yes, and?

The ceremony hall is filled with hushed whispers and quiet chatter as your small legs walk down the aisle. Your shoes pad softly against the pristine, white rug that runs through the center and leads you to the altar where the priest and your future fiancé await you. The room and people within are so huge compared to your little body; the large space sends a wave of unease down your body and yet you trudge on until you're face to face with the boy you're to be engaged to.

Mydeimos is not much older than you: he's around your height, prepubescent with the baby fat still clinging to his round cheeks, strawberry blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with a plait into the side of his head, and a clean, white suit adorning his little body. With the way he's dressed so proper, you're shocked that his eyes, molten gold as if the sun had given up its light to his irises, pierce through you in a stare that seems too mature, too weathered, from an 11 year old boy.

Intimidation seeps into your bones, sending a wave of cold dread through every nerve in your body as reality hits you—you are a stranger in territory that is foreign to you. There is no family for you to run back to, no familiar aides or maids to find comfort in. No friendly smiles or voices calling for you, beckoning you back to safety.

You are alone in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos.

The advisors of your home have warned you about this before; that this engagement is necessary for the kingdom and it is your civil duty as the daughter of one of the most prestigious families to continue the royal bloodline and familial relations between your family and the royal family of Castrum Kremnos. You don't have to get along with your fiancé, you just have to tolerate him for the rest of your life and hope that he is indifferent to you at worst.

You know that this union between you and the young boy with unmoving eyes is strictly for business, that you two are supposed to start off as strangers and end your lives as acquaintances if all things go accordingly.

And yet, anxiety solidifies your blood into lead as you stare into the stoic face of your soon-to-be fiancé.

"I promise to remain by your side until the day that we wed and forevermore," Mydeimos says, his voice curt and stoic, reciting the promises that were tradition for engagements in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos. His eyes never leave yours—you don't know if it's a good or bad thing.

"I also promise to be by your side, to always take your side no matter the consequences or conditions, as your lawful fiancée," You recite yours after his.

And with rehearsed movements, you slip on the golden bands over each other's ring fingers.

"Until death do us part," the both of you iterate as the ceremony comes to a close and the priest before you signals the end of your vows. The voices and chatter begin to pick up in volume now as hushed voices grow louder and the praises for the future of Castrum Kremnos echo through the giant ceremony hall and successfully deafen the impending cynical whispers that have already begun to swirl around you.

The remainder of your engagement banquet is a blur that you don't remember. There were too many faces to greet and too many voices that rung in your ears that slowly they all merged into each other. You didn't bother to differentiate them at one point of the night as you quickly realized they all said the same thing: wishful thoughts for the longevity of Castrum Kremnos and nothing but the best for you and your fiancé.

Thankfully, your speaking was to a minimum as Mydeimos thanked everyone with that terse tone of his before guiding the both of you away from others.

The maid attending you slips off your engagement gown with ease; the white silks are quickly gathered up as a soft nightgown is fitted over your small frame before you dismiss her for the night. As she bows and takes her exit, you can hear the heavy door of your chamber close with a quiet thud.

And you find yourself alone again.

Your bedroom is large, much too big for a small child like you to have to yourself. And yet, even with the expensive furniture and decorations that settle in the room to welcome you in for the first night, the reality of finally being alone in a foreign city settles heavily on your tiny, young shoulders.

Your feet pad softly against the tiled floor and you peer out the large curtained window; the beautiful scenery of the castle gardens greets you. Lush shrubbery line the outskirts of the garden with flowers blooming at every inch. Their petals are colorful and bright against the various shades of green foliage, bringing a splash of life to the quiet gardens. There's a trail leading within the gardens that leads to a marbled gazebo hidden between the bushes yet sits clearly in view from your window.

It's beautiful, you cannot deny that.

But this is a place you do not know and that terrifies you. Something sharp strikes through your chest as your eyes begin to burn with tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. The voices of your advisors echo in your mind reminding you of the duty to your people and that this decision was for the greater good.

You don't know how much time had passed until you feel a hand on your shoulder. The sudden touch shocks you with such an intensity that a shrill yelp leaves your lips and you jump a near meter high; your heart races rapidly against your chest as you turn to look at the culprit.

Those piercing golden eyes peer back at you, wide with just as much surprise from your sudden reaction. Mydeimos is dressed down from the prior event, his nightshirt a tad bit too big for his young frame and makes him look smaller than before. His blond hair has been undone now, falling over his shoulders in a sea of messy gold save for the plait that falls at the side of his head. It's neat, much neater than the rest of his appearance.

"Um…" He begins. There's something different in the way that he's speaking to you now; his tone is much quieter, much softer as if anything terse would scare you away. It could be because you're both alone in this large space together, or because of the state he had found you in. Either way, the change is something that comforts you.

"You didn't hear me the first time I check in on you," Mydeimos speaks, his eyes glancing down for a briefly before meeting your gaze again. "Mama always had the maids make pomegranate juice when I was sad."

It's only then do you notice he's holding something in his hands: a small cup filled most of the way with a milky, maroon hue. He places it on the table beside you before reaching up to wipe away your tears with the sleeve of his big shirt—his movements are uncoordinated and a bit awkward, fitting for a boy his age.

"I apologize if I made you cry. Mama said I'm not the best when it comes to other people," Mydeimos confesses, pulling his hand away from your face. "She says I'm too 'rough around the edges', though I'm not quite sure what that means."

"…No it's okay. I appreciate the effort." Your own voice is quiet, a little hoarse from crying mere moments before, but audible enough for your fiancé to hear. "Thank you."

He doesn't leave your side, rather chooses to silently sit with you while you drink the cup filled with pomegranate juice. The tartness of the fresh pomegranate juice leaves a sour taste in your mouth but the addition of milk lessens the bite with a creamier texture, and you find your heart slowly being mended by the bizarre mixture of flavors.

"Milk?" You ask, setting the porcelain cup gently down on the table. "I've never had juice with milk before."

"It tastes good together," Mydeimos responds almost immediately. There's a small twinkle in his eyes, perhaps illuminated from the small lamp lit in your bedchambers or because of the excitement of sharing something special with you. "It's my favorite drink; Mama used to always make it for me until she…"

Your fiancé trails off for a brief moment and you catch in real time the twinkle in his eye fading as he casts his gaze elsewhere. In the dimly lit room, Mydeimos looks way smaller than he did in the hall earlier that evening. His larger nightshirt drapes over his small frame and emphasizes just how tiny he is. Underneath the gentle glow of the moon, his young features are highlighted: big, eyes that shine golden in the light, chubby cheeks that seem to get rounder when he angles his face downward, and thin, lanky limbs that seem uncoordinated with the rest of his body. There's a splash of faint blue dyed on his skin, but the large sleeves of his nightshirt cover it when he shifts.

Mydeimos, no matter how intimidating he may seem to you, is just a small child. Just like you. You wonder why fate has been so cruel to make the both of you pawns to the elders in this way.

Your finger twitches, an innate urge to ask the young boy what was wrong begins to bubble in your chest. But what do you know; you're a stranger that was barely welcomed into this new country. Why would he share private matters with you on your first night in his palace?

"Mama said that you would be lonely here," Mydeimos begins again, breaking the heavy silence and changing the topic with a few simple words. His little fingers twiddle in his lap and his eyes remain cast downward. Hesitation eats away at his posture, that you can tell clear as day, but when his golden eyes lock eyes with yours, his gaze never wavers.

Sincerity in the form of aureate pools.

"I meant what I said in the ceremony earlier. I'll take your side, always." The strawberry blond boy raises his hand up, sticking his small pinky up; an oath. "So, don't cry. You won't be alone here, I promise."

You link your pinky with his—his skin is rougher and more calloused than a young boy his age should ever have—but his words, his vow dedicated to you, plants the seed of hope in your small chest.

—

It doesn't take long for the norms of Castrum Kremnos to be ingrained in your head. The customs here are much different than your own; for one, society here focuses more on skills related to combat regardless of if it's fighting experience or a strategist. There wasn't a week that went by where you didn't hear whispers of some underground ring where citizens, nobles and commoners alike, would test their limits with on another with only one victor who won nothing but some gold coins and honor for the week.

Even the young aren't exempt from this, you know this well enough by now. Not because you became subject to the societal norms of a foreign land, but because your fiancé is the face of the nation.

The moon has long risen high above the sky, surrounded by the stars that gleam and glimmer around it. The empty heavens above are filled with the light shared between the cosmos, illuminating the earth underneath in its silvery, cool light. The evening breeze is brisk and bites against your cheek as you stand in the windowsill of your bedchambers.

Alone.

Your fiancé would have arrived long before the sun had completely set; every evening since you got here was spent with him because he promised that you wouldn't be alone so long as you stayed in Castrum Kremnos. And, now knowing him better than you had before, you realize that Mydeimos is a man—boy—of his word.

The gentle chirp of crickets in the gardens below and the occasional 'hoot' of an owl nearby are the only things you hear aside from the quiet clicks of the ornate clock on the wall of your chamber. One chirp, two… Where could Mydeimos could have gone?

Quietly, your small feet pad gently against the tiled floor of your bedchambers until you're met with the large, gilded door leading to the grand hallway outside. It would be quicker to call for a maid to check on your missing fiancé, but there's always a chance that they wouldn't even listen to you; they could easily lie to you and say Mydeimos was simply asleep in his room and usher you back to your bedroom.

You had to see for your own eyes.

With a quick tug of the large door, you're out and into the empty hallway before you know it. It doesn't take long to find Mydeimos' door. Despite the daunting size of the large halls, you find his door with ease; his chambers are not far from yours and, with the lack of any aids roaming the halls, you're able to slip easily into your fiancé's bedroom without so much as a creak from the door.

And you're met with the sight of something so heart wrenching for a young child to ever witness.

Drips of blood taint the tiled floors of Mydeimos' bedchambers, leaving a trail of ruby droplets from the door to the bedside. There, laying haphazardly on the bed with barely enough of his small body on the mattress, lay your fiancé with scratches and scrapes littering his poor body from what you can see. His blond hair is a mess over his head; the tousled strands cover his face and are matted in some places from dirt and sweat. He's breathing heavily with his eyes closed, as if it were hard to get any sort of breath into his small frame.

One step.

Two.

Your body moves on its own before you could will it, the only thought in your mind being to get to his side.

"Crown Prince." Your voice is barely a whisper, fear bubbling at the edge of your throat as if anything louder would break your fiancé into a million pieces. "What happened to you?"

He doesn't respond.

Your hand, small and unblemished, gently brush aside his hair from his face. Dirt and blood cake his skin and the source of the blood on the floor comes from his nose. With caution, you slowly turn Mydeimos to the side as to prevent the blood from going back up.

Your small heart hammers against your chest as you frantically glance around the room for anything to help the small boy curled up at the side of his bed. In the state of your panic, your legs lead you to the washroom where you grab a spare towel stored in the cupboard and quickly dampen it before returning.

With the limited supplies that you had, you manage to clean up the wounds that litter Mydeimos' skin. Luckily, no wound was deep enough to cause any worry and were majority scrapes, minus the nosebleed that scared you half to death. As your eyes scan over your fiancé's small frame, you prepare to leave his side for a brief moment; though you trust your judgement for his wounds, there's no harm in a second opinion from someone who knows the human body better than you do.

However, as your body begins to slip off the side of the large mattress, a hand clings to the end of your nightgown.

"Don't leave me," Mydeimos whispers out quietly. "Please."

And so you do, remaining by his side while his hand gently grasps the edge of your nightgown. It's quiet; not a word or sound is heard from either body in the room.

"Could I ask what happened?" You break the silence, turning to look over at the boy who lay beside you. When he doesn't respond, you continue to speak. "If you want to tell me, that is. I will not pressure you."

Mydeimos averts his gaze from yours; this is the first time since you've come here that he has willingly shied away from your eyes. There's a hint of pink that threatens to burn at the tip of his ears and a gloss that shines over his golden eyes. "My father said there's no such thing as empathy in the ancient Kremnoan language. I'm a failure to him for fearing death, and I will gain nothing by having kindness in my heart.

"I'm not fit to be Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos."

His words shatter your own heart, not because they hurt you but because who could say that to anyone, let alone your own son. You can hear the tears fall from his face before you could see them; the break in his small voice was enough to tell you everything.

"…There might not be any words in ancient Kremnoan to describe empathy," You begin. Your hand slowly reaches over to hold onto Mydeimos' in an attempt to comfort whatever you could. A wave of relief washes over you when he takes it into his own—the rough callouses on his palm tell a story you could never imagine living through. "But there are in mine.

"We're fiancés, aren't we? What's mine is yours, and if the Kremnoan language cannot offer you the comfort you seek, then please find it in mine. We made a promise to be by each other's side, did we not?"

Aureate seas finally meet your gaze and for the first time you're really hit with the reality that Mydeimos is only a few years older than you. He is a child grieving that he will never live up to his father's expectations no matter how hard he tries and a child forced to endure severe punishment for simply living.

You made a promise to yourself that night as Mydeimos cried holding your hand in the large expanse of his mattress—to return the oath he made to you until the day the two of you willingly part ways. He will not suffer alone so long as you remain by his side.

NOONTIDE.

The flowers have bloomed, opening up their beautiful and bright petals and stretch towards the sun to let its golden rays warm up their stems and bring them life. The birds have woken from their slumber by now and sing merry songs that fill the brisk morning air as if they, too, were celebrating this day.

Spring welcomes the birth of Mydeimos with flora and fauna alike.

To honor his 18th birthday as the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, King Eurypon has thrown a coming-of-age ceremony. In the name of the royal family, King Eurypon had ordered it to be the grandest of this century for the Sun had blessed the day Mydeimos was born. Thus, the palace has been in a state of hectic panic; maids bustle back and forth as they clean and polish every nook and cranny while butlers and aids double check the inventory for decorations and place them where they deemed fit.

