BIGGEST SIMP EVER

“Mama I kill papa!” She screamed and burst into tears, stumbling to get up and run to you in the kitchen.

He quickly grabbed her from her waist and plopped her down in his lap again, laughing as he sat up again and tightened the hug and kissed the top of her white hair. “Okay, okay, don’t bother mama when she’s cooking, papa’s alive and okay!” He cooed and reached his hand up to poke his index finger against her cheek.

She was still sniffling, pouting and confused. “Papa.. did you..” she trailed off before becoming angry again, huffing as she blushed and got off of his lap. “Papa you trick..” she grumbled and glared at him.

Before huffing and shoving the doll into his hands again, when he was chuckling. “Papa is mean sometimes, I’m sorry baby, did you get scared?” He reached out to kiss her forehead, making her glare at him sharply.

“Papa. Do your girl voice.”

He sighed, shaking the doll into his hands again, moving the doll to be in the living room of the doll house again. “I wonder where my bestie is! I have to tell her about me robbing our enemy!” He spoke in a squeaky voice, following along with his daughter’s ridiculous plot.

His daughter ran a tight ship for roleplaying with her dolls… and he loved her even more, knowing she probably inherited her sassiness from him.

  Kaveh didn’t need much to be convinced, and immediately he thanked the Archons for giving him a few days of respite. Even just a few days of Alhaitham being unable to comment on what he does or nag him is a blessing.

  For you, it’s a bit of a hassle… because he keeps disappearing! Not in an alarming way, because you find him again in the most secluded, quiet spots you would never even think of. Under your laundry, in an empty box that Kaveh hadn’t put away after getting a delivery, and even under the desk in the study—Kaveh accidentally kicked him and got a feisty scratch on his ankle. He learned his lesson. 

  He follows you around and—though he let you pick him up the first time—doesn’t let you carry him around, preferring to walk on his own… and wander off to explore nooks and crannies he has never been able to see, but he always shows up again before you reach your destination. 

  He has also claimed your pillow as his own and refuses to let you use it, loafing on top of it exactly when you thought you could get there before him. Which… in hindsight is fine, you’re not opposed to using his pillow, it smells like him after all. 

  You decided to test how much of a cat he really is, whether it’s appearance alone or instinctual as well and bought a cat toy with a whisker on the end as well as a small bell below it. You expected him to perk up and try to whack or catch it as soon as you wriggled it beside him… but his grey furred ears just lowered in annoyance and he hopped off the kitchen counter, it seems like having even more sensitive ears in this state makes his dislike for uncomfortable noises more intense. 

  He forgave you when you spent ten minutes scratching the itchy spot behind his ears after tracking him down. A small, rumbling purr left his chest as you moved your hand to scratch under his chin—he was, however, more curious about this instinctual reaction and demanded you continue after you drew your hand back.     Despite it being very much an unspoken rule between the two of you that neither of you should be disturbed ‘needlessly’ when reading or working at home, when you borrowed a few books from the Akademiya to try and figure out how to turn your partner back to normal, Alhaitham decided it would be very reasonable for him to lay down over your book… which you are very much trying to read.

  But when you ask him what he needs, he just blinks at you three times, very slowly. You’ll likely never be able to crack that brain of his, even in a form that is somehow far more expressive.

Arataki Itto ;

It’s difficult enough to keep track of him—and keep him out of trouble—on a normal day… now? You took your eyes off him for a second, and he’s gone. Shinobu split up with you to cover more ground while the rest of the gang scoured the streets of Inazuma City, at least as much as they could.

  You peek between baskets, crates and stalls, walk through tight alleys and even squint into a few windows… nothing!

  You had been very close to giving up and returning back to the meeting point by the bridge… until you heard a very distressed, very loud meowing. Following the sound, you come to a tree stretching over the gardens of a teahouse. What looks to be the owner of it stands below the tree with a basket, trying to ask Itto—stuck up on a wobbling branch—to jump into it.

  Exasperation is one way to describe what you feel as you approach the old lady, you put your hands on your hips and Itto notices you immediately. His meowing turns from frantic and panicked… to a sheepish pleading. Every movement he makes causes the branch to sway and wobble, and it looks like it could easily bend and break—and you don’t want to cause any trouble for the teahouse owner. “Itto, come on, hop down.”

  He meows and shakes his head, white fur swishing dramatically. 

  A sigh leaves you as you step closer and hold your arms open. “I’ll catch you, trust me,” you encourage him… and he finally relents, with wobbling paws, he leaps from the branch—fur shining in the sun as he practically flies in the air towards your open arms… and lands on your head. He panics and tries to adjust and not fall off, and you try to pry him away from your face as his belly nearly suffocates you—it’s a scene from a comedic play.

  Shinobu is glad for her mask, because when you return with Itto under your arm you have scratches on your face and forehead, and Itto is whining and meowing sorrowfully. 

  He spends the entire evening licking your ‘wounds’, dragging his coarse cat tongue over every spot so often that the licking starts to become more painful than the scratches themselves. But you let him, it makes him feel much better than you—and you don’t particularly need comfort, but if he doesn’t get it, he will whine all night. 

  So you let him knead your thighs and stomach even as his claws prick through your clothes and you make sure to pet him and stroke his fur when he snuggles against you… and then you wake up in the middle of the night, suffocating with his furred belly against your face when the lies on top of you.

Baizhu ;

You’re very happy that Baizhu is catching a break—something you often try to convince him to do—despite the strange way of being forced into it… however, it’s very difficult to focus on running the pharmacy in his place by yourself while also trying to make sure he doesn’t roll off the shelf he’s napping on… especially because Changsheng wriggles in her sleep and keeps nudging him closer to the edge.

  You decide it’s easier if you have them sleeping on separate surfaces and reach up to pick up your pliant partner-turned-cat. He effectively falls into your arms and blinks lazily, slightly confused by the sudden transport. “Just moving you so you don’t hit your head,” you dodge around Qiqi as she runs past you with an armful of jars and set Baizhu down on the counter, his tail sways lazily and he immediately flops on his side as a beam of sunlight sneaks through the window and directly onto his fur.

  Every time a customer comes by—with approval—they give Baizhu a small pet or scratch before leaving, as if paying tribute to the good doctor. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  Unfortunately, you’re not fit to take Baizhu’s place for consultations, and thus they all get delayed—which was a hell of a lot of work to contact everyone and change scheduling—until Baizhu is back to normal. The usual hours of consultation in the morning are therefore replaced with longer opening hours of the pharmacy and by pulling some strings, an increased stock of rarer products at a discounted price. 

  Changsheng does not let poor Baizhu catch a break, she wiggles her tail and swipes it in front of his paws, and unable to control the feline instincts harbouring his body—Baizhu chases after her tail like a kitten playing with a toy. He whacks at it and tries to capture it, but the white snake is far quicker than even you expected her to be as a sudden game of cat and mouse (snake) takes over your living room.

 The feline form, however, doesn’t come with free stamina—and Baizhu is not in good shape. He flops down on the carpet, exhausted from the play even as only seven minutes have passed. You feel a bit bad and scoop him up for some cuddling, which seems to be just the remedy he needed. 

  Baizhu is very careful around the clinic, he doesn’t knock anything over—even though he REALLY wants to sometimes, and is mindful of not getting fur or saliva on anything that could potentially be consumed by anyone with allergies. Changsheng has taken to wrapping herself around your shoulders instead, and though you’re used to her, it’s a little annoying to get a comment on every little thing you do. 

  But at the end of the day, Baizhu curls up next to you and you wake with him lying over your chest, belly to the skies and paws in the air, comfortable and content. Though you will always prefer him in his normal state, he is very cute like this.

Cyno ;

You look around the large front hall of the House of Daena, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath… that damn Cyno! Making you chase him across the entire city! 

