the Kremnoan language. Plenty I can use on you.”

You hum, thoughtful for a moment as you whisper, “I dreamt of you saying that before. Good girl.”

He gives you a sly grin, “So you’ve been dreaming of me? Like that?” You swat his shoulder as he laughs. “Well, I’m no better. I’ve…dreamt of you too—in fact, some of those words I heard for the first time in my dreams. It’s weird, though. They’re real words—I checked.”

You pause. You feel it again, that odd, uncomfortable sense of foreboding. 

“Isn’t it weird,” you murmur, “sometimes…sometimes you remember words from your dreams. But…you never know they exist before that.”

He’s silent. Pulls you closer and tighter and has a frown on his face when you glance up at him that he quickly hides away. He knows something—you know it, too. But before you can ask, he quickly changes the subject. 

“You’ve got too much going on in there,” he grumbles, poking at your head. “Maybe I should empty it of all the thoughts again.”

“That’s awfully confident of you,” you roll your eyes. 

Confident, he says, grinning. He leans down and presses kisses against your cheeks as he murmurs, I’m confident you’re mine. Always. 

You giggle as he pulls you tighter. There is a word for home in the Kremnoan language, but Mydei prefers to use the native tongue where home is translated to your name.

— — — — —

<NOTICE: cognitive divergence detected> 

> USER: YOU_002 — Awareness threshold: EXCEEDED 

> USER: MYDEIMOS_003 — Awareness threshold: EXCEEDED 

> Previous Cycle ID: 33,550,335 — Status: TERMINATED

[REPEAT EVENT REQUIRED] 

> Previous loop alignment: 100% 

> Current Cycle ID: 33,550,336 

> Scheduled termination: PENDING 

> Intervention now authorized

“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.

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan. 

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall— 

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman. 

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first? 

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans. 

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence. 

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight. 

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting. 

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface. 

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing. 

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin. 

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor. 

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction. 

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong. 

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you. 

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter. 

Not when it’s you. 

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all. 

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head. 

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy. 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes. 

For you? 

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met. 

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix. 

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time. 

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to. 

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours. 

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness. 

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night. 

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss. 

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him. 

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily. 

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had. 

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.” 

But he was just being used. 

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story. 

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy. 

But he’s not a hypocrite. 

He’s just a liar. 

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him. 

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time. 

He can’t let you feel how he felt. 

Not you. 

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words. 

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!” 

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence. 

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles. 

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off. 

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him. 

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you. 

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor. 

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance. 

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.” 

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice. 

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale. 

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played. 

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit. 

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze. 

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you. 

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb. 

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh. 

 “I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?” 

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake. 

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse. 

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.” 

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…” 

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.” 

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love? 

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion. 

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful. 

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back. 

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part. 

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him. 

And love is fickle. 

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you. 

The pain of wanting it and not getting it. 

If he could…. 

If he could get it… 

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you. 

But love is fickle. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze. 

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight. 

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him. 

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen. 

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity. 

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?  

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him? 

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy. 

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston. 

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two. 

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs. 

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement. 

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!” 

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen. 

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump. 

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section. 

“What the f—” 

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers. 

“Hey!” 

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud. 

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him. 

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more. 

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor. 

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy. 

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand. 

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work— 

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side. 

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist. 

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number. 

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him. 

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm. 

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint. 

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you. 

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms. 

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!” 

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages. 

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow. 

“Don’t care.” 

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old. 

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again. 

“Ugh, you’re a child.” 

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.” 

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!” 

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter. 

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.” 

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.” 

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section. 

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?” 

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone. 

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again. 

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears. 

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes. 

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it. 

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now. 

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze. 

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.” 

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues— 

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind. 

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings? 

Does he want strings? 

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches. 

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you. 

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more. 

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place. 

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger. 

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it. 

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity. 

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table. 

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises. 

There’s something there, you find. 

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown. 

Something you want to know more about. 

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his. 

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore. 

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants. 

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built. 

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again. 

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to. 

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together. 

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night. 

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life. 

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands. 

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. 

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it. 

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back. 

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?” 

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne. 

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. 

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key. 

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only— 

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him. 

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?” 

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment. 

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have. 

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation. 

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts. 

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more. 

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—