You barely have time to even see your fiancé in passing; whatever little time you had already with him has dwindled down to quick greetings in the halls before Mydeimos is called elsewhere for lessons on etiquette or meetings about the kingdom's politics or perhaps another training session for the young prince.

Luckily, your evening meetings in each other's bedchambers remain untouched. No matter how high the moon hung in the sky, as soon as Mydeimos finishes his laboring schedule, he would always find his way to your chambers with two glasses of milky pomegranate juice to share as the two of you wind down for the evening, divulging in one another of the day's drama or news.

The night of Mydeimos' birthday banquet is barely beginning and yet the palace has never been in such a frenzied state; every body residing in the main palace scurries to get all the finer details set in place while the ones in your annex rush to get every clothing and accessory pinned to your body before it is too late for the guests expecting you.

Eleni, one of your handmaidens, cinches the the back of your dress, pulling the ribbons that cross your lower back taut to accentuate your waist. Her hands, worn with use despite her young age, are deft and skillful as they dance across the silks that drape over your body.

"My apologies, My Lady," she says in a soft voice when she tightens part of the dress a little too tight.

Angeliki, another of your handmaidens, brushes soft creams against your skin to accentuate the beautiful features already gracing your face and to ensure that you will be the most beautiful flower blooming beside your fiancé tonight. Her own weathered hands treat you with such tenderness, as if you would wilt if she pressed the bristles of the brush too hard into your skin.

"You'll look most precious tonight, My Lady," Angeliki coos as she coats your lips in a beautiful hue of pink. "The Crown Prince will awe at your radiance tonight."

"Do you think?" you ask curiously, peering down towards the shiny silks being tended to by Eleni. "I think I'll be quite plain next to my prince. Nothing catches his gaze besides a sharp sword to play with during training."

"Nonsense, my lady!" Eleni pipes in, standing up almost immediately. Her emerald eyes gleam with determination and you're taken aback by the fire blazing in her soul. "Have you not seen the way the Crown Prince gazes at you?"

"Like I'm a nuisance?" You jest, but that only fires Eleni up even more.

"Don't say that, My Lady! I see the way the Crown Prince looks at you; it's nothing but-"

"Eleni," Angeliki interjects sternly. She shoots the younger handmaiden a sharp look , a warning, and Eleni closes her mouth.

"My apologies for yelling, My Lady. But I will stand by what I said. You're most magnificent tonight."

When you finally look in the mirror, you can hardly recognize yourself. Staring back at you is a completely different woman. Your hair is tucked neatly into a loose bun with strands cascading down the side of your face to frame it delicately. A branch of golden laurel sits behind your head, emerging from your bun like a ray of golden sun peaking through the horizon.

Red silks drape over your body in an elegant dress; the sleeves begin off of your shoulders and cascade down your elbow in a beautiful sea of crimson satin and the skirt falls from you waist like a deep ruby waterfall. There are gold accents lining the edges of the refined fabric as if painted with the brush of a skilled calligrapher.

In short, you look fitting to be Mydeimos' betrothed, the fiancée of the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. For tonight, at least.

As Eleni and Angeliki finish the final touches on your outfit for the evening, there's a firm knock at your door and a voice that you're way too familiar with announces his arrival. With hurried steps, Angeliki rushes to open the door, and you're met with your fiancé face to face.

He's much taller than he was when he was a child; his height now towers over you and his body has grown much broader as he continues to hone his skills as a Kremnoan warrior. His usual messy blond hair is tied back neatly, the hair that usually frames his face is plaited back and pinned by a golden laurel that resembles your own and leaves his handsome features open for everyone to see.

Crimson fabric adorns his body, matching your shade in every which way; it wouldn't be hard to connect two and two together when you walk in with clothes that complement one another. Despite the grace of the exquisite cloth over his skin, it serves as a nice contrast to the defined muscles, pure proof of his discipline as the Kremnoan prince, hidden underneath.

And eyes of amber that you could recognize anywhere in a sea of unfamiliar faces settle on you and only you.

"Excuse my intrusion, My Betrothed," Mydeimos speaks, the timbre of his voice already brings you comfort to the nerves beginning to spike as the birthday banquet grows nearer. "But it's time for us to part."

He holds out his hand for you to take it.

And you do.

As Mydeimos guides you through your annex and into the main palace, your hand clings gently to his strong arm as your heels clack against the cobblestone beneath your feet. His bicep is firm underneath your grip, and your mind wanders elsewhere; how did he get so big before your own eyes? He couldn't have grown in his sleep had he?

A hand, large and rough from years of swordsmanship and combat training, settles over your forearm, grabbing your attention.

"What's on your mind?" Mydeimos asks, his voice carrying the soft tone that's always present when speaking to you.

"Nothing much," you muse with a soft smile. "It's just hard to believe you're already coming of age, Your Highness."

"How so?" You don't have to look, but you know his gaze is on you. You can feel the tender smile that gradually grows on his lips, only widening when hesitance dances on your tongue.

"It seems like yesterday you were the size of a measly shrimp. Tell me, how'd you get so big?" You gently squeeze his arm to emphasize your point. "Though, in my eyes you're still that scrawny little boy who comes into my room with new scrapes for me to tend to."

Mydeimos chuckles softly beside you, bumping into you in response to your teasing words. "Funny. I don't recall you ever changing. You still look at me as if you're about to cry like when we were younger."

You roll your eyes with a scoff. "Please. At least I'm pretty now, aren't I?" You bat your eyelashes at the end of your sentence to emphasize your statement. His expression doesn't move, and instead you're met with the soft exhale of his breath and a hand that gently fixes the stray hair that flies from your head.

"You always have been."

Expecting him to continue your lighthearted banter, his quick and earnest reply shocks you. Yet, all you see is the gentle, sincere sea of gold peering back as if urging you to wade deeper into them. Heat rises to your face but before you could say anything in return, the doors leading into the banquet hall open and you're thrust into the clamor of the party.

It doesn't take long for you to be separated from Mydeimos the moment you stepped into the banquet hall. With many nobles desperate to get a good word in from your fiancé, they clamber over him and when push comes to shove you're pulled away from your one anchor of safety.

The hall is beautiful and pristine; the maids and butlers did a wonderful job ensuring that its beauty truly shone through. The grand chandelier hangs gracefully above the center of the hall with its crystal like charms stretching across the ceiling like the web of a spider. The thousands, if not millions, of candles cast a warm, sparkling light below where other nobles chatted among themselves or dance in the arms of another.

As butlers and maids scamper quietly here and there to refill any snacks or drinks where the refreshments were, a small chamber orchestra made of primarily strings fill the hall with their sonorous harmonies. There's chatter among the guests; most are lighthearted and others drunk off of their minds, laughing boisterously at the unfunny jokes the older nobles tell.

And there are some that whisper behind your back. As expected of someone of your current standing, your position is only temporary and not quite protected by law. Fueled by spite and jealousy of being betrothed to the one and only Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, of course poisonous words would drift through the crowd and into your line of hearing.

"How did she remain as the Crown Prince's betrothed?"

"Isn't she the daughter of an unnamed noble family? How embarrassing."

"I would do better as the Crown Princess, wouldn't you think?"

"What a hideous Princess we have."

Princess. The name settles into your skin like toxins flowing into your body, making you shudder. It's all bark and no bite; at the end of the day you remain the fiancée of Mydeimos and they are not. But their words hurt no less.

Your palms begin to clam up from the unwanted attention and you squeeze your fingers on the skirt of your dress in hopes of appearing calm and poised. You will not stoop to their level, not yet.

The melody sung by the violins begins to soar, reaching the highest crescendo as it signifies the climax of this waltz and the curious eyes belonging to a stranger that happen to catch yours from across the hall. There's a glimmer in his gaze that unnerves you; a chill shoots down your body and the hair at the back of your neck prickles almost immediately. You quickly avert your attention away from the unfamiliar man in hopes of losing his interest.

Yet, fate laughs hysterically in your face as he strides over with confidence overflowing in every step and your heart drops.

"My Lady," he greets you, bowing with a gloved hand on his chest. As he lifts his head, there's mischief dancing in his eyes. It does nothing to stop the pit from growing in your stomach. He tells you his name, but behind the string orchestra and your nerves frayed beyond compare, it flies over your head. "It's a pleasure meeting you." He reeks of alcohol.

"As is mine," you reply tersely. Apprehension seeps through your bones as the unfamiliar man offers his hand to you. Not causing a scene is your biggest priority here, but to have your first dance with a man that isn't your betrothed and to ignore every fiber of your body yelling at you to get away from him was another story.

But before he could even muster his dreadful question, a hand you're way too familiar with wraps around your own. He tugs you behind him and all you can see now is the broad expanse of your fiancé's back as he stands between you and the stranger from before.

And you find yourself relieved.

At the sight of your betrothed, the strange man steps back, stammering a half-hearted apology before scampering away to the other side of the hall where he would be farthest away from the two of you. When the coast was clear, you could see Mydei's posture relax for only a mere moment before he turns back around.

The first thing you see are his golden eyes sweeping over your body as if surveying for anything the unknown man could have inflicted on you in his absence. When he finds you unscathed, he finally meets your gaze again. Contrition swims in the endless seas of gold and sends a wave of warmth cascading over your skin. To know that he cares this much is a surprising feeling.

But it isn't unwelcome.

"Forgive me, My Betrothed," Mydeimos begins, stretching out his hand to you in a pose you're all too familiar with. "Can I redeem myself for being late with a dance?"

Your fiancé leads you through the exuberant, upbeat tempo of the polka played by the string orchestra. His hand is bare against your own and every callous is felt underneath your skin. It's rough, evidence of every single weapon he has learned under the direction of his father, but they are nothing but gentle and careful when pressed against your palm.

Both of your feet move quickly to the cut time of the music; left foot forward, then right follows, stepping back with your left, and then repeat.

"Shouldn't you focus more on your dance partner?" Mydeimos murmurs in front of you as the polka comes to its final cadence, and it was only then do you realize that your eyes were locked on your feet rather than the man dancing with you.

"Oh, I apologize. I was so focused on not making a fool of myself that I may have neglected you," You say quickly, bowing your head. Your betrothed hums in response, taking your hand in his when the chamber orchestra begins their next song; a slower waltz.

As your fiancé guides you through the andante of the next dance, your eyes meet his and it's hard to ignore the glimmer in his own. Was it from the lustrous chandelier twinkling above you or from something you don't want to recognize, you don't know and you don't plan to.

"Are you alright?" Mydeimos inquires, his gaze never leaving yours as the two of you sway gently to the soft lilts of the waltz. The music swells up and Mydeimos swings you away from him, only to pull you back when the strings settle back at the downbeat. There's a gentle squeeze to your palm and your heart lurches at the feeling.

"Nothing, just," You take a breath before responding, "Just a bit overwhelmed."

Your fiancé doesn't say anything, only opting to watch over you as if reading through the thoughts in your mind. A couple beats of rests, and like an anacrusis pivoting into the final phrase, he asks you one simple question.

"Why don't we leave after this dance?"

—

The night air is cool and it nips at your skin as you rush down the winding halls of the main palace. It's a bit dark, only a few candles here and there illuminate the never ending halls with barely enough light to see where your feet are stepping. The ethereal glow of the moon shines through the sheer curtained windows of the halls as if guiding you to your destination.

There's nothing but the quiet steps of your feet against the rug lining down the hall; the chatter of the party a mere memory now with the distance created. And yet, even as the chill of the night brushes against your cheeks, you're nothing but warm from both the exhilaration of escaping the stuffy banquet hall and from the hand holding yours through it all.

Your uneven breaths seem to catch the Crown Prince's attention, only then does he begin to slow down for your sake. Your fiancé's pace matches yours with ease and as you loosen your grip from his hand, the fear of being left behind in the dust now dissipating, his grip doesn't.

And it never does until he finally leads you to a small room on the higher levels of the main palace. It's especially quiet now with only your breaths filling the emptiness of the hall. The door is a bit older than the rest of the main palace, perhaps a forgotten storage space because of how isolated it was from the main bustle of the building. The wood has seen better days and it creaks to life once your fiancé opens it with ease.

Mydeimos helps you into the room, warning you of the step to get in. The room is dark and a bit cramped; piles of old books clutter the floors of the old room alongside two aged, leather chairs in the middle beside a low coffee table. There's a laced doily decorating the table and a vase with a small bouquet of white flowers resting within. Despite the timeworn appearance of the finer details, the room seems well taken care of.

Approaching the white blooms, your fingers gently graze the petals that fade to a soft pink hue.

"Cretan tulips," Mydeimos breaks the silence as he steps beside you. "My mother's birthday gift for me."

"How is she faring?" You inquire, pulling your fingers away. "Last I heard, she was bedridden and couldn't make it to your banquet."

There's hesitance in your betrothed's movements. He doesn't say anything at first, lips parting as his eyes glance downward deep in thought. His eyes trail to one of the aged chairs in the room; the leather is worn with use, but even you could tell the memories it holds in every crease.

"She's not well, truthfully," Mydeimos begins. His voice is small, an unfamiliar timbre. "I worry she won't make it to the next spring."

The news is heavy as it settles over your shoulders. Your hand reaches over to hold Mydeimos' once more; you squeeze his gently in comfort. There's something somber swimming in his eyes, one that you know you will never be able to chase away no matter how much you try.

Alone and scared, like he was all those years ago trembling in his room.

"I still mean what I said when we were younger," you tell him in the quiet of the night. Your voice, small yet deafening at the same time. "I'll be by your side until forever. Your worries will be mine to share as to alleviate the weight on your shoulders."

Mydeimos doesn't say anything and instead offers you a smile; it's not one that reaches his eyes, but it's enough to show the sincere gratitude for your comfort.

"Forgive me, I did not bring you here to sully the mood," Mydeimos tells you. With a gentle tug of your hand, your fiancé pulls you through the homey clutter of the room and to the window built into the stone walls.