  You spot some pawprints and squint as you look around… he’s not bringing all that dirt into the house—you were just going to rinse him a bit, but he’s run off! You finally spot dark and creamy coloured fur… perched up high on a massive decorative piece of the wall. He looks down at you with a swaying tail, completely at ease knowing that you won’t be able to catch him all the way up there.

  You almost consider inquiring about one of those massive ladders the library has to reach the high shelves, it might be long enough…

  But very well, he wins this round. 

  Once he turned into a cat, you were very excited about petting him, rubbing his ears and stroking his tail—but he’s not having any of it. Sometimes, you wonder if someone stuck a firework in his ass and lit it up, because the bouts of zoomies he gets is so frequent you wondered if there was something wrong—but you couldn’t catch him to take to a vet either! 

  After the first few days, Cyno seems to calm down… a little. He still prefers to survey the area (your living room) from above (your bookshelf) and watch you go about your day. It’s quite cute how his perked ears twitch every time you make a noise, as if he’s completely focused on what you’re doing.

  You soon find out after stepping a bit too close to the bookshelf that he might have just been waiting to strike, because he leaps onto your head as soon as you’re in range. 

  The only reason you know he’s fully conscious in that furred head is because while you were cleaning up after dinner, you spotted him sitting next to a cup of tea that was half-filled. You tense as you watch his paw raise to knock it off. “Cyno! Don’t,” you try to sound scolding.

  He looks up at you, he lowers his paw… then raises it again, making you glare at him. He lowers it again, turns away… you turn back to wiping the dishes and look over your shoulders after a few seconds—his paw is raised again!

  This back and forth continued until he finally knocked it over.

  And then he has the audacity during the next day’s dinner to sound like he has never been fed in his life while you’re trying to eat in peace. Meowing at you so loudly one would think he was terribly injured, eyes wide and mouth open. You hope your neighbours don’t think you’re trying to starve him, or treat him horribly.

Dainsleif ;

He’s not happy about it, he has things to do—places to be and investigations to make. Thankfully you’re familiar with where you were going next… but Dainsleif is very limited in what he can do. You decide to give him the task of scouting and sneaking around, something he’s used to doing anyway… but he finds that it’s much more effective to do so as a cat. His footsteps are completely silent and his senses are much sharper.

  Though, he had an instinctual need to swat at a glowing orb that you found in a strange vault half-buried in a cave in Fontaine before he could stop himself—which closed the two of you inside the vault. Thankfully he is now small enough that he could slip out between the bars and unlock it from the other side.

  It is quite cute how his ears flattened as you walked out, as if he was sorry. Though he seemed okay after you scratched behind his ears and assured him it was okay, he was here to help you out after all! His tail swayed in satisfaction to your assurance.

  You start to set down camp for the night, having just one pair of hands makes it a bit more of a lengthy process, and Dainsleif can only sit and watch as you put it together. He’s usually quite distant, even in a relationship—but as you straighten from squatting to fit something down, you feel something press against your leg and see him rubbing his furry cheek against you, then walking around your legs, tail trailing behind.

  He’s usually quite wary and alert, even during the night when you try and convince him to sleep—and it’s no different now. He sits poised and ready… for what? He’s a cat. But you appreciate the effort. 

  Surprisingly, he’s very active at grooming himself, the two of you usually have to bathe often anyway as you frequent dusty caves and muddy backwaters, but every time you make a stop, he sits down and starts licking his fur—at first you wondered if he was frustrated by something or had hurt himself, but as you picked him up to examine for any injuries or strange patches, he just blinked at you, tongue still half-hanging out.

  Dainsleif is rather laid-back when it comes to your relationship, there are times where you want to stay in a larger city for a few days or weeks in between travels, to have a soft bed and four walls around you—which Dainsleif doesn’t mind, there are places he wants to look into where he’d prefer you are safe elsewhere. He knows where you will be and will stop by to ask if you’re ready to continue days or even sometimes a few weeks later, to which you—recharged and rejuvenated—jump at the chance to follow him out of the city.

  But now, as a cat, he doesn’t leave your side for a minute—not even when you need to use nature’s bathroom. You went into a small village in Sumeru when passing through and a vendor was particularly pressing about selling you some type of perfume that you had shown brief interest in—Dainsleif had enough of you being pestered and whacked his paw at the man’s leg, hissing. He would usually be more subtle about guiding you away, but he doesn’t have the presence he usually does as he is now, so he must utilise the aggressiveness given to him in feline form. You take the chance to scoop him up and hurry away before the vendor can get upset, petting between his ears and thanking him for the help—he rubs his cheek against yours. He’s surprisingly more affectionate like this as well.

Diluc ;

Your nose itches… you try to hold back—achoo!!

  Diluc jumps, claws scuttling against the ground and he leaps from his resting spot and hops down to the floor. You sniffle and shake your head. “Sorry, it’s not your fault,” you stand from his chair and round the table to squat down next to him, reaching a hand out. “Did I startle you?”

  He makes a ‘hmph’ sound, fur red as freshly bloomed roses. Diluc bumps his snout into your palm and huffs into it, you turn your hand and pet along his back. “Aaah… you’re so cute~ so soft,” you near coo as you scratch behind his ears—

  Diluc shakes himself and ducks under your hand to walk past you—how dare you baby-talk him?! He’s not an actual cat! The scritches felt too nice, and his ears flicked when you cooed at him—it’s embarrassing…

  He sits down by the door, tail swaying lazily as a small meow leaves him. Let me out. 

  You pout, how can you not convey how cute he is? You want to rub his cheeks. But fine, you  walk over and open the door for him to slip out of. 

  Diluc likes the lounge around the fireplace in the estate, there’s not much work he can do  while you try to figure out how to turn him back—preferably without alerting his brother or any of the knights… or just anyone in general. Unfortunately, he can’t hide it from the staff of the Winery as he is a spitting image of himself in cat form, and you’ve caught more than three people trying to feed him expensive cheeses. 

  It’s only in the recent days that you’ve convinced him to settle down and use the time to rest and nap as much as he can, but Diluc was extremely restless at first, you had to trap him inside a room and trick him into lying down with you.

  One day, Jean came by looking for him, and you had to think fast to come up with an excuse while he had just leapt under the sofa to hide. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to need him urgently, so she just left a message behind and went back to her day.

  You fell asleep in Diluc’s study, trying to keep up with his paperwork—Adeline offered to help you, she’s very familiar with his work, and it’s not like it’s been a long time since he wasn’t there to do it… but you wanted to help, and as the sun sank below the horizon, you laid down on the sofa in his study next to a tall bookcase—only closing your eyes was enough to pull you into deep sleep.

  Diluc hops onto the sofa next to you, he carefully walks over your thighs and settles on the armrest where your head is. His fluffy tail sways and strokes your chin and nose—nearly waking you as you almost sneeze, you don’t have to work so hard for him, he knows you want to help. He wishes he could tell you, and he will, when he’s back to normal. For now, he rests alongside you, head leaning against the top of yours and tail tucked against your neck.

Kaedehara Kazuha ;

Kazuha is a very chill cat, he doesn’t get into trouble, he doesn’t cough hairballs on the floor and he doesn’t knock things over.

  (Instead of coughing hairballs on the floor he swats them off-deck with his paws, Beidou caught him doing it once).

  There’s not much trouble to get into on the ocean, and he’s rather good at keeping out of trouble overall on land, sticking by his side is a sureway to a boring day of exploration or lounging around—which is your perfect type of day.

  You help him into your bag as the Crux ‘boards’ by Liyue Harbour (it stops a bit away and tucked by a cliffside to avoid attention) and you make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall into the ocean as a few crewmates row to land. You’re stopping for a few days, so you make sure to use the time to relax and take in landside air and wander around the expansive Harbour. 

  Kazuha likes to take life at a slower pace, and thus your walk to the Harbour took longer than you expected… as you thought Kazuha was doing his normal meditation on a warm, sun-kissed rock along the road…

  But he was asleep, sitting up and enjoying the sun. It took you thirty minutes to realise—a sitting cat with its eyes closed and a sleeping cat in a sitting position is the exact same.