As your eyes gaze out into the horizon, you're met with the most significant view. Outside lay the entire city of Castrum Kremnos; the city sprawls across the horizon where life bustled beyond what they eye could see. The lights of city life twinkle vibrantly, rivaling the endless sea of stars that dance above you.

"It's beautiful," your words are a mere whisper as you stare in awe at the exuberant city life below you.

"Isn't it?"

Turning from the window, you're met with seas of gold peering back at you, unmoving yet shining with something you can't quite put your finger on. His gaze flits around you, dancing on every inch of your face as if unsure of where or what to look at. Whatever he was trying to convey makes your heart flutter and you're the first to break away from his stare.

"That reminds me," you begin as the warmth floods your chest and face, "I got you something for today." Your fingers pull out a small, velvet box and hold it out for your prince. He takes it in his own hands and, with gentle fingers, he opens it.

Inside lay a pair of earrings; gold shaped in the form of a diamond encasing a deep, azure sapphire and golden streams dropping below the blue gem. It's beautiful and shines brilliantly even with just the soft light of the moon glowing through the window.

"Happy birthday, Mydeimos."

With delicate movements, your betrothed lifts up one of the sapphire earrings. "May I?" Confusion eats away at your expression, but you give a slight nod and Mydeimos is moving with slow, calculated movements. His fingers brush against the skin of your jaw as he quickly fastens the earring to your right ear. When he's finished, his fingers trail down the drop of the earring until it slips from his fingertip.

"So that I will be reminded of who has my other half… Thank you, I will cherish this birthday forever, Princess."

Princess. The word echoes in the chamber of your mind and does little to settle the accelerando of your heartbeat or to the heat that threatens to reach every inch of your body.

You don't mind the way it sounds coming from him.

—

The day Mydeimos' mother passed was a depressing day. It seemed like even nature itself was mourning the life of Gorgo, the late Queen of Castrum Kremnos, for the sun did not shine for a whole week and rained through most of it as if shedding tears over her passing. The kingdom was oddly quiet; the bustling city life now dwindled down to nothing but quiet streets and hushed chatter winding through twisting roads.

The entirety of Castrum Kremnos was grieving, and yet your fiancé did not receive that luxury.

You witness this in real time; the way King Eurypon glares at his son with unabashed hatred. His regiment becomes more difficult and physically taxing with the excuse of 'political tension' and 'coming of age.' Mydeimos rarely has time to visit you at nightfall due to his unbearable schedule and on the few chances that he did come to visit you, the once vibrant seas of gold that twinkled in delight at your mere presence have dulled significantly.

His punishments have also grown in intensity; meals have been cut for any minuscule mistake whether it be not addressing another noble correctly or missing an opening during combat training. When the servants pity the poor prince, word would reach the King and they were swiftly dealt with; you don't remember the last time you saw Angeliki.

It happens early into the evening in the midst of your evening routine. The sun is barely setting over the horizon and casts your room in its warm, golden hue. It's rather peaceful as the day, for you at least, ended on a good note. With a book Mydeimos had recommended for you at the table by your window and your nightgown draped loosely over your body, the evening was sure to end with no conflicts and, hopefully, a late night visit from your fiancé.

Until the door of your bedchambers slams open and the young Eleni runs in, frantic and unkempt. Her eyes are wide open and strands of her curly hair stick out of her bun in every which way. If it were any normal circumstance, you would poke some fun at her for her disheveled appearance. But the worried expression on her face holds you back.

"Forgive me, My Lady," Eleni begins, her voice breathy, "but this is dire!"

"What has gotten you in such a panic?" You ask her, approaching the young handmaiden as she catches her breath. It takes her a few gulps of air but she eventually stands straight once more and meets your gaze almost immediately.

"My Lady, The King is planning to throw the Crown Prince into the forests," Eleni announces in all seriousness. "Tonight! With no weapons to bear as punishment for something asinine."

The news makes your heart drop to your stomach. Your eyes glance away for a second towards the sun rapidly sinking below the horizon outside your window; it will be dark tonight with the moon barely beginning to wax. Being out there would be a death sentence regardless of whether or not he is armed.

"Please, you have to stop him, My Lady! The Crown Prince will not survive if he goes; the forests at the outskirts of the kingdom are treacherous at night. Who knows what will be out there to get him," Eleni pleads with you, her voice growing more exasperated as seconds pass by.

"Help me get dressed, Eleni. Quickly."

The wind rushes past your ears as your feet pad rapidly against the cobbled floor leading into the main entrance of the main palace. As the heavy, ornate doors swing open, you're greeted with the knights restraining your fiancé by the arms. He looks worn, most likely from a training session that went beyond his limits along with further punishment from his father. His strawberry blond hair is a mess as it dangles messily in front of his face.

And yet you can see the gleam of his gold eyes behind the bloodied, matted tresses, warning you to leave him be.

As if.

"Your Majesty," Your voice shakes in fear, but it is unwavering for your devotion to your fiancé, "if I may, isn't this punishment too much?"

King Eurypon towers over you, glaring down with unfamiliar dark eyes. Despite the chill that runs through your spine, you lift your chin higher. No fear, you have to show no fear. With a deep breath, you continue.

"This is your son you are punishing, your own flesh and blood. Do you not worry that he will die out there? He is unarmed and night will fall."

The King looks at you as if you were a mere bug in his way; his glare is unmoving and his frown only deepens at your words. You hate how small you feel. "Are you aware of who you are speaking to?"

There's some rustling coming from where your fiancé was restrained. You could hear your name being said, but you did not falter in your conversation with The King.

"Yes, Your Majesty the King," You continue, "which is why it's pertinent. Is the Crown Prince not your sole heir to the throne? It would be futile if you punished him with a near death sentence."

"You would know best to not speak to me that way," King Eurypon's voice is low, a deep and powerful timbre that could swallow you whole if you made one wrong move. "A woman has no place in having authority over me. Send her back to her chambers, this conversation was useless."

"Your Majesty-!"

Your words are cut short as the guards pull you back and the last thing that you see before those doors were slammed shut in your face were tumultuous golden skies that only looked at you.

Even as minutes turn to hours and hours to days, nothing could soothe your nerves as thought after thought races through your mind of what could happen to Mydeimos out there in those forests. And when it came back to the scene with King Eurypon, you could feel the anger in your chest rising. The heat sears through your body, blinding your thoughts as King Eurypon's words echo in your mind.

'A woman has no place in having authority over me.'

Pitiful, that's what you are, and there was nothing you could do to make up for it. For The King was right, no woman would ever have the authority especially over him and your chest burns knowing this society could never let you have the freedom and power you so craved. Your eyes sting, and for the first time in a long while, you let your sobs rack through your body in frustration and anger for how useless you were in protecting the one person you promised to stay beside.

It couldn't have been more than a couple days when there was a loud noise outside of your bedchambers. The moon has long risen above the sky, barely turning into half of the crescent it was when Mydeimos was sent to his demise.

With quick steps, you make towards the entrance of your chambers. Opening the large, gilded door of your bedchambers, there's a body slumped on the floor. Blood soaks his clothes and there are undoubtedly wounds hidden underneath; how deep and severe they were was the true question. He's breathing haggardly, barely even conscious, and yet he musters the strength to glance up at the opened door.

You would have screamed if it weren't for the familiarity of gold peering into your own.

"Mydeimos!" You exclaim, kneeling down to his height. Your shaking hands push back the hair covering his face; it's sweaty and caked with liquid iron but at this point you truly do not care. Grabbing a hold of his face, you're careful in your inspection of your fiancé. He is careworn, exhaustion set deep in his gaze. And yet, when his eyes match your flitting eyes, his hardened stare seems to easily melt away and you're met face to face with the man who stood beside you from the first day you met him. "Oh Aeons above, you're alive…. What are you doing here of all places?! Did the infirmary reject you?"

Mydeimos parts his lips, chapped and dry from the forests, and his voice responds in a coarse whisper. "Forgive me. You were the first place I thought to go to."

"Are you mad?" You want to shake the life out of him for making an idiotic choice, but sincerity is laced in his words and you find you don't have the heart to, even when frustration eats away at every single nerve in your body. Despite the dire state that he's in, there's no fear evident on his face. Rather, he looks relieved to see you. "You definitely are, what am I saying."

"If it's madness to visit you first, then, please, call me insane."

You sigh, lifting your fiancé's arm around your shoulder in hopes of moving your wounded Crown Prince into the safety of your room. He's heavy, that you will not deny, but luckily Mydeimos retained a bit of strength to help alleviate his dead weight from your shoulders.

"Don't joke around with me right now," You hiss next to his ear. "Not in this state."

He collapses into one of the loveseats near the center of your room. In the brighter light, you're able to fully examine him now. There are multitude of wounds littering his body; most of them seem to be scrapes save for a larger laceration hidden underneath his shirt. You pray to Nikador that nothing was severely infected. If anything, the biggest concern was his hunger and dehydration.

"And if I'm not joking?" Mydeimos asks as pools of golden ichor trail after your body when you leave his side. You quickly return to him with a cup and jug of water. He eyes it, but doesn't move a muscle when you lift the fragile porcelain to his lips.

"Then I will plea insanity for your sake," You respond. Your fingers tilt the cup in a deliberate motion, careful not to overwhelm your fiancé with the fresh water. Seeing Mydeimos' throat bob as the water enters his system does wonders to alleviate your nerves and as he finishes you move to pour him some more.

"You haven't been sleeping," Mydeimos comments as you lift the cup once more. This time, his hand, large yet gentle, pushes your arm down and his gaze pierces through you. "Why is that?"

Setting the cup down, your fingers reach up and press gently into the puffiness of the eye bags that hang. Granted, his visit was a surprise to you so it wasn't like you had the time in the world to pretty yourself before seeing him. But you're sure you look a mess currently with the anxieties plaguing your thoughts and the tears of frustration that did not cease night after night.

"Care to take a guess?" You scoff lightly, not to be rude but to state the obvious.

Mydeimos does not answer immediately. Instead his hand encases your own and he tilts his head towards you. Truthfully, you do not want to meet his gaze. Despite his sincerity, you know deep down that because of your weakness to stand up against his father, he was in this position. But there's a squeeze of your hand, a whisper of your name.

And the walls that you've tried to hold together so desperately in front of him crumble down.

"You were gone for nearly a week, you know," You begin slowly, squeezing the hand encasing yours. He pulls you closer to him and you're now standing in the gap between his legs. His thumb rubs gentle circles across your hand and, as comforting as it is, it only tears your walls down even further. "And every passing day I wondered what I could've done to help you.

"I regret not being there, not being strong enough to fight against your father. Would you have not dealt with this if I had done anything else?" You take a shaking breath before you continue. There's the familiar stinging in your eyes, but you will yourself to not let them fall. Not yet.

"I failed you, My Prince," Your voice falters. "I couldn't do anything to help you and I feel so ashamed. And here I am, complaining about my measly feelings when you've come back from a near death experience as if I have any room to whine right now?"

His hand reaches up to your jaw; you don't move even as your betrothed wipes away the tears that have now shed without your knowledge. "You're hurt because of me, and I am so sorry. Please don't forgive me."

The tears sting the corner of your eyes and your hands meekly come up to wipe them away. But the Crown Prince is quicker than you are. Both of his hands delicately cup your face and his fingers brush away the crystalline tears that seem to never end. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as a feeble attempt to push him away; he doesn't move.

"My Princess," Mydeimos begins, his voice matching the tenderness of his gaze, "you have never hurt me. I cannot forgive you for a crime you did not commit."

A sob wracks through your body and something flashes across his expression, as if your cries alone were hurting him more than the wounds on his body ever could.

"Do not cry, I am alive, am I not? I promised to never leave your side." His voice is soothing, washing away your worries slowly with one word at a time. Maybe it's the way he speaks to you with a tone so soft and gentle, filled with nothing but his sincerity to comfort you. Or perhaps it's the way he's holding you like you're fragile, like you're cherished and adored. "As long as you're alive, then so will I. Do not shed tears for something as trivial as this punishment."

"Nothing is trivial when it comes to you, Mydeimos. Please never say that."

As your weeps echo in around your chamber, your fiancé remains by your side, even as the moon bids her farewell and the dawn greets you for another day. Every tear is swiftly wiped away and every apology is greeted with silent comfort. And yet, even as the grief strikes through your core, the worries that have plagued you before seem to dissipate with Mydeimos' mere presence by your side.

—

Your peace does not last long. Shortly after Mydeimos' return from the forests, the political tensions between Castrum Kremnos and the neighboring city of Okhema have grown. It does not take long before the pressure rises enough for war to be declared, courtesy of King Eurypon.

And with the cost of war comes with the price of men drafted to fight for the name of The King. Even your fiancé is not safe, especially as the Crown Prince.

The declaration of war unsettles the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos deeply; there are frantic whispers as people sit in their disbelief while others calmly accept their fate. A Kremnoan is not one to back from a fight, even if it is one they are not prepared for. The citizens are restless in their anxieties, and the castle is no less.

Due to the war preparations, Mydeimos' training has increased tenfold. Alongside his fellow knights and warriors, the Crown Prince has trained night and day to the point where you never did see him anymore. The glimpses you would catch would be during his sparring sessions if you so happened to walk past the training grounds within the palace.

And the one time you did catch him, exhaustion is etched in every crevice of his face. For a poor boy who had barely come of age, the pressures of his father and this oncoming conflict seemed to have aged him even more; it shows in the darkness of his eyes and unmoving frown carved into his skin.

But hope blooms in your chest when your gazes meet and the all familiar gold returns to his eyes as if it had never left. A beautiful, crystalline geode hidden within a rugged exterior; your childhood friend and ally underneath the mask of the Crown Prince.

On the night before the expedition, Mydeimos arrives outside your bedchambers at the usual time you used to meet. You're surprised to see him, honestly; with the send off being so close, you did not expect to see your fiancé so soon—if at all. Luckily, he's not dressed for training and has cleaned up before visiting you; his white nightshirt now fitting for his body and flowing loosely over his torso.

His hair is undone; the usual braid that drops at the side of his face is loose and his strawberry blond hair frames his face beautifully. His sapphire earring, the one that matches yours, dangles by his ear. It's radiant, luminous as it reflects the candlelit room like the eternal embers of the hearth of life. There's still a hint of fatigue sewn into his expression, like a permanent scar on his otherwise perfect tanned skin, but it immediately melts away upon seeing you at the other side of the door. Like the warmth of spring melting away the frigid winter snow, you've brought life to him with just your presence alone.

For a second, you get a glimpse of the bright eyed small boy he used to be and a sharp pang strikes through your heart.

"Is it too late to come and see you?" he asks you, his voice much deeper than the last time you remember it. His timbre rumbles low, almost the purr of a big cat.

"You don't have to ask, Your Highness." And, like clockwork, he walks in.

There's a comfortable silence between the both of you as you sit at the table near the window. Usually, there would be a glass of milky pomegranate juice for you to share, but tonight is different. Even the world itself knows this with the usual chirps of the crickets outside now a hushed melody and the moon hangs low in the sky with her light barely radiant as if she was too heartbroken for the next dawn.

"Do you really have to go?" You break the silence with a question, voice a mere whisper in the quiet of night. Your eyes remain locked to your lap where your fingers twist and fumble with one another.

And your heart sinks, heavy with reality, when he speaks again.

"Of course I do," Mydeimos replies, his voice alone is enough to calm you but the context of the conversation stirs the emotions in your heart. "Both as my duty as my father's son and as my pride as a Kremnoan."

There are a million thoughts that run through your mind; what if this worthless pride of his gets him killed or what if there's the chance he won't come home at all? What if the Okhemans take his life during their victory? And how much trouble would you be in if you knocked him out and ran away with him, far past the outskirts of this kingdom and away from this?

The Crown Prince exhales softly, a quiet laugh and your mind snaps back to this moment.

"Your worries are written all over your face, Princess," he speaks. You can hear the warmth dripping from his tone; there's a smile so evident in his voice and you feel your face flush from embarrassment. With that same timbre, he speaks your name as if he has known it for lifetimes. "Look at me, won't you?"

And you do.

All you can see are those endless pools of golden ichor peering back at you, molten aureate seas of candor and sincerity beckoning you to melt into them; to do nothing but have faith that you wouldn't drown in them.

"Do you remember what we vowed to each other?" he asks, gaze unwavering as he leans in closer to you.

"To always be by each other's side until the day we wed," you recite to him.

"And forevermore," Mydeimos finishes for you. "I intend to keep the promise. I'll come back victorious and meet you once again."

You bite your bottom lip as unease eats away at your nerves. Of course, your heart yearns to trust his words for he has done everything in his power to take your side in the years you've shared with him. But there will always be unprecedented circumstances that could always happen, experiences where it will lie out of both of your hands.

The thought of losing him forever terrifies you to your core.

But his eyes are unmoving and perhaps that is enough to let you fully trust him. It grounds you, reminds you of how much your fiancé has changed from the frail, thin boy who now towers over you with shoulders broader than your own. Even the loose nightshirt could not hide the expanse of muscles evident underneath and how they flex with every movement he makes.

Without a word you quickly rise from your seat, maneuvering around your chambers until you get to your nightstand. The wooden drawer slides open with ease and your fingers wrap around the white cloth inside. When you return to your betrothed's side, you realize his gaze has never left your body.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to give this to you," you begin with bated breath. Your fingers gently play with the soft cotton of the cloth before handing it out for Mydeimos to take. "It's a little rough, but an embroidered handkerchief is considered good luck for warriors, isn't it?"

There's an accelerando in your heartbeat as a large hand gingerly picks up the unstained cloth. He unfolds it, letting the handkerchief spread open. In the corner were three embroidered elements; one golden sun and two maroon pomegranates basking underneath it.

"Of course, you don't have to keep it if it's not your cup of tea," you ramble on as your heart leaps to your throat at his silence. "I just wanted you to feel safe even when you're out-"

A whisper of your name, quiet enough to blend into the comfortable silence of the room but deafening to your ears. Your gaze snaps up to meet his and you're met with a sunset that showers you in its warmth, a heat so calming and serene that all of your worries seem to dissipate.

Gold melting into halcyon days.

"Thank you. I'll cherish it on the battlefield."

There's a moment of reprieve, a second of tranquility. And it does little to calm your now racing heart over a feeling that is far from anxiety.

DUSK.

My Princess,

How have you been doing? Has my father treated you the same? Poorly? Let me know so I can return immediately. I hope that your days have not been as busy as mine. I apologize for breaking our oath to stay beside each other, but I promise you that I will return after this war and go straight to you.

My journey has not been long, but I miss you already. The nights do not feel the same without you by my side and I always wonder what you're doing while I'm on the front lines. The only thing that brings me comfort is the handkerchief you embroidered for me, and the fact that we remain under the same sky every day.

I'll see you soon. Wait for me.

Mydeimos.

—

My Princess,

This war has been…rough for me. I promise that I will fight until my very last breath. Not because I am the son of King Eurypon and Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, but because I am your betrothed and we have made an oath together.

I wish to see you again, you are my only hope in this wretched war. Like the sun's rays, you will guide me back home… back to your side.

I will not fall in this war, I promise I will return to you. So do not shed any tears for me. I hate seeing you cry, and I hate it even more knowing that I am the reason.

Wait for me, I promise I will see you soon.

Mydeimos.

—

My sole Princess,

We have finally breached enemy lines and I guarantee that by the time you've received this letter we will come out victorious. I can finally put an end to this useless war and save the lives of more innocent men forced to fight for the name of their king. I've seen many disturbing sights while on this treacherous journey, and I wish you to never see them.

It will not be long before I return to you, my Princess. How has life in the palace been? It has been years since we last seen each other, will you remember how I look like? Have you changed?

Please wait for me, you will be the first person I greet when I return.

Mydeimos.

—

Four years have passed since your fiancé was sent off to war and declared victory of the war between Castrum Kremnos and Okhema. When the victory was announced, there was a moment of silence before the entire kingdom bursts in cheers loud enough that you were sure Nikador could even hear of the celebrations. But most importantly, the relief was tangible.

No more innocent lives thrown away due to a selfish and ignorant king.

News of the Crown Prince being the one to end the final battle spread like wildfire among the citizens and whispers of praise echo through the winding streets of the main city. Mydeimos is a hero in the eyes of Castrum Kremnos, and he will return with nothing but endless celebrations to commemorate the honor of victory.

The main palace is bustling with life once more as Mydeimos' celebratory banquet thrives with excited chatter and boisterous laughter. It's a happy event, much more pleasant than the previous event held in the grand banquet hall. The chandelier above remains an endless web of crystallized light and the servants are busy winding in and out of the crowd of guests eager to finally catch a glimpse of the returned hero.

"My Lady, what an honor to see you!"

"Aren't you proud of your fiancé? His honor as a Kremnoan will bring pride to us all."

"Will the wedding be held soon after this?"

"Marvelous party, My Lady. Give thanks to The King for hosting such an event."

An event you planned, but you let the empty pleasantries slide. Your hands are full entertaining guests and greeting other nobles as they crowd you with vacuous comments and hollow small talk.

Lost in the cacophonous and draining chatter of nobles you don't seem to care for, your attention is away from the announcement of a name you're all too familiar with and it isn't until the crowd surrounding you explodes in cheers that you realize who has entered the hall.

Mydeimos is much broader than the last time you saw him; though you didn't think that could be possible. He's adorned in white cloth draped over his body held in place with belts and buckles made of pure gold; a crimson cape drapes over one of his shoulders like blood smeared across a canvas. They're loose on his body, yet do nothing to hide what lay underneath. A wreath of aureate leaves sits on top of his head; a physical reminder of his status in the room and his future role as King. The blue sapphire you gifted him drops down from his left ear, sparkling as if announcing who he belonged to.

Tendrils of red ink decorate his tan skin. They're the mark of heroes, a badge of honor that only few in Castrum Kremnos get to have. Deep crimson ink make trails leading up his arms, over his chest, and dip underneath the fabric of his clothes—wherever they lead to on his body piques your curiosity. They're ethereal on him, a wonderful contrast against his otherwise perfect skin.

And your heart lurches at his eyes that are locked only on you.

The clamor of the banquet grows distant as soon as you step out into the connecting balcony and shut the large, paned door behind you. With the endless night sky above you as your only company, you finally have your moment of reprieve away from the perpetual mindless chatter of nobles and other guests. You walk towards the railing of the balcony and look over the palace gardens; paved cobblestone winding between green bushes blooming with white blossoms and a fountain built right in the center of it all.

It's beautiful, simple and peaceful with only the muffled celebrations from the banquet inside as your white noise.

"I thought I'd find you here." A familiar voice calls out to you and you turn away from the gardens to meet his gaze.

The blazing sun.

And you're burning underneath his rays.

"To think I spent all these years in war, and I didn't get a single greeting?" He's much less intimidating up close compared to the banquet hall with thousands of eyes on him. However, it could be because he's alone here with you. There's a twinkle in his eye and a small smile curls at the corner of his lips. Handsome and boyish. "Did you forget me already?"

"How could I ever?" You respond back with a smile of your own. Heavy footsteps walk towards you and you find Mydeimos leaned against the railing beside you. He's close enough where you can catch a whiff of his scent—clean, floral with hints of musk and bergamot— and feel his elbow bumping into yours. He's warm; you are too, but you're beginning to doubt if it's because you're naturally warm.

Or because he's here.

"I'm glad to see you again," you tell him as you cast your gaze back up into the night sky. The evening breeze brushes past the two of you, cool and brisk, and Mydeimos takes this moment to remove the scarlet cape and drape it over your own shoulders. His scent engulfs you; his warmth a residue of his own body over yours.

Your heart thrums against your eardrums.

"I thought about you everyday, you know," Mydeimos confesses beside you and your breath hitches.

"How so?" You stammer out, words nearly toppling over one another. "Like how I used to cry over silly things?"

"In a way," Mydeimos agrees and you frown at his response. "But more so because I missed you, and I hate seeing you cry especially if I know it's because of me."

Normally, his honesty would barely phase you, but something in the way that he speaks to you sets a storm of butterflies free in your stomach. perhaps it's from the buzz of the banquet or because you've finally reunited with him after all these years waiting for his return.

Or maybe it's because he's so close to you. When had he leaned down to hear you better and when was his face so close to yours?

"Would you hate me if I asked for a kiss to celebrate?" he asks, voice low and quiet but never has he been so clear.

Your heart beats wildly against your chest, an accelerando that has gone way too fast way too quick and you cannot stop your eyes from staring at his lips only mere inches away. You nod.

His lips find yours with ease and all of the feelings you've built up from the moment you first met seems to bloom, melting into the kiss. He feels so comforting, everything feels so perfect and so right when it comes to him. He feels like your home, your only place to be free. And you don't ever want to leave.

When he pulls away, there are no words spoken. The only sound filling the silence are your quiet breaths intermingling with one another. Molten gold peer down at you, half lidded and taking in your every movement. There's residue of your lip stain on his lips and your fingers reach up to wipe it off.

A large hand encases your wrist, holding it in place while Mydeimos turns his head and presses another kiss to the palm of your hand. Heat blooms in your chest; your heart is soaring across the heavens above and you're worried it'll never come down if he continues this.

"Mydeimos… My Prince, I think I have fallen for you." Your voice is breathy and light, almost in disbelief at the words you've just spoken.

At first, Mydeimos doesn't say anything. Instead, his brows furrow as confusion etches itself across his face. "We've been engaged for over a decade and will wed soon."

Your face flushes at his words. "I-I know! It's just… I never realized what I was feeling towards you until now."

Your prince laughs softly, a chuckle that is carried off into the wind like a melody only you are meant to hear. He releases your wrist, only to reach up and brush away a strand of hair that has gone astray. He's warm, and basking in his unyielding attention makes you warmer.

"Then the feelings are returned. For you've ruined me, I cannot go a day without thinking of you. And now that we're together again, I never wish to be apart again, my wife."

His words echo in the chambers of your mind as he leans down once more to kiss you again underneath the light of the moon. And you're reminded again and again of the love you hold for him as well as the affections harbored for you through the lifetime that you've known one another. His hand cups your jaw, holding you as if you were his last drop of moonlight in the depths of an eternal night.

For he is your eternity, his solace, and you are his.

Your routine as Pantalone’s wife is pretty simple, and runs like clockwork.

In the morning, you rise when he does, regardless of how early it is.

“Good morning, my dear. Let us catch another productive day,” he says smoothly from above your face. Leaning down for a deserved kiss, his loose hair tickles your face and hides you from the world for him.

Your lips always move drowsily at this hour, so he guides you, rather eager to be that help; with the sleepiness still in power of you, you’re not coherent enough to register the kiss increasingly becoming selfish.

Then you watch him dress, each layer donned meticulously — a slovenly appearance is another weakness to admit to your opponents, such as a brewing chaos in your life. There’s never time for breakfast at home, save for the special occasions, so you linger in bed, trying to not sink back into sleep before you could tell him goodbye.

“They say a happy spouse makes life more prosperous. Therefore, I hope you can wish me a safe journey.”

As you fulfill his wish, you watch him go, then close your eyes the second you hear the door close. The lavish room feels empty without him, as it is peaceful.

While he’s away, you have time to focus on yourself. The only time you do. Although, you’re still expected to oversee the staff in his absence.

They themselves like it that way, finding you quite patient in comparison to your husband. You form them an opinion dissent from what they think of him — that he’s just a man keen on perfection, with a lot to lose — and apologize, promising loyalty to be rewarding in the longer run. You’re like his addendum, translating his actions for them. Still, you try to not become too comfortable with the servants— you doubt your husband would like that much.

When dinner time comes around the corner, Pantalone usually is not home yet. Which doesn't entail you get to eat alone — there’s already been an agent sent after you. Thankfully, it’s not cold within the capital itself — thanks to the heating system Kresnik’s Torch provides for Snezhnograd. So you arrive at one of the Northland Banks he stations in during specific days easily, while something good is wafting through the door of his office.