  He very much likes to people-watch, but in this cat form, he seems even more engaged—he can hear sounds more clearly and he seems even more perceptive than usual. Watching a tea maker brew a cup on a teahouse table you had sat by to rest and ordered some snacks. He sniffs at the tea as it’s placed in front of you—he’s perched comfortably on your lap, you’re surprised the teahouse even allows him inside—and seems to appreciate the detail he gets from this new perspective, af if it smells different in this form.

  He tries to taste it and your food, but you have to block his snout with your hand, you’re not sure if the food you were having would give him a stomach ache or not. 

On a walk on the outskirts of the city, you look back and see Kazuha carrying a stick in his mouth…?

  He’s not a dog, so you’re not entirely sure why he’s doing it, maybe cats do that too? The dogs that hang around the bridge leading to the southeast outside of Liyue Harbour try to approach him with the stick, thinking he was playing, but he hops into a tree to keep it to himself. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, but he seems to be having fun.

  Kazuha wanders off oftentimes, just in his normal, usual body… so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when you suddenly find him missing from your side—perhaps it’s because he’s a cat and you’re unsure if he can defend himself as well in that form, but you hurry to look for him.

  You practically run in circles until you find him pressing his paw to a brown, crusty leaf… again and again, as if listening to the crunch of it in a rhythm. You sigh and scoop him up into your arms. “Don’t wander off like this,” you scold and poke his nose. Kazuha sneezes from the poke, but blinks up at you and nods his little furry head.

Kaeya ;

Unbothered, in his element. Kaeya sleeps in your windowsill and bathes in the sunlight all day while you scratch your head over how this could’ve happened. You try to leave for work and he practically screeches at the door, likely pleading you not to leave—he does that normally as well, except without the loud meowing. 

  Kaeya finds appreciation in the flexibility and grace that comes with this new body, he easily leaps up on shelves and dives under the sofa, he chases flakes of dust and seems to be having quite a good time—perhaps it’s because he has no responsibilities in this form, he can’t go to work like this and has no control over it. And the loss of control is strangely freeing. 

  You scoop him up into your arms and his tail swishes happily, he grabs his claws into your shirt and purrs as you rub his ears, happy and content with the additional affection. He loves all affection he gets from you no matter what form it takes, and being a cat has given him the opportunity to be pampered in ways he never could experience as a human. 

  He does need his free time as well and he uses it well while you’re out of the house—though you were very optimistic to think that closing the windows would keep him contained, Kaeya easily flips the handles and slips out of your home. He enjoys the attention he gets from any passersby, but is careful not to be too affectionate and get picked up by someone who thinks he’s a stray. 

  His usual guarded front lowers in this form, he feels like he could slip out of any situation—and he doesn’t have to be careful with his words or actions. No one expects a cat to have alternative intentions. 

  He jumps up in surprise as he hears footsteps rapidly approaching—he had fallen asleep on a ledge and the sun was already down. Kaeya blinks as you pick him up, breath heaving. “There you are, I’ve looked everywhere for you! I thought something happened when I couldn’t find you around the plaza,” you sigh a breath of relief and practically crush him to your chest. Kaeya wriggles a little but gives up and nuzzles into you, pushing his forehead into your cheek. 

  After a number of days, Kaeya gets bored, as fun as lounging around and being pampered it… he misses real food, and dragging you away from your work to have lunch—and holding you properly, he can only lay on top of you like this, which doesn’t exactly feel like holding.

  And Kaeya being restless… he gets whiny. 

  He would usually be more subtle, but now that he feels the rush of freedom his feline form gives him, he uses it to protest by loafing on your clothes after you fold them to put away, laying over your lap when you need to get up—even though he’s not really a cat… kind of, you still get the same feeling of not wanting to move him off no matter how much space he’s taking.

  But that’s okay, because he just has to slow blink at you and nuzzle into your hand and you forgive him, how could you not?

Kamisato Ayato ;

Ayato is an unreasonably pretty cat. His fur is soft and silky, he has this… smug kitty-smile at all times, and it makes you want to pinch his ears. He sits on your lap and peeks onto the low table inside his study as you go through paperwork. Just because he’s become a cat doesn’t mean his workload just miraculously lessens. 

  Thankfully, after a few days of trying to juggle his work—how does he do it?!—even with him by your side, albeit in a form that can’t properly communicate… Ayaka decides to lend a hand, she takes it upon herself to attend meetings and represent the clan and Commission in Ayato’s stead. Thankfully no one has questioned where he is yet.

  Or why there is a suspiciously similar cat trotting around the estate in his place. 

  You fish into a bush in the courtyard gardens, hand feeling around—until you find fur and yoink it up. Ayato blinks at you, tail swishing as he has a piece of grilled fish in his mouth that he stole from the kitchens. “You know… you can have all the fish you want—you don’t have to steal it,” you say as you lift him into your arms.

  His ears flick as you talk, but he eats the fish happily regardless. You shake your head in mild exasperation. Looks like he’s using the opportunity to engage in… more mischief than usual. Perhaps a different kind. 

  Ayato likes to use his newfound stealth and agility to his advantage… to torment you.

  You put away some laundry and turned to a shelf to fetch something—only to come face to face with Ayato’s cat-face, making you jump as he meows happily—as if happy to see you! He knows he’s just trying to startle you!

  He winds around your feet when you walk around the estate and purrs happily when you squint at him.

  Ayato knows the limits, he stops before you can lock him inside a room for the remainder of the day. His fur is so soft as you pet him and a rumbling purr leaves him, he knows it’s silly—he’s not really a cat, at least, hopefully not for long. But you keep petting and stroking him while he does. 

  He takes good care of himself on normal days, and as a cat, it’s no different—he grooms himself meticulously, though finds it rather embarrassing if you’re looking, so he tries to do it out of sight… it's very instinctual, but he also likes to feel clean and groomed. 

  You once passed the great hall and saw Thoma wriggling a toy with a bundle of feathers on it while Ayato chased it… it was pretty cute to watch, but you hurried along before either of them could notice you. 

  He hogs the futon, you don’t want to push him to the side and get pushed to the edge of the mattress yourself. Ayato doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. 

Kaveh ;

Distressed, not having fun, he wants to go home.

  A series of meows in varying states of distress and confusion follow behind you as you walk, you stop and turn around, peering down at the strange cat that’s been following you around since you left the Akademiya. You were about to ask what he wants… but as you squint at the cat… doesn’t it look familiar?

  Kaveh doesn’t stop when you do, he raises on his hind legs by your feet and sinks his claws into your pants, a shrill, distressed meow leaves him.

  You reach down and pick him up, holding under his front legs as you inspect him… hm, golden fur with tints of a darker, sandy brown… those big red eyes.

  “... Kaveh?” you must be crazy, there’s no way your partner is a cat, and followed you around without you realising, but you know those eyes very well. It’s him.

  Alhaitham just stares at you like you grew three additional heads, he looks at Kaveh in your arms and then back at you. “... it looks like him, but that’s not proof enough—have you asked him to write his name?”

  You look at Kaveh and he tilts his small head to look up at you. Write his name…? He doesn’t exactly have thumbs… but Alhaitham has a good point. What if it’s just a very persistent cat? 

  Then again… where would Kaveh be? He’s usually home by this time.

  Alhaitham fetches a pen and some parchment and you put Kaveh down on the table. He tries to use his paws at first but just spills ink all over the place—but as he grabs the pen with his mouth and clumsily scribbles his signature, Alhaitham just hums while you scoop Kaveh up again, holding him up. “It is you! What happened to you, Kaveh?”

  Of course, he can’t give a proper answer, he wriggles his paws around and meows in a long dialogue—but it’s entirely incomprehensible. 

  While you and Alhaitham try to figure out how to get him back, Kaveh tries to adjust to his… predicament. He doesn’t do it with any grace, though… his leaps and jumps across furniture are miscalculated and he falls to the ground or hits his head more often than you can count.

  But your worried petting and rubbing the aching area makes him purr and nuzzle into your arms.

  He does hate the heightened senses, he jumps at the smallest noise and scuttles across the room if anything startles him—and he gets startled very easily like this.

Neuvillette ;

You call his name, looking around his office… you scratch your head, he can’t have gone far, you just left to fetch some tea for a few minutes. It’s not like he can open the door or window and slip out—why would he anyway?

  You hear a very… pathetic meow, from next to you—but there’s nothing there, just a sofa. You hear it again—under the sofa…?

  Ducking down, you see that Neuvillette is stuck, he seems to have been trying to squeeze himself under the sofa, and rounding the furniture, you see his hind legs and tail flat on the floor… it’s a bit amusing. “There, I got you,” you say soothingly as you lift the sofa up a little so he can back out. Neuvillette stands up and shakes his body.

  You squat down and smile. “How’d you get stuck under there?” you hold out your hand and he presses his head into your palm, nuzzling against your skin for comfort as you turn your hand to scratch and pet him.

  He’s not very good at resisting the instincts and temptations that come with this form—you’re unsure why he seems to struggle so much, but you try to help him as much as you can, and not laugh.

  You saw him chase a shadow, there is an ornament on the raised blinds that hang above the large window in his office. It's attached to the strings that lower and raise them and it sways slightly—casting a shadow across the floor.

  Another time he was grooming his fur and struggling, he has a thick, long coat and had to lean far back to reach the end of his fur as his tongue dragged along the hairs… causing him to roll backwards off the arm of the couch and into the pile of pillows.

  Innocent, small things that make you smile, but you’re careful that he doesn’t see it.

  He loafs over a stack of court documents as you organise his desk—might as well use the opportunity to clean up while he won’t be making a mess. He doesn’t seem satisfied with his place on the desk and stands… and spots a box on the ground, it’s stacked halfway with old documents to be taken to storage… but it also looks like the perfect spot to rest. He hops down from the desk and circles a few times on the papers to get comfortable. He wriggles a little before sitting down.

  It takes him a minute to realise that he was kneading into the paper when he hears the sound of it tearing under his claws in an instinctual need to make the bottom of the box comfortable. 

  Safe to say, he was mortified to have destroyed the top four documents, but thankfully they weren’t shredded and you managed to salvage them with some memory of what had occurred as well as piecing them together.

Tartaglia ;

You look towards the window above the kitchen counter, cold air brushes into the house as Childe enters through it—with a mouse in his mouth.

  You leap up and push the book in your hand against his face and push him straight back outside. “No! Absolutely not! Leave it outside, not in the house!!” You close the window behind him and sigh in relief, brushing stray snow into the sink. When you look up again, He’s sitting there, big eyes and ears flat against his head… but no mouse.

  Sighing, you open the window a smidge so that he can step inside, where he shakes himself and tosses flakes of melting snow all over. 

  Childe sits down, tail swaying—as if waiting for something.

  You set your haps on your hips. “What?”

  “Mrrow…” he wriggles his head, he wants a pat. 

  … fine, just because he took the mouse outside because you ‘asked’, you raise your hand to stroke his head and he tilts it to lick your palm—but you pull back. “No, you just had a wild animal in your mouth, wash your mouth!”

  What is this?? He feels like a criminal, all he did was bring you a prize… to be fair, he realised how silly it was to bring you a dead animal when you leapt up to push him back out, but it felt completely natural up until that point!

  He whines and meows for forgiveness for the rest of the night, and you do eventually ‘forgive’ him and let Chile lounge around on your lap while you pet him and continue reading.

  He picks fights with swaying curtains, chases your broom when you’re cleaning and even whacked your cup of coffee off the dinner table—spilling it everywhere. He’s a nightmare in this form, because no matter the scolding, he just stares at you with excited, large eyes and a swaying tail.

  Nothing you say gets through his head. In one ear and out the other. 

  He does not give up either, if he wants affection, he will get it one way or the other, even if he has to whine and meow endlessly, follow you around—fake a limp! You shake him a bit after he worried you and you almost went out in the middle of the evening through the snow to take him to a vet when he just wanted scritches. 

  In all fairness… this is just typical behaviour, but now he has the kitten eyes to break your self control and composure within seconds. 

Thoma ;

He tries to do his job even in cat form, using his tail to sweep, he even takes his duster into his mouth and tries to sweep on surfaces he’d usually need ladders to reach, and now he can just leap to them.

  But he also has a problem…

  He has an instinctual need to create a mess, knock things over or sit on things—when he catches himself in an act of pushing Ayaka’s discarded tea off a table, he nearly leaps away to stop himself. 

  Thankfully, everyone around him doesn't mind—and it’s a bit relieving to see that Thoma retains a sense of himself. He finds time where he would usually go into town to instead nap—and the Kamisato estate has perfect napping spots. He lies sprawled across the engawa surrounding the eastern part of the estate near the back gardens, and lets the warm beams of the sun warm his belly—only to shoot up in surprise when he hears footsteps, embarrassed to be caught lounging around. 

  Ayato sometimes plucks him away to keep on his lap for hours while he sorts through paperwork, petting and scratching behind his ears while his other hand signs documents. Thoma gets a bit restless just loafing on his lord’s lap and meows in relief when you come along to fetch him. 

  Ayaka leapt at the opportunity to sew a few accessories for him, guised under the excuse of “practise for smaller bodies” and Thoma ends up with half a wardrobe by the end of the week. 

  But he prefers to be around you, you don’t trap him on your lap (even though Ayato gives very good scritches) or make him model for three hours (even though Ayaka gave him snacks). As you work around the estate, he gets tired—curse this cat body and it’s perpetual need for napping!—and you tuck him gently into your eri*. Thoma lays nestled against your chest warmly, his body light and still as you continue your work. 

  The gardens of the Kamisato estate is a disaster zone, and after the first few days, thoma knows to avoid it. 

  He had strolled past, early in his transformation—and been startled by his own reflection in the pond he passed by, the fish swimming away in a hurry as he ran across the gardens in surprise. A second time, he had spent twelve minutes chasing a butterfly while Ayato watched with a signature smile… he will likely not let him forget it. 

  Thankfully, he’s not needed much in the gardens, and he sits perched atop a high shelf in the kitchens, his tail sways as he leans forward… very much ready to leap and steal some food—before you pluck him up and raise an eyebrow.

  His ears flatten in realisation, but you rub his cheeks and tuck him back into your clothes—grabbing some leftover pears from the dessert the kitchens were making, letting him munch on it while you get back to work. 

Venti  ;

You didn’t think Venti could become even more of an airhead on a typical day as he does when he becomes a cat. He gets distracted by the smallest things and wanders off—leading to a wild goose chase where you have to ask around for a small darkly coloured cat with blue highlights on its ears and tail—a very distinct cat!—and being pointed in every direction possible.

  Only to discover him napping in a crate full of apples in an alley you walked past at least six times just in the last fifteen minutes. 

  He is also very vocal, Venti says anything that comes to his mind… which is unfortunately nothing but meowing nonsense to your ears, but you nod along as if you understand, having a halfway conversation with the lively cat. 

  Somehow, he very much likes to play and nap like he’s being paid to do it at the same time. In one moment, he’s swatting at your clothes and trying to get to play with your fingers—which he accidentally bites and scratches in his excitement, quickly rectifying it with some licks and nuzzles—and the next, he’s passed out cold in a box or on a shelf for five hours.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed by these new catlike instincts, such as the need to groom himself—he even starts grooming you halfway through his coat, you’re sure your skin is very much clean by the time he finally turns back to himself. 