You're typically all dolled up by this hour. Choices such as a navy dress made out of a thick velvet enveloping you tight at the chest but swirling at the bottom, black heeled boots with silver embellishments, heavy blue rocks for jewelry. Your husband greatly appreciates the sight upon your arrival, eying you from head to toe.

“You look endearingly beautiful, my dear,” he praises right before he leans to kiss your cheek. “I hope you will enjoy this meal with me. Have you tried Fontainian cuisine before?”

Your harbinger husband has you trying all kinds of food. It’s in opposition to the way that Snezhnayans pride themselves in their native cuisine. Your late mother told you to eat only local dishes as long as you live here, unless you are traveling abroad, and he has you breaking that standard.

“I believe I have not,” you reply honestly, not even because you want to preserve his well-hidden excitement.

“Excellent.” He claps his hands together and ushers you to the table set in the corner of his gold-shining office, pulling out the chair for you.

He even ties your hair for you so it doesn’t fall into a soup you’re about to eat. Something to be grateful about. The hair, you see, he also invests into, accruing from it when he notices its condition elevate itself over the time maids spend on caring for it.

Sitting down across from you, his hand occasionally grabs yours, playing with the wedding band and fat diamond of the engagement ring you still wear. They weigh heavy on your fingers, speaking of both their value and your belonging to him.

You hear his dissolute hums, but you suspect your presence here is more satisfying than the dish.

Done with the meal, he encourages you to stay for dessert too — even if nothing could be as sweet as his wife is. You laugh at that remark, a bit too loudly.

Pantalone lives up to his moniker Regrator. When you leave, he invites a client in, apologizing for the delay as he must have seen his precious wife — she gets so lonely on her own… Transactions run pretty smoothly, as the client signs a contract he doesn’t comprehend well, any profoundness overshadowed by the excitement. The prospect of gaining attention of such an influential man is a great honor.

This is why he likes to go after clients with nascent businesses. Dimming their light until a power vacuum exists works out well in the end — and they shall not worry, they still earned their money. The only people he doesn’t go after are those who already have nothing, as they can’t commit to the art of trade; maybe there’s some reminiscences of pity involved.

Eat, or be eaten is what he likes to tell you, unequivocally. He’s not doing more than his colleagues do, and you nod at that, thinking everyone fights for their survival in the capital of Snezhnaya.

On rarer occasions, your husband makes some extra time for you, ensuring he returns home early — just for you.

You walk across the shopping street when it’s not him monopolizing your presence for himself. It’s a more exorbitant type of area, no window shopping allowed. Only people capable of profligacy are allowed into this place, roofed with glass, laid out with light-painted buildings more expensive than an average house and checkered tiles. With beguiling smiles of sellers and wealthy laughs of families everywhere, it’s as though you step into another world.

Your hand rests in the gloved one, as Pantalone parades you around proudly. Your rings shine under the light of lanterns — your own signage among other advertisements.

You occasionally step on the tattered mora coin someone dropped and didn't bother to lift up because it's dirty money anyway.

Unfortunately, nothing offered here picks up your interest most of the time. It’s not parsimony.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, his hand now on your back. “Does nothing to be sold here appeal to you?”

You frown, wondering if he’d consider you spoiled should you come out clean about your dissatisfaction.

The problem is — you could obtain many of luxurious items here, but they are useless to you and the pile of such similarities back home.

Unless you were ever have to run away and need money. Just a funny thought to entertain.

“These are trinkets to me-” you finally admit.

Yes, all of the items around are very lovely to look at. Bags. Jewelry. Figures. Clothes. Imported goods Snezhnaya can’t harvest. Pets even. Majority of them are something many would love to receive and most could only dream of. But in your stage of life, their value lies in their looks only… and when you’re on your own all day, you need something to keep you busy, not something to put on a shelf and stare as it gathers dust.

“-I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I would like to be gifted something practical… Since you’re willing to spend your money on me anyway.”

“Something practical…” he muses, and for a second you worry he’ll say no. “Wise choice. I’ll approve, especially that I can’t have you trying to bite my head off from boredom,” he chuckles even if you don’t find it funny. “Painting, reading, creating of any kind?”

He orders himself an extra suit — the one you help him envision — and then you go back to that lavish mansion of upper echelon.

In the evening, unless you’re dragged to another banquet with him, where you flash a smile for the pictures, and his hand rested at your waist serves as a reminder that you ought to conduct yourself well, you have to listen to his rants. You suppose that’s better than being sycophantic and dancing with others of Fatui.

All about how inundated he is. Failed projects, failures of subordinates. Or his gloating.

Lending an ear is something a good wife does, regardless of how mundane it becomes.

He’s quite a verbose man, with an inability to refrain from forming endless monologues. That ineptitude easily gives you headache.

You even picked up some of his banker jargon, enough to could run a business yourself. If anything, you suspects he’s ready to empower you with some position at his bank, as nepotistic as it sounds — he certainly doesn’t want a housewife or trophy wife (not entirely, at least), if someone to represent him as his partner in crime.

It’s not as if you find staring at the wall or shopping all day much fulfilling either, cabin-fevered. There’s other activities to participate in, but even those become boring when there’s an excess repetition of them, or people accompanying you lick your boots far too easily.

Sometimes, he squeezes you too hard when the memory of the day becomes too vivid. “So many fools in my arsenal… how difficult it is to follow a simple order?”

“That screeching Rooster…”

“I really hope that Dottore’s plan is worth my investment. I worry even my friend isn't immune to making mistakes.”

“Should you really be telling me those things?” you butt in during one of the confessions, not sure if you exactly want to hear everything Pantalone has to say. Some things sound… savage, and it’s harder to bolster his confidence about those. You even hear something as insane as curating his own currency one day. Is he trying to earn your approval, or is he bad at keeping secrets?

“Well, are you thinking of letting the cat out of the bag?” he jests, digging his nails into your waist at the thought.

“Of course not,” you say immediately, full of innocence. As if to console him, you brush his hair aside, noticing how he leans into your touch.

“Enough about them,” he quickly decides, coming to conclusion that your givings are much more interesting.

“Alright.”

Pantalone draws you even closer on the bed. “Many thanks. You’re such a good listener… I couldn’t have asked for a better wife…” he smiles in that roguish way of his. He then kisses you, fondling your hips until your heart races in something different than excitement.

This is what dreams are made of.

This is not a dream you once had.

You were never meant to be his wife.

You have always despised him, the Lord Harbinger, who you met through your father many months ago. At the time, your papa was indulging himself in risky investments, unable to cope after an illness took your mother's life.

Pantalone wouldn't have entertained him so much if it wasn't for you he was interested in, using the man as an extension to reach you. While you were mourning too, you still had no choice but to go where your father does, making sure he doesn’t compromise your family name entirely.

Your dislike for the banker wasn’t unfounded; getting acquainted with a harbinger, a man in power much bigger than your old money family ever was, a man seemingly deceiving. While you were busy hating him, he loved you for the way you could come up with various schemes just to avoid crossing your paths with him, unimpressed as if he’s just another bigshot around you.

Until he decided that he wants you… and the opportunity soon bred itself.

When your father died, prematurely even for his older age, from a heart attack fastened by alcohol overtake and grief, you inherited his enormous debts, have been unable to stop every bad decision in the past — he took you down with him.

Debts that unfortunately rested in the hands of Fatui — The Northland Bank.

Therefore, Pantalone made a deal with you.

Marry him. You’ll be free of your debts and even lead a life much better than you did before, especially ameliorated after you nearly became a bankrupt — and your fall was bad enough to have very hard time forgiving your father. And when you have no one left, and soon nowhere else to go as well, what do you do?

He was quite exuberant at your lavish wedding. So were the people anticipating for someone like him to settle down.

But the marriage certificate is not enough on its own to solidify the exchange you had no choice but to agree to. You actually have to pull your weight and behave like a wife should — showing affection, attention, patience, and care towards your husband. Which means being an actress, giving your best performance in hiding your dislike towards your husband. Giving yourself wholly too; it is only a part of a fair trade. Money is power, and it’s a power enough to buy another person’s life; to elevate or crush it.

Forcing yourself, storing all these feelings until they gather a storm strong enough to erupt one day… knowing breaking his contract comes with consequences… you are just some weeks into the marriage and already at your last straw.

And your husband's greed for your so called love is unfathomable. He can be blatantly fussy too, if not emotional once he catches a sniff of anger in himself. You had to learn how to manage his volatile moods, even if at the cost of being overwhelmed by them daily.

What you had no time to learn is how to manage your own needs. Needs amplified by stress and the way you inadvertently always have to think about him.

Ever since you married him, you didn’t sleep with him — not even once.

You expected him to put his hands on you the very same night of your wedding, claiming what he's been watching with adoration for months. Surprisingly, he has shown leniency you that night — telling you all about how you need to acclimate first, especially when noticing your tension.

Till this day, you doubt it’s kindness; getting to know him, you can imagine he’d find it much more satisfying if you come to him and beg for his cock. And you thought you can last, playing the game of chastity, for stretching ages even — letting your husband touch you in a session bigger than marriage-representative kissing sounds revolting.

But life (and Pantalone) have funny ways of proving you wrong; or rather, taunting you on purpose. Hate and love are both sides of the same mora coin; all these “accidental” touches Pantalone has been giving you during your spent time together still can goad desire. So can affection and attention, as long they’re played out well — especially when there’s not that many people around you for the majority of time.

Today is yet another difficult in those terms day for you. Your body is uncontrollably warm, devoted to the way you feel pent up.

Just a moment ago, you were indulging yourself in a novel, but the way things progressed in it somewhat reminded you of your own unfortunate and sultry situation. A loving wife whose husband works too much and she who finds herself a younger lover who satisfies her desire in his place — a bit tawdry read, nonetheless intriguing. In result, you became lost in thought.

You watch the black marble fireplace smolder, too comfortable in the nook of your purple seat to call the butler to reignite it, even if the cold aquamarine floral wallpapers add little warmth to the spacious common room. You redirect your gaze at the high, white ceiling, carved into all kinds of intricate figures, heavy under the golden chandelier.

Your tea on the heavy coffee table has gone cold as the snow outside. The lilac tea set is a gift from your husband, so you use it a lot, appealing to him with gratitude.

“My wife favors reflection over proper welcome, it would seem again. I was expecting you running to the door.”

The familiar deep voice, spoken with an equilibrium of irony and eloquence, shakes you awake from your thoughts. Pantalone’s lacquered shoes against the varnished oak floor were in your earshot, yet you must have been that lost in your head. In result, you have failed to intercept him at the main door.

“My husband,” you greet curtly as you put aside your book, standing up to welcome him. It comes naturally to you these days. “Welcome home.”

His smile widens. Him simply standing there already feels as if he’s dominating the space, opulent with quiet demand.

You are ready to kiss his cheek, but today, he makes things a bit more difficult for you — cupping your face and making you look at him.

“It’s been a rather stressful day for me. I would like to receive a proper kiss to sweeten it,” he poses his wish with courtesy.

Of course. All days of his work are hard, and you can easily pay the price for that aspect.

Sighing, you close your eyes — at least he’s not scolding you for your slip. Awaiting the kiss, there’s stalling for a few seconds, that you wonder if he’s okay — he must be staring at you… or the conundrum written all over your body language.

But he at once kisses you, rather intensely. His glasses’ heavy chain tickles your face, giving you shivers from how icy it is. You lean into his lips with an odd feeling in your stomach, realizing that it’s been quite many hours between this and the morning kiss.

“Much better. I hope you’ve been faring well during my absence… or not?” he inquires with a subtle tilt of his head, noticing unusual fluster about you — your hands trembling on his shoulders, your gaze secretive. Every kiss of his is capable of stealing your breath, yet it’s not so often that a pleasant chemistry that twirls between you two (for you, at least), therefore you behaving like a maiden is unheard of.

He notices the title on his coffee table, rising his eyebrow.

“Everything is alright,” you reply as coherently as you can, blinking off your stupor.

He only hums at that, no indignation yet. Odd.

He sits you down to be on the fancy sofa again, not joining you as he would have gladly done so already — he walks to stand behind you instead.

“What are you doing…?” you ask hesitantly, not a fan of him towering over you.

“Just trust me.”

His hands go onto your shoulders, massaging the tension and knots — there is so much buildup you weren’t aware of. It’s a rather frustrating realization — body aches are easy to take care with a right professional, and if you didn’t forget to take a better care of yourself, you wouldn’t be here with him, vulnerable.

“I… I should be the one doing it for you…” you protest quietly.

“Nonsense. I can take a bit of exhaustion. Moreover, I’m used to it. You, on the other hand, seem to be awfully tense these days,” he points out with an exaggerated sigh. “What’s gotten you on tenterhooks?”

As he works on unwinding you, you hate to admit his hands are doing wonders on all the knots. Staying steady, pushing through your aches that grind your teeth until you feel relief in the tender spot, chiding you whenever you try to act humble.

For once, you don’t ask him how was his work, not wanting to burst the pleasant bubble — hoping it’s not some calm before the storm for him to be so kind.

To your relief, Pantalone doesn’t initiate anything squawking himself, enjoying the way your body accepts what it’s being given. Your groans of pain, with something discordant that managed to expose you by slipping into them, they slowly turn into those of gratification.

The pleasure starts fizzing out when you arch your body towards him too willingly. Deciding it’s a moment enough about you, he brings you down onto his lap as he takes a seat on a velvet upholstery. You wrap your arms around him — an automatic motion — like a clingy wife would.

So all that incessant chatter begins again.

Listening to him vent about his day, you accidentally zone out. It’s not a difficult feat when his soliloquy generally is daunting; however, it’s those weird aches that mostly get in your mind’s way again, coming and leaving in waves. They get particularly bad when you're near him and your pores soak up his warmth.

“Wife.”