  Unlike normal cats, who move and settle down elsewhere when the person under them gets up… Venti is not happy about being disturbed nor that you’re trying to get up, he whines and kneads on your clothes to try and get you to stay a little bit longer, giving you the best big kitten eyes he can muster.

  And damn him, it works. He knows what he’s doing. 

  You had been looking for him one morning, thinking he just wandered off again and you’d find him napping in some corner of the city… when Diluc approaches you with a sheepish looking Venti-cat, holding him by the scruff of his neck. “This yours?”

  Diluc doesn’t even seem surprised that the bard is a cat. At least he isn’t an allergy risk when he’s human-like and trying to get into his wares. 

Wanderer ;

He is very aware of himself, he knows he looks stupid (cute) and that everything he does will be looked at through the lens of a typical cat and not someone stuck in its body.

  And thus, he does all he can to be as eerie and unnatural a cat as he can be.

  He doesn’t make a single sound, no meowing, no purring, nothing. He doesn’t walk like a cat—thankfully he doesn’t walk on two legs—nor does he exhibit any of their typical behaviours.

  At least, that was the plan. 

  Every single time Wanderer catches himself doing anything that could be considered “cat-like”, such as grooming himself, chasing a loose string, or gods forbid… kneading—he will immediately stop and compose himself again.

  As opposed to some others, he absolutely hates the loss of control that follows becoming a cat. 

  He can’t write properly, he can’t communicate—and if he tries, no one but you and perhaps Nahida takes him seriously—he’s always sleepy and aware at strange times… he hates it! 

  And once when he was just trying to have some grapes for snacks—you suddenly leapt towards him to stop him, taking the bowl off the table with a relieved huff when you noticed he hadn’t swallowed any of it… after you pried the grape out of his mouth. At his hissing, you explained that cats can’t have grapes. 

  He gave you the cold fur-shoulder for at least two days. 

  You brought him out one time to get some fresh air—since he’s fully aware of himself, he shouldn’t run off and get lost, or into a dangerous situation like an indoor cat might. But when you gave some other cats around the streets of Sumeru attention, he quickly meowed in protest and whacked the other cats away. 

  It’s a bit cute… he doesn’t normally act so forthcoming, and as he bumps his head into your knee afterwards, you rub his cheeks and pinch his ears despite further protest. How cute!

Wriothesley ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Wriothesley was just a “cat”. He’s huge*. 

  You put a bowl in front of him, filled with foods that are okay for cats to eat but also not… gross, as Wriothesley is very much aware in that cat-head of his. “C’mon, there’s nothing wrong with this, I even tasted it—it’s a bit bland ‘cause we can’t put any seasoning, but it’s food.”

  He leans down, and for a second you think that he’s going to eat it—but as his whiskers brush against the sides of the bowl, he lifts his head abruptly and swats at the bowl, clattering it to the ground—he didn’t mean to hit it at all, but also not this hard. 

  You scratch your head, you just can’t figure out why he won’t eat—you’ve tried everything!

  It took you several hours of back and forth questions and meowing to realise that it was the shape of the bowl that was the problem and not the food itself.

  On another day, you reach down to pet his soft, thick fur—only to get a static shock, it zaps your fingers and both of you jump back. You always have to be careful with petting him, as there’s always a risk of getting zapped at any time. Worst part is, it’s not even every time! It catches you off guard!

  He likes to climb and jump on the pipes that web around the fortress, getting into places he’s never even considered before—and sometimes you look around for him for hours before giving up… only to suddenly be leapt on from above by a nine kilogram heavy cat half your size, knocking you over.

  Siegwinne noticed that he had been brooding lately, he had been stuck as a cat for five days now and it was beginning to frustrate him. So she decided to soak a small blanket in tea mixed with catnip—after it was dry and she rubbed some more on it, she laid it out in his office…

  You watched him for a good long while as he rubbed against it, meowed and rolled on the blanket. It was unbearably adorable, but you eventually pulled him away after a while—worrying it might be too much.

  He’s so large that it’s almost like sleeping with a person, just a very furry one. He lies halfway over you and as you wake in the morning—he refuses to get up. You give in and relax in bed for a while… until he starts kneading your cheeks, leaving small scratches with his big paws and claws. You don’t stop him—it doesn’t hurt, he looks so focused, like he’s trying to squeeze something out of your cheeks. 

Xiao ;

He meows and wriggles in your arms, but you try your best to hold him until you reach the top of the inn—he swats at you and you finally let him go when you enter his usual reserved room. Despite being paws up when you let go of him, Xiao lands perfectly and immediately hops up to the highest vantage point in the room he could reach. 

  You don’t get him down by yourself, he only comes down willingly after a few hours when he’s calmed down and adjusted a bit to this form. You’re not entirely sure what happened, you had just been exploring a cave that was strangely entwined with a temple of sorts, when a bright light appeared behind you, and Xiao—who had been accompanying you—was suddenly a cat. A very small cat. 

  He loafs on the windowsill in the night, his tail wrapped around his paws as he peers towards the sky—at the slightest noise, his ears flicker towards it and he squints at the roads below that pass and surround the large inn. 

  He is unbothered. Firm. Stoic.

  … after getting wet under a pouring rain that persisted all day, he pretends not to be bothered by his wet fur and the uncomfortable existence he leads under this blanket of wet fur…

  But he can only pretend for so long. You turn away and pretend to busy yourself to allow him some privacy to reluctantly lick along his fur and smooth it down, trying to clean or groom it in a way that makes it less sloppy. 

  He hates it, this weird satisfaction that comes with this very primal instinct, and yet, he does still feel the satisfaction.

  Xiao is difficult to read on an average day, he’s very used to controlling his emotions and maintaining a front that’s difficult to get past.

  But as a cat… he’s an open book, he approaches you with a curled tail, he slow blinks at you when you drag your fingers through his fur as he loafs on the windowsill. 

  But he does. Not. Meow. 

  Except for that time you hauled his ass back to the inn… and when Zhongli makes a sudden appearance, he hops from his perched position and snakes around the former Archon’s legs, purring and meowing as he’s being petted and spoken to. He doesn’t notice his own behaviour…

  Not until the following night after Zhongli leaves, and Xiao is mortified that he behaved like an affection-depraved cat in front of Morax.

  Thankfully you sliding a comb through his fur and untangling some knots from the day distracts and calms him down in the evening.

Zhongli ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Zhongli was actually aware he was a cat, he follows you around, sits on a bench and licks his paw to clean it while you shop for groceries… he chases anything shiny that you come across and swats at it with his paws, leaps at it and tries to capture it—usually rocks or mora people drop. Maybe he likes the mineral, maybe it’s the shine. You can’t really know.

  You try to give him some nice food, cut down nicely so he won’t accidentally choke on it… but he won’t eat it, not unless you plate it properly…? At least, when you rearranged it better and separated the meats from the greens, he seemed to like it more. Maybe he thought you were treating him a bit too much like a pet rather than a partner that’s unfortunately become a cat for a (hopefully) limited time.

  After a long day of… not doing much, Zhongli realised he had left scratches on the sides of some furniture and he tries to hide or cover them up for the time being, dragging a blanket over the arm of a divan in the living room… hopefully you won’t discover them and he can fix it after he’s back to normal before you notice.

  You do notice that he very much prefers specific textures, he doesn’t like walking on the hardwood floor of your home and instead prefers to lie down or sit on blankets or the silken sheets in your shared bedroom. 

  Despite the strange predicament, Zhongli is very calm, he’s both patient and has a good sense—if this was a dangerous curse or spell that was difficult to reverse, he would likely sense it. Instead, he considers using this time to show and receive affection in a way you haven’t been able to before. 

  He often sits by your legs or thighs, he winds around them and rubs his furry cheeks along your clothes and pretty much anywhere he can reach. Your legs when he’s winding around them, your hand when you reach out to pet him, your cheek when he stands on your chest when you’re trying to read in bed before sleeping. 

  He purrs and cuddles with you, laying in your arms or over your lap—he even hid in your bag once when you went out for the day, and you discovered it too late to take him back home (you did wonder why your bag felt heavier than usual) and thus, he has the pleasure of accompanying you to your work—something he doesn’t often get the excuse or time to do. 

  Thankfully, Hu Tao didn’t question it when you came to her and said that Zhongli couldn’t come to work for a few days (hopefully just a few days). If anything, she sighed in relief and said something about him finally using his paid time off and sick days. Then thanks you for taking him out of commission??? 

  You pour over some scrolls and papers to try and figure out how to turn Zhongli back, and he hops onto the desk in the study, nuzzling against your arm before sitting down, tail swaying as he joins you in searching for ways to bring him back to you in a more familiar form. Despite how cute he is like this. 

* eri is the collar-flap on the front of a kimono/yukata that crosses over the chest, he's tucked into it and lying on his back. if you know about the nioh cat clock scene, yeah.

—

thirty minutes pass.

he paces the room. checks his hair in the mirror six times. sits down. stands up. sits down again.

the comm crackles. he grabs it. “control?”

“sato—sorry, one second—” your voice, distracted, talking to someone in the background. “—no, the harajuku route is compromised, use the backup—” then back to him, rushed, “i’m still working on it, there’s a lot of moving pieces today—”

“it’s okay. i’ll wait.”

“i’ll be there. i promise.”

he waits.

he waits another hour.

the hospital staff has officially discharged him. he’s supposed to leave. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed anyway, comm in hand, staring at the door.

he calls you again.

“angel.”

“sa—” more background noise. voices. someone handing you files. “—just give me a moment, i need to—”

“take your time.”

“i’m sorry, there’s just—the miyagi team ran into complications and—” your voice says his name like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “satoru?”

he softens immediately.

“hey. it’s okay. i’m not going anywhere.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i know. i just— i want to see you.”

his heart does a flip.

“i want to see you too.”

another voice in the background— urgently calling your name. you sigh.

“satoru, i have to—”

“go. i’ll be here.”

you go quiet for a second before mumbling, “…i’ll come find you as soon as i can.”

click. he stares at the comm. something shifts in his chest.

—

another forty-five more minutes pass and he’s done waiting.

gojo stands up, grabs his jacket, and walks out of the hospital room without looking back.

the control center is twenty minutes away by car. he makes it in twelve.

the building is familiar— he’s been here for briefings a hundred times. but he’s never gone looking for you. never had a reason to. never had permission. but now he doesn’t care about permission.

he walks through the halls with purpose, ignoring the surprised looks from staff who recognize him, and takes the stairs two at a time, follows the signs to the main control room.

and stops.

the door is right there.

plain. grey. labeled with a room number and a security clearance level. behind it is you.

he takes a breath, then another. his hand reaches for the handle and stops again.

what if you’re disappointed?

what if you built up a version of him in your head that doesn’t match reality?

what if—

he shakes his head. no.

two years of your voice in his ear. two years of you guiding him home. two years of falling for someone he’s never seen.

if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that this is right.

he slowly opens the door.

the control room is bigger than he expected.

gojo stands in the doorway for a heartbeat just taking it in. rows of monitors line the walls like silent sentinels, casting their pale glow across the space in overlapping layers of blue and green and occasional flashes of alert red. mission feeds flicker in real-time, showing camera angles from across the city. biometric data streams steadily in the corner of each screen— heart rates, oxygen levels, GPS coordinates. city maps overlay tactical information, safe houses marked in soft gold, danger zones pulsing gently in warning.

low lighting hums overhead, fluorescent tubes behind diffusing panels that turn the whole room into something soft and intimate despite all the technology. the air smells like coffee— good coffee, freshly brewed— and the faint ozone of too many screens running at once, that specific electronic warmth that comes from systems working overtime. there’s a faint hum of ventilation, the distant click of keyboards from elsewhere in the building, the quiet beep of monitors tracking missions he’s not part of.

and there, at the center console, back to the door, head tilted as you study a display,

you.

gojo’s breath catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move forward.

you’re wearing a soft sweater. something oversized and comfortable in a color he can’t quite name in this light— grey? blue? it doesn’t matter. it looks warm. looks like something you’d curl up in during late shifts, something that’s been washed a hundred times and fits just right. your hair is pulled back, loose strands escaping to frame your face in a way that makes his fingers twitch with the urge to tuck them behind your ears.

one hand reaches for a mug on the edge of the console— chipped at the rim, exactly like you described that one night when you were both exhausted and words slipped out like secrets. your favorite mug. the one you’ve had forever. sitting right there, steam curling up gently, waiting for you to take a sip.

the other hand taps through data on the main screen, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. even from here, he can see the grace in the motion— the same precision he’s heard in your voice for two years, now made visible.

you’re real.

you’re right there.

and you haven’t noticed him yet.

gojo’s heart is doing something strange. something too fast and too slow at the same time. his palms are slightly damp. his mouth is dry. he is frozen in a doorway because of a person in a sweater drinking tea.

he thinks about all the times he imagined this, all the faces he built in his head over three years. all the features he assigned to you based on nothing but hope and the shape of your voice.

none of them were right and none of them came close. because you— the real you, the one right there, the one who doesn’t even know he’s watching— are so much more than anything he could have invented.

you’re smaller than he expected, compact and concentrated, like all that calm precision had to be stored somewhere efficient. your shoulders are slightly hunched the way people get when they’ve been sitting too long, and he wants to come up behind you and press his thumbs into the tension there.

your hair catches the monitor light when you move, and he watches a loose strand brush against your cheek. you don’t notice, too focused on the screen.

he wonders if you’re working on something important. probably. you’re always working on something important. always saving someone’s life somewhere, guiding them home, being the reason they survive. being the reason he survives.

gojo closes the door behind him.

his hand moves automatically, muscle memory from a thousand infiltrations. the lock clicks into place with a soft sound that seems too loud in the quiet.

you turn, your eyes meeting his, and for a long, suspended moment, neither of you move.

the world narrows to this: you, him, the space between.

gojo forgets to breathe.

he’d planned this moment a thousand times. imagined what he’d say, how he’d stand, the casual confidence he’d project. he was going to lean against the doorframe with that easy smile, say something clever, make you laugh.

instead, he stands there like an idiot, hands frozen at his sides, mouth slightly open, absolutely nothing in his head except the fact that you look like everything.

the voice he’s been falling for finally has a face to match, and the face is even better than the voice. your eyes— god, your beautiful eyes— are tired in a way that makes his chest ache, dark circles that speak of too many nights exactly like this one, too many hours spent watching screens and keeping people alive. but beneath the tiredness, there’s something else. something warm and sharp and alive. something that looks back at him and sees.

your eyes hold galaxies.

he knows it’s a stupid thing to think. overly poetic. not his style at all. but he thinks it anyway because it’s true— there’s depth there, years of experience and care and quiet strength, and he wants to fall into them and never come out.

there’s a small scar on your jaw. you mentioned it once casually. a field-job gone wrong, you’d said, like it was nothing. he wants to trace it with his fingertip. wants to ask the real story. wants to press his lips there gently and feel you shiver.

your lips are parted in surprise.

he’s spent two years imagining how you’d look when you smiled. now he’s seeing the moment before the smile, the raw unfiltered surprise of finding him in your space, and it’s somehow even better.

your hand freezes mid-reach for the mug.

fingers suspended in air, inches from the chipped rim. he notices your nails are short, practical, no polish. notices a small band-aid on your index finger— paper cut, probably, from all those reports you handle. notices the way your knuckles are slightly pale from gripping the console all day.

little details that make a whole of you.

you.