You blink rapidly, gawking at him as you come back to him. “I’m sorry. I wasn't listening…” you reply apologetically.

Instead of anger, there’s curiosity brewing in his narrowed eyes.

“What’s been on your mind lately, hm? Head up in the clouds. I would have thought you would be a bit more elated seeing me home.” Pantalone runs his hands at your red dress’s sides, and you squirm.

It's a demand from his side. A proper wife shouldn’t hide her feelings from her husband. You tell him what’s gnawing at you or he’ll be really disappointed, accusing you of a case of a cold shoulder.

And you’ve been doing your best, forcing yourself to be integrated with him and this marriage by speaking your truths, every nagging thought, small or big. This ongoing dilemma, however… you refuse to reveal openly.

“I’m… still adjusting,” you arrange your answer carefully, while you play with the rings on his fingers in an attempt to not appear distant. Your words, while not a lie, they’re not the entire truth either. “We got married rather quickly after my father’s passing…”

“I know that you are, yet, you also have been making a progress, not regressing. So why would there be a sudden fluctuation, hm?” Pantalone asks intently, brushing your hair to the side, exposing one of the necklaces he’s gotten you for your birthday. “It’s been many weeks since our engagement came into fruition.”

That darn banker. Nothing gets past the shrewd him. You detest being cross-examined by him.

You try to not be impudent and scowl, bothered by the invasion of privacy. “I… I was merely overconfident. Pushing myself. No process is so linear,” you reply almost evenly, even looking back at him with something brave.

“No. Nothing is ever that simple. However, I think I’ve had enough time to learn what makes you tick. Thereby hangs a tale…” he muses, tightening his grip on your waist.

“If it was that important, I would have told you—”

He grabs your face and points your eyes at himself. Somehow, that motion gets your body to confuse anxiety with excitement, as your pulse races in a way different to what you’ve experienced around him.

“Don't you lie to me. Not when I'm still feeling patient with you,” he says sternly.

Your heart goes for your throat — you are yet to see real anger on Pantalone. Your husband can be a short fuse, snap at his subordinates, and you are not willing to become the next subject to his displeasure, even if he’s been remaining mostly patient for your sake.

But how do you admit something so intimate, different from what you’ve ever discussed with him? Perhaps you’d prefer punishment over forced candor, but Pantalone would most likely dig for the truth afterward — just with an obstacle to bypass first.

Seeing your eyes gather some fear, suddenly, he lowers his voice and speaks to you calmly, as if you didn't see anything, confusing you this way. Not much to comfort, as it is done to make you more open. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can tackle this problem together,” he probs gently.

You have a premonition he knows what’s your issue already, and that he certainly plans to do something about it. He’s entitled to even those parts of you.

“I… I’ve been stressed out lately,” you say quietly. It’s not a lie; again, it’s not the whole truth.

“That much, I know myself,” he sighs as if you’re being purposely difficult, contemplating your stiffness. “But what exactly is the cause of your restlessness?”

You feel your cheeks heat up. It feels as if handing him an ace to play against you. Still, you say it now, or you say it later in circumstances much less pleasant.

It’s hard to brace yourself and you take a deep inhale.

“It’s… a matter of a… carnal nature,” you stammer over your words.

“Oh,” he acknowledges, although there is no surprise — more so satisfaction at his success. It makes you narrow your eyes in question. “What about it?” he plays with your hair, instilling shivers when his fingers touch your nape.

You think apprehensively, in a way that doesn’t imply an invitation of any kind. “I feel frustrated. Pent up. That’s all. I'm sure it’ll pass soon. You know, like a female cycle,” you speak as clinically as you can.

“Hmm… it’s rather normal. All kinds of emotions brewing in you… or hormones for that matter.”

You nod rapidly, happy he understands, ready to change the topic. “Yes, so don’t fret over me—”

“…But I wouldn't dare to leave my wife struggling and in discomfort,” he adds with a sly smirk. “Unsatisfied, thinking I lack something. We’ve had enough time to become accustomed to each other, no?”

Your stomach drops.

He can’t. He has no right to.

His proposal would be like a poisoned chalice — what happens to you once you give him an access to your body? Nothing ever is altruistic with him; everything is an (un)fair trade.

“You don't have to,” you say breathlessly, as if you don't know he’d love to. You even plea with your eyes for him to not to make more offers. You suppose sex is only a normal part of marriage, something you thought is inescapable eventually; but you wish to bide your time in your immunity.

Nonetheless, your harbinger husband is relentless. “You ought to learn how to be more selfish with me,” he chides playfully, stroking your face, “Or others too, in fact. Don’t allow any piranhas to eat you alive.”

But you think you don’t want him to touch you that way, the most invasive and intimate. No matter what your body might try to tell you, desperate for some stress plunging and the relief to the tension he forced to build up between you.

He’s the only person you have left, too. Your friends grown sparse when they heard who you’re marrying, and people not scared of him themselves are not the best companion material. It’s only human you’d seek out your husband eventually.

“That’s not necessary. I like things as they are,” you protest more intensely, daring to glare at him with something nearly condemning.

He grabs your face, holding it tight, as he speaks with a taunt, “Now, now… Do you assume I don't notice the way you gaze at me sometimes?”

Your mouth pops open, both affronted and ashamed. “I have no idea what you’re referencing here,” you say defensively.

“Oh, you don’t? Do you believe I cannot feel the pattern of your heart against mine, so erratic? Or when you lean into the kiss you’ve told yourself is only obligatory?”

“I rebuke such possibility when my husband is a man like you,” the words leave your mouth on their own.

He meets your defiant gaze with a steel on his own, jaw set tight, making you gulp; still, you hold yourself steadily, unwilling to relent.

“I treat you well. You lack nothing,” he snarls, “I repaid your debts and now your only role is to be spoiled and by my side — that’s hardly any sacrifice. Just how much more ignorant can you be?”

You don’t know why he cares so much. He has you in his grasp, so why would it matter if you are happy about your marriage or not? He annoys you greatly. Especially if his words are to be taken with a grain of salt as well.

Because if you were to ignore the part where your marital union is characterized by him taking advantage of your difficult situation, you really have nothing to complain about. You could even simplify things and say you agreed to this sort of deal, using your own pen.

It's just Pantalone’s ways that are reprehensible. Him being impious is the least of your concerns; there is even something impressive about a mortal treading his own path, even if at the end of his days the need for revenge slowly drips poison through him.

There is nothing for you to worry about — that’s how it seems at the first glance. But then there’s his subtle control in your relationship with him. Possessiveness. Greed. Everything proposed to you like it’s your choice, when in reality, all of your options lead to him, and you’re standing in the middle of ice field on your own.

If you told him you have no friends left, he’d probably congratulate you on getting rid of a dead weight. You suspect he increased the interest rates right before your father died too, so your debt would only be manageable only by him, no matter what heirloom you could sell. A sum of your inherited debt was hard to quantify, even without the manipulation with it.

Or there were all these men suddenly withdrawing their marriage proposals — you were ready to marry someone else after your father died, holding onto any opportunity. Now you share his last name instead, and barely managed to keep your own next to his.

Your old staff manages your inherent home, but each day is stressful with the thought of your husband owning that for himself too.

With Pantalone in your life, things never go however you deem fit.

“That’s not fair,” you say in opposition, but your voice crumbles, accentuated by tears appearing in your eyes. “You know well.”

“I’m afraid nothing is in this world,” your husband croons, stroking your cheek again. “That is why you have me. To ensure no harm befalls you.”

You know he likes when you depend on him. When you ask for something instead of stubbornly chasing independence every waking moment.

“…” you sniffle and he likes your fragility, catching one drop of it with his thumb.

“Aren’t you tired of fighting me? Don’t you wish for at least one night where we can set aside our differences?”

Of course such proposal is enticing. There’s only little you can take in this one-sided war with him. However? Overlooking your pride is difficult. Even if you’re dragging the inevitable.

“I can make it worth your while. I can care of you,” he whispers into your ear until you’re more animated, shameful feeling endorsed between your legs. Before you could push yourself off his lap, he rivets you to his legs with his hand. “Like a good husband should…

and you can honor it, like a good wife should.”

Him letting you wait this long with intimacy was mercy.

“So?” draping his head over the back of the sofa, he eyes you with challenge.

The worst thing is that you’re actually considering it. Showing him what you’re made of, fucking him before he could claim he has fucked you. You’re spiteful like that, the same way he’s spiteful towards Celestia.

“Don’t think this makes us even. I’m only after your body,” you say harshly, poking his chest with a judging finger.

He laughs, unruffled by your sudden unkindness, much inclined to enjoy this side of you — he’ll love to see you try.

“Perfect. Wear something nice. Or wear nothing at all. It’s your choice.”

Going through your wardrobe came with an unpleasant discovery that it was already filled with all kinds of lingerie. Pantalone is a man who’s prepared for every possibility that he can, yet being circumspect in that sense left a bitter taste in your mouth. Still, you decided on something that’ll cover your body enough, but won’t allow him to drag on your moments together with many layers to remove off your body. Blow off some steam and forget you did is how you wish for things to go.

You wear a see-through and loose mesh dress, ruffled and hanging on thin straps, in a light blue color; with matching lacy panties underneath. Your makeup from the day still stays on, the only barrier to keep him away.

Who are you kidding. Even that feels incredibly revealing. You try to tell yourself you’re making a statement — be too demure and your husband might believe you’re too much of a coward to show your figure.

With you sprawled on the navy sheets of your shared black-wood bed, you observe the painting hanging on the blue paneling with distaste. It’s a portrait of you, with Pantalone standing behind you, a constant reminder of your marriage that’s there when you open your eyes in the morning. A similar one is hanging in the corridor for everyone to see, but the one in your bedroom is a bit different — nestled in a silver frame are the jewels from the jewelry you wore for your wedding. A memento.

As he finally enters the room, you avert your gaze from the scrutiny that immediately falls onto your chest — a bit hungry. Suddenly, the moon outside the big window is much more inspiring.

“Don’t you look just beautiful. Unparalleled to anything else I've seen,” Pantalone gives this compliment as if it’s innate to him.

He locks the door. He always does; now the feeling of being trapped with him is prominent. Your eyes flick towards him.

With how much time he’s given you, you thought he’d have gotten himself ready meanwhile. Instead, he’s still dressed in his black pants and turtleneck. You can’t tell if this is an attempt at power or if he was busy with something else around the mansion — maybe both.

“It’s a shame you couldn't afford the same courtesy for me,” you can't resist making a biting remark.

“I was busy ensuring no one thinks of attempting to bother us,” his unflappable voice tells you he might be lying. Putting on a mask is natural to him, yet there is a certain line to be crossed that makes the act a try-hard. Negligible details you would notice.

There’s an odd flush on his cheeks and he flexes his hand back and forth. You’ve had enough time to learn more about him; not to mention, he’s never hidden the fact that he wants you… or to own you… since it’s all exchange.

“You’re so tense as if you believe I’ll eat you alive,” he deflects, seating himself on the bed you share. It’s enormous, yet you often manage to feel claustrophobic in it.

As for his words, you think he just might. His open lust is a dissonance to his usual cunning expression.

“That’s just your supposition,” you say bitterly.

He frowns a bit, then regains his composure, still remembering what’s being offered to him. He’s the winner, in the end. “You should smile instead of being so pedestrian. It’s a very special moment for us…” Pantalone teases, leaning over you to “adjust” your short dress. The fabric of his gloves gives you shivers on your thigh.

He’s not letting you lie down fully yet. He’s not pouncing himself on you like you imagined either. No, Pantalone plans to dismantle you, step by step, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed.

“Come here.”

He pulls you onto his lap — he likes to flaunt you a lot — and you are unfortunately facing him when seated like that, your thighs at his and your clutch flush with his. He cups your chin, turning your head from side to side as if to asses his goods. Then his hand moves down, cupping your throat gently.

“You’re being excessive,” you mutter. He ignores that.

As his finger wipes across your pulse, it speeds up. He’s holding your entire essence in his palm, he clothed and you bare for him, all the more when you squirm on his lap. He holds words you wished to say but restrained yourself from, too.

“Have I been on your mind more often lately?” he asks as if the answer wasn’t announced that evening already.

You’re a bit smarter than that. Words with equivocation do you much more justice. “Nothing more than what a wife would devote herself to,” you say dryly, basking in the way his grip tightens on your neck.

Your brusque answer, he acknowledges with an irritated smirk. “Hm, I’m not interested in allusive talk…”

Therefore, maybe your body will be more alluding.

His lips go to your neck, kissing it softly at first.

You gulp, unused to this sort of touch from his side, and grab onto his biceps for some stability. His lips are warm and insistent, pushing your nerve endings to work, covering you in goosebumps. Even his pepper perfume pervades your nose until you’re dizzy.

“So sensitive… It really makes me wonder, how did I go without your body for so long…” he purrs into your skin.

You can feel his hardness spring to life, not helping your own arousal you can’t deny. So once again, you think about how much he doesn’t deserve you.

“Is that what you were pondering over while I was getting ready? Jerking your cock at the thought of me?”

You both realize what you just said — he blinking twice in surprise, freezing at your collarbone, you having your breath hitching with almost an instant regret. The silence is imbued with your panic.

Pantalone is well aware you’ve been harboring ill-mannered feelings towards him, yet he didn’t anticipate you to be this bold.

Maybe it's for the better.

You’re finally being honest with him. No act of a loving wife in sight.

Still, he finds it shameful at the way your words stir his hardness the way they do.

When you look at him with something mortified, he laughs it off.

“I see your imagination can run quite wild, but I appreciate the fact that our desire is mutual.”

His words turn your cheeks into furnace, “That’s not what I meant—”

Alas, he moves on.

He slides off his rings and places them on his nightstand. You fight the urge to bite when he places his fingers at your lips, giving him a questioning look. “Remove the gloves for me, would you, my dear?”