“…satoru?”

his name in your mouth, for the first time, said to his face.

he’s heard you say it a thousand times. through crackling comms, in moments of tension, in quiet late-night check-ins. but this— this is so different. this is your voice unfiltered by distance and technology, traveling through air instead of wires, landing on his ears warm and real and almost wondering. it sounds like a question and an answer all at once, like you’re asking if he’s really here, and telling him you’re glad he is.

gojo feels something crack open in his chest, something he’s been holding closed for two years.

he smiles.

it’s not his usual smile— the bright, sharp, teasing one that he wears like armor. it’s softer, wondering, a little bit helpless, like he can’t quite believe you’re real, can’t quite process that after all this time, after all the waiting and wanting and wondering—

here you are.

“hey,” he says quietly.

his voice comes out rough. uncharacteristically soft. he clears his throat, tries again.

“i got tired of waiting.”

you stare at him.

he watches your eyes travel—from his face to the door behind him (locked, yes, he locked it, he’s not an idiot) and back to his face. watches you process. watches the surprise shift into something else, something more complicated.

your heart— the one that’s been doing inconvenient things for two years— he can see it in the way your throat moves when you swallow, the way your fingers curl slightly against the console.

“you’re supposed to be discharged.”

“i am discharged.” he gestures vaguely at himself. “see? discharged. walking around. free.”

“you’re not supposed to be here.”

“probably not.”

he takes a breath, lets the playfulness drop, just a little.

“but you said you’d come find me. and you were busy. so i came to find you instead.”

your fingers curl tighter against the console. he watches you look at him, take him in.

your eyes trace the white hair falling perfectly around his face— the haircut he got specifically for you, the hours in that salon chair, the way he’d checked himself in the mirror a dozen times hoping you’d like what you saw. they move to his sunglasses, pushed up to reveal the blue underneath— the eyes that see everything, that have seen blood and death and darkness, and now see you.

they travel down to the grey sweater, chosen because he wanted you to see him not as agent gojo, not as the strongest in the service, but as just— him. satoru. the one who’s been in love with you through your voice for two years.

“say something,” he murmurs when you’re quiet for too long. he almost feels shy under the scrutiny of your gaze despite doing the same thing. “i’m nervous.”

you laugh quietly. it comes out surprised and breathless and real, and the sound hits him straight in the chest. your laugh. in person. directed at him.

“you? nervous?”

“terrified.” he grins, but it’s shaky around the edges. “you’re looking at me. with your eyes. it’s a lot.”

he means it, every word.

he’s faced down special grade assignments with less fear than this. because he knew how to fight them, knew his own strength, knew the outcome before it started.

but you? you’re unknown territory.

you’re the voice that’s been his north star for two years. the calm in chaos. the one person who’s never asked him to be anything other than what he is.

and now you’re right there, looking at him, and he has no idea what happens next.

you shake your head slowly, wonder and disbelief mixed together.

“i can’t believe you just… walked in.”

“i can’t believe i didn’t do it earlier.”

he takes a step closer, then another.

two years. two years of your voice in his head, of falling asleep to the echo of your commands, of waking up and reaching for the comm before he even opened his eyes. two years of wanting, and he could have just walked through a door.

“protocol—”

“protocol schmotocol.”

another step. he’s close now.

close enough to see the tired lines around your eyes— not flaws, never flaws, just evidence of the life you live, the weight you carry. close enough to see the way your lips curve when you’re trying not to smile, the faint flush creeping up your neck, the way your breath comes slightly faster.

close enough to reach out and touch.

he doesn’t. not yet. he wants to savor this moment, wants to burn every detail into memory.

“hi,” he says softly.

“hi.”

“i’m satoru.”

your eyes search his face for a few seconds, confusion lifting an elegant brow, and then your face relaxes into a small smile,“i know.”

he laughs, he can’t help it! the relief is too much, the joy too big to contain.

“i know you know.” he shakes his head, still smiling. “i just— wanted to say it. to your face. i’m satoru. and i’ve been pretty much in love with your voice for two years.”

your breath catches, he sees it— the way your chest stills, the way your eyes widen just slightly.

“and now,” he continues, softer now, letting the words fall like stones into still water, “i get to be in love with the rest of you too. if you’ll let me.”

the control room hums around you.

monitors flicker through their cycles. somewhere, a mission is probably going wrong. alerts are probably pinging. people are probably waiting for responses.

neither of you seem to care.

(you look at him— this impossible, ridiculous man who barged into your control room and locked the door and said he’s in love with you like it’s the simplest thing in the world.)

he watches you process.

watches the emotions flicker across your face—surprise, disbelief, hope, fear, hope again. sees the moment you decide.

your hand reaches out. hesitates. hovers in the air between you.

his catches it.

his fingers wrap around yours and he feels it— the slight calluses from years of console work, the warmth of your skin, the way your hand fits perfectly in his like it was made to be there.

“i should be angry,” you whisper.

“probably.”

“you broke about five protocols.”

“at least.”

“they’re going to have questions.”

“let them.”

his thumb traces slow circles on your skin.

he can’t stop touching you. can’t stop reassuring himself that you’re real, that this is happening, that after so much of wanting he finally has you right here.

“i’ve been waiting to see you for so long,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t waiting one more minute.”

you look down at your joined hands, then up at him.

at the blue eyes watching you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, because you always have been, even when you were just a voice.

“you’re impossible,” you breathe.

“and yet.” he smiles, soft and wondering. “here i am.”

you squeeze his hand. “i’m glad you came.”

his whole face lights up, like someone turned on the sun inside him.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he squeezes your hand back gently.

“good. because i’m not leaving.”

—

you should protest. should remind him about protocols, about rules, about the distance you’ve maintained for years. should pull your hand back and point at the door and tell him to go. but you don’t want to.

outside the locked door, someone knocks.

“control? we have a situation with the nagoya extraction—”

gofo grins at you. it’s bright and teasing and full of joy, and you want to be annoyed but you can’t. not when he’s looking at you like that.

you press your free hand to your forehead.

“tell them you’re busy,” he whispers.

“…i am busy.”

“with me.”

you look at him.

at the smile that reaches his eyes, at the hand holding yours like it belongs there.

you take a breath.

“give us five minutes,” you call toward the door.

there’s a confused pause before the voice questions, “us?”

gojo laughs silently, cute and victorious, shoulders shaking with the effort of staying quiet.

you kick his ankle gently, but he doesn’t stop smiling, doesn’t stop holding your hand, doesn’t stop looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, which intimidates you a lot.

outside, footsteps retreat uncertainly.

inside, satoru pulls you just slightly closer.

“five minutes,” he murmurs. “whatever will we do?”

you roll your eyes, even though the smile on your face widens. his proximity is hard to ignore, making you all warm inside, so you clear your throat.

well, actually, you should be focusing.

there’s a mission unfolding in nagoya, a situation developing in osaka, a team in kyoto waiting for extraction routes that you haven’t finished calculating. there are three screens blinking with priority alerts, a headset buzzing with voices waiting for your input, so you should be working.

instead, you’re looking at satoru, who is looking at you with the patience of a cat who knows exactly where the treats are hidden and is perfectly content to wait.

“…i have to finish this,” you say apologetically.

he tilts his head. his hair shifts with the movement, catching the monitor light, and you have to physically stop yourself from staring at how it falls back into place like liquid silver.

“okay.”

“it might take a while.”

“okay.”

“you can’t just sit there and—” you gesture vaguely at him, at the whole overwhelming presence of him, “—not be distracting.”

his smile widens.

“i won’t be distracting.”

“you’re already distracting.”

“that’s just my face.”

you press your lips together to hide the smile threatening to break through. “satoru.”

“angel.”

you exhale.

“can you wait? just—sit there. quietly. while i finish up?”

he settles back in his chair, crossing his ankles, making a show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key. you turn back to your console.

and for approximately ninety seconds, he is quiet. then you feel it— a brush against your hand.

you glance down. his fingers are resting on the edge of the console, just barely touching yours, like it’s an accident. except his eyes are watching your screen, and there’s the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.

his pinky curls around yours, then releases. your heart does something complicated.