“Are you that incompetent? Must everyone do everything for you?” you mock again, unable to deny yourself that pleasure once you started your disrespect. To insinuate he’s spoiled is quite liberating, especially after all the expectations he’s been placing on your shoulders.

His eyelid twitches, and yet, he meets you with that smile of prevarication and condescending cadence, “No. But it is a nice gesture, my wife assisting me when I'm oh so tired and yet I still remember to indulge her.” It’s him telling you to better get moving if you want anything at all.

It’s not most optimal for you, the fact he's making a big show out of this entire situation, but you have to count your blessings — it’s one time where you’re properly allowed to express yourself… since he finds so delightful.

Grasping the loose tip of the glove with your teeth, you move your jaw down to slide it off his pale hand— still scarred from the arduous labor in his childhood. Your own hand pulls on his shirt, stretching the fabric with venom.

“That’s better, and it wasn’t so hard to listen, was it?” he says teasingly, “Now, suck on them a little. Let me see how much you have missed me, since you clearly forgot to do so upon my return home.”

Your husband sighs when your lips wrap around his long fingers, feeling his cock pulse at the sight of the defiance building up in your eyes. Will you glare at him the same when he’s inside of you, if not more, pretending this is nothing but an ordeal to settle a score?

As much as you hate to admit, you feel yourself getting aroused too. The subtle grinding as the consequence of your agitated body, his boner digging right into your panties, all the touch he sneaks around your body… the effect is beyond your control.

You continue soaking his digits while staring at him, until you’re suddenly provoked by the lodging of his fingertips into your throat, forcing you to gag. He's surely getting back at you for your prior foul commentary.

“Oh, my apologies. My impression of you was more than so delicate,” he jibes and withdraws his hand.

With tears that formed in the corner of your eyes, you grab onto his hair resting on his left shoulder, tugging his face closer to yours until he can feel your breath. “Do that again and I’ll choke you too.”

He knows you mean your threat, raising his brow with interest. Your aggression sends horses into his chest, to his dismay. “If you can get through me first… I would perhaps even encourage you to.”

He quickly finds out you’re honest down there too.

He removes his other glove. As his fingers omit the edge of your panties, they slip underneath, feeling the wetness that has gathered here.

You bite on your lips, eradicating the moan you were about to leave. You look down where his touch goes between your two bodies, and you imagine how happy he must be to finally lay his hand on you.

“Did you touch yourself here when you were so heated?” he inquires with curiosity, sighing perversely.

You could say no to preserve your privacy. But you like the idea of driving him mad, utilizing the fact you chose to keep your desire to yourself over asking him for help. That’s one thing he couldn’t have contributed to, busy with work while you were busy with fingering yourself.

“I did,” you confirm with a straight face, “Many times.”

He digs harder into your clit, scoffing as his tone sharpens. “I suppose your pride is bigger than the respect for your husband.”

“Is touching myself a sin now?” you say through your teeth, trying to push his hand away. He doesn't let you and you whine when his finger sets pleasure aflame.

“No. But hiding your problems from me is,” he says, matching your rudeness, and pushes his finger inside your tight hole. The same finger that signed the contract with you is now ruling you from inside as well.

Your grip on his hair falters, you struggling as the touch around your entrance renders you even more sensitive.

“I still would like to maintain some privacy. I’m sure there’s many things you yourself don’t tell anyone,” you hiss out, decided to be selfish and grind yourself onto his palm. You detest his hypocrisy.

“If there are any, they are kept unspoken for your safety.”

As if you’d ever trust him based on his ambiguous words alone.

“Right. I forgot that you love to blabber,” you say, all zealous about criticizing that part of him.

“That’s enough of your input.”

Tugging on your hair from behind and burning your scalp with sting, The Regrator pushes his lips on yours. He has no decorum in the way he kisses you, for once uncaring about propriety.

Neither do you, nearly hitting your forehead against his as you try to take control. You dig your nails into his arms, enough to chip away your nail polish.

The pain you give his lips with a bite is as exquisite. Real. Raw. Honest. No games, just you two showing what you truly feel for each other. He returns the gesture, biting you until he can push his tongue inside. Then you grind on him, driving yourself and him mad with heat, groaning into each other’s mouths. His grubby hands slip underneath your gown, squeezing your breasts with no mercy, memorizing their shape.

Your husband pulls away your head when he finally decides he can’t wait any longer.

“I’ll change each of your convictions about me,” he says confidently. Letting you move for you both, he throws his turtleneck over his head. His body, while not overly muscular, is still toned enough to draw your attention — his waist especially.

“As if you are capable,” you mock.

“You always disagree with me on something, only to change your mind last minute,” as you’re about to tell him what a lie it is, since it’s typically he who changes your plans, he adds, “Make of that what you will.”

He finally pushes you onto the mattress, parting your legs with his knee. For a mere moment, you consider pushing him away, feeling more like a prey than his wife underneath him.

“Look at you. Biting more than you can chew. I hope you’re not giving up on me yet,” he smiles knowingly.

“Of course not,” you reply decisively.

“That’s what I like to hear.” As if to measure the value of your conviction, he grabs the hem of your panties to slowly push down your legs.

Your chest breaths with irregular uplift, but you don’t stop him, meeting his lustful expression with your own.

He lowers himself until he’s there between your thighs, trailing up them with kisses while looking upwards at you. All the tiny tremors in your muscles no massage, other than his touch, could fix. “So delicate…

Can you really take it?” he says softly into your skin.

“I’m not a weakling—”

Capillaries burst when he sucks on your thigh hard — they might as well write his name, knowing well who’s touching you. It’s a sensation almost painful, especially when you’re so sensitive, but it goes straight to your wet pussy and he has to keep your legs pried with his hands.

“Maybe not a weakling; but you certainly are impressionable,” he laughs wryly.

You look at him with disgust.

Then, as he tries to place his mouth way too high for what you know, you tug on his hair. “W-what are you doing?” You’re not clueless; you deny the possibility of him unraveling you in such way.

And he, naturally, doesn’t care, taking what he wants. “Taking care of you, am I not?” he says innocently.

You’re in for a surprise; how insistent and debauched he is, his mouth all over your aching slit. Unable to keep yourself in tact, you moan for him, throwing your head back.

“You taste delicious…” he nearly growls, twirling his tongue around your clit before pressing down on it.

Any proper words have been knocked out of your mouth. It’s been so long since you had any fun… and he is jarringly meticulous. “H-husband…” you cry out when he sucks on your bud.

The heavy chain of his glasses teases your skin as he plunges his tongue into your hole, watching you in your vulnerable glory with hooded eyes.

You tug on his hair and selfishly move your hips, offering more of your pussy to his mouth. You find yourself surprised he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he groans, burying his nose closer to your clit, and bruises your thighs with his crazed grip.

“F-fuck…” you curse shakily when he spits on you and thrusts in a finger next to his rolled tongue. The pleasure is building up too quickly for your liking, yet you still can’t get enough.

“You’re quite selfish, to have denied me of this for so long…” he utters his words between the wet obscene smacks of his lips, deprecatingly.

Another repulsive for you insinuation, and yet, all you can do is let him taste you all he wants. “Shut up…” you grumble, waving your hips with velocity similar to his.

“Make me.”

You feel that inward rage again.

The hair in your hand is a mess by this point, and you keep using it as a handle, ensuring he doesn’t pull away too far away from your cunt. He speeds up his movements in return.

The bliss hits you hard and it’s almost enough to forget what sort of man he is when he’s implementing everything to make you feel good… or have you hooked on him further.

It’s only when you start to notice a certain degradation in the vigor behind his thrusts that you look down on him. He’s getting red and it’s not only his blood rushing from the excitement.

“H-hey…” it’s not that you’re concerned for him — you think — but you don’t want to deal with him passing out in the middle of the act. “Go easy on yourself…”

“I’m not weak,” he barks with all his pride, giving you an inkling he might be enjoying his struggle.

Fine. If he wants to play this way… you don’t care about being gentle anymore — mercy is not what he deserves. Resting your legs over his shoulder, you smother his face with your pussy, until his breathing is coming out in exacerbated huffs.

The world’s existence becomes secondary to you, and you smile with oblivion, pushing your hips at his head with closed eyes. You’re right there—

And of course he rips it from you. Of course he does, resurfacing with heaving but a happy look. You devastation could be edible.

“Why, why did you—” you foam at your mouth.

“The only way you’ll finish is with me inside. This was nothing but a warmup,” he coos, brushing away your tears as he sits up, “Don’t cry now, I’ll give you what you urgently need…”

You watch your husband unbuckling his belt and the sound of it has you moving, hastily throwing your gown over your head. The room’s thankfully heated thanks to the fireplace, though it’s not as though your body is not as hot.

You can see the outline of his boner poking through his pants he starts removing, gulping nervously. In return, Pantalone eyes your naked body with great appetite.

“You’re shaking,” he states, pushing his bottoms down, throwing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the expensive carpet behind your bed. You finally see his length — thicker, though without a threat looming over it, curved nicely enough to reach your best spots. “Be that as it may, I’m sure none of us wants to wait much longer…”

Removing his glasses and neatly placing them on the bedside table, you see the way his own hands tremble a bit. You count your breaths until he'll take you for himself, your heart pounding and you feverish.

“That’s one thing I can agree with you on.”

He simpers at your sarcastic words, placing himself above you right after.

“Open your legs for me, my dear,” Pantalone orders.

You do as he says; not without pushing your hands at his back too.

Your husband rubs himself across your slit, gathering the wetness onto his tip, and hisses at the sensitivity it brings. “You need to stop pretending, considering how wet you are. Your own body is betraying you.”

“You—”

When his cockhead slips inside and you gasp, he grabs you underneath your knees.

“No running from now on.”

His grip on your limbs tightens as he thrusts into you fully, not having much patience left.

You cry out, the stretch stinging at your walls. “You bastard…!” you glare at him, scratching his back already. The motion was so sudden you can’t breathe, your walls struggling with accommodating his girth despite your wetness.

He’s feeling too good to care — and didn’t you say you’re not weak a few moments ago? “Finally inside…” he mutters, appraising your struggle visible in your legs, “As things always should have been rectified.”

Your husband wastes no time with something as insignificant as giving you time to adjust. He starts fucking you slow, but deep already, making sure your juices coat him entirely. You need it yourself and he can tell.

You scowl at him even as he fucks you so good, filling you fully.

“What is it again?” he acknowledges your gall, although more in a way that suggest he’s endeared by your attitude than offended.

“You are enjoying yourself too much,” you almost whine out. You hate that he makes you feel good. You hate that you’re letting him touch you. You hate that the osmosis process has begun for you.

He laughs, earnestly and richly. “My wife’s cunt is just that good,” he blows air at the strand of the hair sticking to his forehead, groaning as you tighten around him from the pleasure building up for you.

It’s always “my wife”. It’s nothing abnormal to say about your wife on its own, that’s how spouses refer to each other all the time, but it’s as if Pantalone takes “my” part to another level on purpose. Akin to hoarding his resources in a bank deposit. Even your hole is his to claim. Which is not to say he’d take with nothing in return— he certainly plans to spoil you with pleasure and anything else you might desire… as long as you remember your own share of duty.

“And judging by your moans, it’s as if you’re trying to ingrate me yourself.”

Your breath hitches at his words, you full of shame, then irritation. You weren’t aware of how vocal you are until he pointed it out.

Not that he’s any better, sighing and gasping whenever you tighten too much.

“At least it’s one thing you're good at?”

Your disobedient words are punished with a slap to your clit. Your legs wriggle and you stab his back with your nails, overwhelmed by the sudden pain.

He pushes his knees closer to your chest, using leg strength to drive into you. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, between a husband and wife,” with that irony said, he picks up the pace. Letting go of your legs you wrap around him anyway, he places his hands under your shoulder blades, drawing you closer for a tasteless kiss.

He’s sublime, no matter how much you despise him; especially with his velveteen hair like a waterfall around his face after his hair tie eluded itself somewhere through the process. Light eyes he likes to narrow condescendingly or mysteriously opening wider for you. Fucking you hard in all his splendor and materialism.

You dig the heels of your feet into his ass, forcing him to keep thrusting into you so deep, feeling something worth your time and attention for once. His skin on yours is disgusting, yet so full of life.

He’s unfaltering in his fervor, grabbing your body all over, especially places he’s neglected before, while keeping his hips moving on their own. You thought your husband is little brawn but what would you know now — at least, you serve as an excellent catalyst. His fastness goes up and up and up, as he is getting close and has no plan to deny himself.

But no matter how good he may be making you feel, you hate the idea of him dominating you, especially when you near your orgasm worsened by him constantly grinding into your mound with his thrusts. Your abdomen tightens dangerously close to something real.

You push him onto his back, using all the strength you could muster, before straddling his lap.

“Oh?” he hums with approval, as if your value has appreciated.

“You’re becoming too conceited,” you clarify with anger, pushing your body down onto his cock with a whine.

“Then you better me show all you have in you.”

He knows how to make your blood boil, even when he’s meeker tonight, gasping and making sounds for you as well.

“I really hate you,” you snarl, even if you raise your hips with all the impetus, desperate to chase what you missed for so long. You rake your nails against his chest, watching the red marks rise and encourage him to be even meaner with his hips from below you.

“And yet, you’re coming on my cock,” he pushes you down by your hips.

“I-it’s not because of you. I’d enjoy any man’s co—”

He grabs you by your throat and yanks you down to impose yet another kiss, interrupting you in spilling any more blasphemy — and he’s not religious. Pantalone would have to kill that theoretical man and lock you up to fuck you for a whole week, until your body remembers only his carvings. He’s never been a gentle or lenient man, and you and his possessiveness make him indisputably worse.

You’re about to slap him when he finally retracts from your lips; instead, you find yourself on your back again, your wrists seized above your head.

“Affection can be fabricated. But not this,” he laughs through his moan. He pushes his length impossibly deeper into your pussy until you choke on your breath, stuffed full. The sound of his thrusts reverberates against the walls, “Never the way I make you feel.”

Your eyes widen.

“So go on. Try to reject this pleasure. Try to reject me.”

He knows you can't.

And you don’t, when he starts rubbing your clit. You tighten and flutter around his cock, unable to stop the waves of pleasure suddenly rippling down your legs. You sing beautifully for him when you’re at your lowest.

“Fuck, stop, I—” you plead frantically as you hyperventilate, unable to move your hands to push him away. Your sweat sticks to the bedsheets below you, your body strained by how hard the peak is approaching you.

“Come on my cock,” he orders sternly, although it lands breathlessly.

He doesn’t stop, sending you over the edge. You cry out his name, his real name you saw when signing the papers, that you never used before until now, and that takes even him aback.

Your spasms sends shocks of pleasure down his cock too, and so he’s not far behind, fastening his movements with something jubilant etched on his face.

He fills your hole, the rightful place for his seed, grunting in a sequence that turns into a moan at the last ribbon of his cum entering you. Pushing his hips close to yours so nothing dares to escape.

His body falls on top of yours, heaving. You stare at each other, his eyes already aching without his glasses, and you ready to say something uncouth from the sheer realization of what you’ve done.

Pantalone strokes your face, glorifying your rare post-sex softness and afterglow, stunning any pretense about you only resenting him. You must be that tired, for you to see something similar reflected on his own cheeks.

“Alright, that’s enough—” you feel some kind of embarrassment, becoming acutely aware of the fact he’s inside of you still, not growing soft. Everything is too intimate, too close, and too victorious.

“Not yet.”

“Huh?” your stomach drops.

“I said not yet.” Now that he has you, it’ll be hard to one up the feeling, therefore, he refuses to take it for granted.

You're about to push him off but he's actually not done. He flips you over on your stomach, sinking into you still so sensitive and full of his cum turning viscous with your arousal.

“Wait, I’m still—”

“You can take it,” he says harshly, gripping your hips at their sides. It’s not as if he’d be able to stop now either. If you’re going to be difficult after this, he’ll take what he can for now.

You sob, your nerves constantly rubbed numb yet so sensitive, clutching sheets of the bed he pushes you into with his weight. He never shied away from pushing you beyond your comfort zone, yet now it's not a quirk, but a simple madness to you.

He covers you with his entire body, his legs tangled with yours. Slamming his hips against your ass, his balls slapping against your clit from behind. It’s shameful how another orgasm is building up quickly for you.

The harbinger sucks on your nape, pushing your face into the pillows.

“Ah… it’s too much…” But your body gives in easily, needing every nagging thought gone from your mind. Him fucking you is the only catharsis you’ve received since marrying him.

“In spite of that, your body accepts me easily,” he taunts with this clincher, moving his hands under your body to play with your nipples. A good decision, as you thrash underneath him, ecstatic. Your mascara ruins spotless fabric and he barely stops himself from licking off your tears, watching your eyes turn hazy.

His hair falls over your shoulders, tangling with yours, like a bind you’ll never be able to untwist. You are forced to hear his signs of pleasure right next to your ear.

The coil in your belly untwists as well, and you feel him filling you enough to overflow. Everything is sticky, yet he forces you to ride out with rapid thrusts.

With another orgasm, you’re so spent, pleading with him to give you a break, for it’s been ages since you had a man. “P-please… I can’t… have mercy on me…” Craning your neck to look at him with smallness, as if it’s an exchange for his benevolence.

“How precious you are like that,” he chuckles, rather exhausted on his own.

He does waive, pulling out of your dug out hole, you shuddering as his seed spills over your thighs like thorns of vines. Drawing you so shaky and incoherent into his arms, he provides soothing words he often serves, as if he didn't steal you for himself again.

“You did well. Rest, for now. I’ll be there, watching over you as always.”

All the more, he expects this to become a routine from now on.

Your husband unfortunately has you taking a bath together, right after your spousal endeavor. Keeping you in his arms, as you’re warmed between his legs.

However, rather sore, especially after a long break in sex, hot water is quite a soothing balm — even if the suds are doing little to cover your body painted in the proof of his passion.

He’s oddly nice. He’s always “nice”, yet this time, it’s as though he allows himself to be vulnerable because you are too, no better than him.

“Are you satisfied?” your words come out as bitter anyway, although with not enough veneer. “You had what you wanted.”

“I would have thought of this as building a middle ground. Extending an olive branch. Not about vainglory,” he chuckles with exasperation, brushing his hand over your stomach from behind. “You paint intimacy between a wife and husband as some sort of misdemeanor.”

Except you're not a normal married couple.

And it scares you, how his influence twines round you. He never bulldozed himself into your life. He build his position here with his own hands, the same he built his own life from the scratch, starting from the position of being a pauper.

The tempest of your heart and mind. Not beloved. Be-loathed. And yet, it’s hard to stay immune to him, not immersed in the way he acts like your husband so well. You’re afraid that one day, your heart will open for him entirely. You suspect he craves your affection in a way different than possession.

“It’s you who often complicates things…” you say with a sigh, staring at the steamed tiles of the bathroom.

“Complicate…” he mutters, massaging your hand that you placed on the golden edge of the bathtub — as gilded as your cage is. “I only worry for you. You must still feel lonely after losing your parents, even if you have me.”

That’s a dirty trick, and for a moment, you want to cry. Both of your parents gave up their ghosts and where did it lead you?

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. You wish you could live that way like you once used to. You're tired in those trying times, needing someone.

Discussing anything with him is beating a dead horse anyway. But how do you stop treating him like he’s the bad apple? Collective opinion would agree he’s not a good influence — his peers, clients, allies, enemies, subordinates, and you at the top are wary of the man who doesn't need violence to succeed.

So you do what you do the best. You adapt until you can find your way out.

You swivel your head to look at him with weariness, needing your loving husband to make it better — back in your role of an innamorata.

“Yes. I do…” you sigh, placing your head on his wet chest. “I hope I’m not being overbearing with my sentiments.”

He smiles, content at your cooperation.

“Of course not. After all…” Pantalone grabs your face possessively, “… what’s mine is yours, and vice versa.”

AFTERNOTE. The end! I hope you enjoyed reading the fic!! This was my first Pantalone oneshot and hopefully not last 🫶🫶

It only takes a few more silent steps before you come to the lip of the springs, face to face with Blade and immediately you can feel it aswell as see it— the undisguised desire, hot and earnest in his eyes as he takes you in. He’s shameless in his admiration, much as you are to him.

Every look is slow and hungry, and the unwavering admiration is enough to make you shake when you take that first trembling step into the springs to join him.

Blade doesn’t miss a moment of it, not when he can watch how the water line clings to your breasts and molds to your bare straining nipples as you take a breath in. He watches you sink all the way down into the water, until you sit on a ledge at the other end of the spring where your thighs squeeze together and make an alluring, not so mysterious y-shape hiding your center from view.

It’s deliberate on your part, the distance. A detail that you know Blade won’t stand for, especially given the way his gaze is already devouring you completely. But it gets you the reaction you hope for almost immediately; a drop in Blade’s brows, a heat of something darker in his gaze and his jaw tightens before you speak.

You wave your hand through the water, transfixed by the ripples it creates beneath your touch, the shapes reaching all the way across to your lover at the other side.

“How does it feel?” You ask after a moment, “Better?”

“Mmph.” Is all Blade offers, stubborn. But it only makes you feel all the more playful, admiring the way his broad, scarred chest rests above the water.

His voice is much deeper when it calls your gaze back, and his huge body shifts. “Something wrong?”

“Nope.” You answer too quickly, tilting your head. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Is something the matter with you? You’re scowling.”

It takes Blade a second to respond, you watch the lines of his neck and arms flex before he’s relaxing again, and your brows rise at him.

“Come.” He grunts, obviously unamused as he motions to a place by his side. “Closer.”

“This isn’t close enough for you?”

You swear you see the muscles in Blade’s jaw clench.

“No.” He grinds out.

“Are you sure? I thought maybe you’d appreciate some alone time.”

“Don’t toy with me, girl.”

You can’t help yourself, can’t help but rile up the same man many would consider to be a weapon because you see the way he looks at you, notice the way his heavy, half-hard cock is already twitching beneath the surface of the springs.

You could keep going for longer if you wanted, but there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to deny yourself of what awaits you either. Not when you can see the way the temperature of the springs have caused parts of Blade’s features to take on a pink flush, and his chest is rising and falling with his deep breaths.

It’s mouth-watering. So although prematurely, you find yourself closing that distance in only a couple of steps— perhaps driven by your own eagerness as Blade spreads his legs a little wider in anticipation.

You take your new seat by his side before giving him a look.

“Better?”

Blade returns it with one that’s equal parts unamused and full of desire before he motions with his eyes again. To himself this time.

“Here.”

And without a second thought, you do as he says.

Blade sinks into the warm water as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and climb on top of him, placing your knees on either side of his hips as you situate yourself down. Too close to his hard cock for it to be accidental, but he’s more than eager to have you slink into his lap and rub yourself against him.

His body feels like silk beneath you, water sloshing as you feel the first silky grind of his hard cock split through your folds before it’s catching on your clit, making you gasp and moan at the wet, tacky sound that follows.

His eyes all but burn through you.

“How about now?” You ask in a dreamier voice. “Is that what had gotten you so upset?”

“I have no patience for your games.” Blade grunts and grips your waist as you shamelessly rub your pussy across his cock beneath the water. “Teasing me is a bad habit of yours.”

“I thought you liked that about me.” You giggle, but it breaks off into a moan with the next clumsy thrust of your hips, the shaft rolling languidly through your split folds in a way that makes your toes curl.

It’s incredibly intoxicating, the feeling of Blade’s larger body beneath yours accompanied by the temperature of the springs. He feels so rough and safe and warm. You whine his name, nuzzling down into his damp hair and you feel his mouth catch on your soft breast as you lean yourself back to offer him more of it.

Blade’s mouth works at you tirelessly, lapping and kissing at your perked nipples until your thighs quiver, accompanied by the lurid back and forth sway of your hips in his lap as he mindlessly helps you rock back and forth along the length of him. He presses along your lips and the bump of your clit catches on his swollen cockhead, making you both twitch and your whole body jolts when he nips at your tits with his teeth.

“You’re disobedient. This will not end well for you.” He murmurs against your breasts, full of want.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, leaning into your own arm with a lazy, lewd swirl of your hips. Blade’s brows come down as his kisses find their way to your jaw, lips parting to grind out another groan and tease skin with teeth while his rough hands curl into the plush softness of your ass.

You press slow, soft kisses against his forehead, down over his nose and mouth and neck, following the valley of each scar, old and new. Blade lets his head fall back and a deep, guttural growl vibrates against your lips. “Know your limits.”

You pet his shoulders and chest, hum in question that’s way more convincing than it should be for just one sound, and ask in a sweet tone, “And if I don’t?”

“Then when you surrender it will be amusing. Do not test me.”

The depth of Blade’s gaze, accompanied the deep tone of promise in his voice almost burns you, making your pussy twitch from where you’re pressing hard against him. You moan, your toes flexing as they curl up behind you and your nails dig into his arms.

You feel his cock throb at the eagerness of your movements, and then he’s helping grind you against him again.

But it’s almost too easy for Blade to make you into a mess. To make you whimper and keen, peering at him with your forehead against his.

The soft bouncing motion of your body on his cock alongside the saccharine rub of his skin against yours makes you feel delirious. The humid air of the springs fills your lungs with your next inhale, and your breaths turn to rushing pants that make your head spin.

But you can tell that Blade’s enjoying pushing himself up against you, to help you bob and thrust across the length of his cock while you struggle to keep his pace. The catch of his sensitive head and folds of his frenulum against the plush, slick petals of your pussy makes it easy to forget about his prior warning, to ignore the way water splashes over the edge of the springs, to not be affected by what would be embarrassment if anyone were to choose tonight of all nights to indulge in a warm soak.

You feel Blade slip down low in the water, applying pressure to a different angle all while he luxuriates in simply letting you ride him and take your pleasure and give him his. All while he gets to watch your breasts bob and your eyes flutter.

But it’s all too much, too much when the head of his fat cock is pressing through your folds just right and his huge palms are grabbing at your ass to ease himself through it. His hands are pulling you apart, spreading out your pussy from behind to make sure you can’t run from your fate and it makes your heart kick at your chest, you’re beginning to feel boneless above him.

“S-slow down…” You crumble, pleading against Blade’s jugular, but your hips never stopping their hypnotic motions. His chest jumps with an inhale.

“This is what has become of you?” There’s an air of something dark to his tone, his lips smearing against your cheek as he wills your body to keep moving. “Is this all it takes to whittle away one’s resolve?”

Your choked moans of Blade’s name ratchet up in pitch, but squeeze down to a whisper, almost like your whole body is twisting up. He gathers you close and squeezes strong arms around you, you’re gripping tight to the back of his neck and hair while he’s helping hitch your hips impossibly closer to his with a slap of flesh against water.

It’s all too much, the way the tendrils of your orgasm rush towards you with reckless abandon, the pleasure mixing with the rising temperature of the hot springs only making you more lightheaded and pliant. Blade takes in the almost helpless look on your face and all but craves to devour it; mouth smashing onto yours when your head falls forward to allow him the reach.

It’s an intense haze of messy kisses and moans, hands wandering and squeezing, shared growls and shivers despite the heat. The head of his cock catches on your hole, and you moan at the way the simple contact is enough to tease you with the stretch. It makes something grasp deep and agonizing in your gut at the hint of what you could have, hunger rushing fast and quick through his blood as you feel Blade’s cock throb and thicken against you.

“Please…. I—“ Your lips curl, legs shaking as your body bounces against his, you’re so desperate for him to just slip deep inside of you.

But before you can shift your hips just enough to position yourself to allow it, Blade grabs at you— deliberately applying pressure to your clit with the next tangible press of his cock through your folds.

“Not yet.” He almost barks, voice wound tight and cock throbbing as he holds your bleary gaze. “First, I will make something else of you.”