“you said quiet,” you murmur.

“i’m not talking.”

“you’re touching.”

“that’s not talking.”

you shoot him a faux-stern look. he beams at you.

you turn back to the screen and try very, very hard to remember what you were doing.

…but you do fall into the rhythm of work eventually.

it’s easier than you expected, having him there. maybe because you’re used to him in your ear, his voice threading through your concentration instead of breaking it. maybe because he’s actually, surprisingly, not being a nuisance.

he just watches you work. you can feel his eyes on you as you pull up mission feeds, as you calculate extraction windows, as you talk to the osaka team in clipped, efficient sentences. your voice shifts when you’re working— everyone says so. goes from whatever it is normally to something sharper.

you wonder what he thinks of it now that he can see your face when you speak.

when you glance over, he’s watching with an expression you can’t quite name.

“what?” you ask, distracted.

“nothing.” his says. “you’re just—really good at this.”

it’s such a simple thing to say. you’ve been told you’re good at your job a hundred times. but coming from him, in that tone, with his eyes tracing your face like he’s memorizing it—

you look back at your screen quickly. your ears feel too warm.

and then he starts touching your hair at some point.

you don’t notice at first. you’re deep in the nagoya extraction, talking the team through a tight corridor, timing their movement with camera rotations.

and his fingers, light as breath, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

you stutter.

just a tiny hitch in your words. probably imperceptible to the team. definitely not imperceptible to satoru, who’s now looking at you with the expression of someone who’s found a new favorite hobby.

you continue the extraction, his fingers don’t stop.

he tucks the strand behind your ear. his knuckles graze your cheek as he pulls back. his touch lingers for a moment too long, like he’s savoring the warmth of your skin.

your voice stays steady, but inside, you are a disaster.

fortunately, the extraction finishes cleanly. you lean back in your chair for the first time in what feels like hours, rolling the tension out of your shoulders. the osaka situation is stable for now. the kyoto routes can wait until morning. you’ve handed off the less critical alerts to the night shift.

his fingers find your hand again. deliberately this time. his palm slides against yours, warm and solid, and he intertwines your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you look at him.

he’s not even pretending to watch the screens anymore. he’s just looking at you. those impossible blue eyes soft in the monitor light, his face relaxed in a way you’ve never seen it— not on mission footage, not in briefings, not in any of the carefully curated images you’ve collected over the years. he looks happy.

“you’re staring,” you say.

“you’re worth staring at.”

your face heats up instantly.

“that’s— you can’t just say things like that.”

“why not? i’ve been saying things like that for almost two years. the only difference is now i can see how flustered you get.”

“i don’t do that!”

he lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles, soft and warm.

“you’re blushing right now.”

you pull your hand away. he laughs, bright and delighted, and catches it again. you choose to stare at the screen, pretending to be busy whilst being acutely aware of your hand in his. which leads to you pulling it back a little abruptly and giving your responsibilities to ijichi.

the words come out of your mouth before you fully decide to say them. one moment you’re staring at the console, calculating how much longer you can justify staying, and the next you’re opening a channel to the main floor and saying:

“ijichi. i’m handing over primary supervision for the night.”

the channel is silent for a few seconds before his unsure voice cuts in, “…everything alright?”

“everything’s fine.” your voice is steady, betraying nothing. “i just— need to step away.”

“understood. i’ll take over.”

the channel closes.

you sit there for a moment, listening to the finishing hum of the monitors. your hands are in your lap. your heart is beating too fast.

beside you, satoru is very, very still.

you turn to face him and he’s looking at you.

of course he’s looking at you. he’s been looking at you for the better part of an hour, watching you work, watching you talk, watching you exist like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, but this look is different.

you stare at each other.

the control room is quiet now. the screens have dimmed to standby, casting everything in soft shadows and the faint glow of city maps. outside, the building is winding down— footsteps fading, voices lowering, the rhythm of night shift settling into place. and here, in the center of it all, you and satoru, and you can’t look away.

you’ve seen him so many times before. through cameras, through mission feeds, through the careful observation of a supervisor who needed to know her agents. you’ve watched him move, watched him fight, watched him smile and laugh and occasionally pout when things didn’t go his way.

you knew he was beautiful, you knew, but knowing and seeing are different things.

seeing is this: the way the dim light catches the white of his hair, turning it soft and almost luminous. the way his jaw curves, sharp enough to be dangerous but softened by the slight smile playing at his lips. the way his eyes— those eyes, the ones you’ve only seen through screens and photographs— hold galaxies when they look at you.

he’s beautiful.

he’s so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, makes your fingers curl into your palms, makes you want to reach out and touch just to see if he’s real. you don’t, but you want to.

he’s watching you too.

you can see it in the way his gaze tracks across your face, lingering on details you’d forgotten you had. the little scar on your jaw. the curve of your mouth. the way your hair has come loose from its tie, falling around your face in soft waves.

his eyes are soft, wondering, like he’s cataloguing every detail, storing them away somewhere safe. like he’s been waiting for this— for the chance to just look at you, without distance, without static, without anything between you except air. he has been waiting, after all.

“you’re very pretty,” he says, disrupting the comfortable silence.

you laugh, caught off guard.

“i’m pretty?”

“yeah.” he tilts his head, studying you. “i knew you would be. i mean— i didn’t know, obviously. i couldn’t know. but i thought about it. a lot. what you might look like. and i always thought—” he stops, something flickering across his face. “i always thought you’d be pretty. but you’re—”

he doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. you still feel heat creeping up your neck.

“you’re one to talk,” you manage.

his eyebrows lift in surprise.

“oh?”

“you know what you look like.”

“i have a general idea.”

“you look like—” you wave a hand at him, at all of him, at the impossible unfairness of his existence, “—that.”

he grins. it’s his usual grin, bright and teasing, however how it has shyness underneath it, available only to you.

“you think i’m pretty?”

“i think you know you’re pretty.”

“that’s not an answer.”

you look at him. at the white hair, the blue eyes, the ridiculous sweater that somehow makes him look softer than you’ve ever seen him. at the ghost you’ve thought about too long sitting beside you.

“…yes,” you say quietly. “i think you’re pretty.”

he opens his mouth to say something back but you start talking and you can’t stop.

you don’t mean to, it just happens. one of you says something, and the other responds, and then you’re talking about everything and nothing, words tumbling out like water finally finding its way through a dam.

“you really got a haircut for today?”

“i really did. there was this tiny old lady with scissors and she kept telling me to sit still. i was very still.”

“were you.”

“i was a perfect model.”

“you terrorized the hospital staff for two weeks.”

“they loved me.”

“they filed seventeen complaints.”

“seventeen? i thought it was eighteen.”

you laugh, and his whole face lights up.

“there it is,” he says.

“what?”

“your laugh. i’ve heard it a hundred times through the comm. but it’s different in person.”

“different how?”

he considers the question. tilts his head. the movement makes his hair shift, and you stifle the desire to run your hands through it again.

“warmer,” he says finally. “fuller. like—” he gestures vaguely, searching for words, “—like hearing a song you’ve only ever heard through headphones finally playing live.”

you don’t know what to say to that so you don’t say anything, instead you just look at him. and he looks back.

“tell me something,” you say after a while.“something i don’t know. something you’ve never told me.”

he thinks about it. his fingers find yours again—when did that become so natural?—and trace absent patterns on your palm.

“i was scared,” he says finally. “when i woke up in the hospital. not of dying. i’ve almost died before. that part’s familiar.”

your chest tightens involuntarily.

“then what?”

“of never seeing you.” he says, his voice quiet, honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. “i kept thinking— i almost died, and i’ve never seen her face. what if i never get to? what if that’s it? what if all i ever have is a voice and a maybe and years of wanting?”

your hand tightens around his.

“you’re seeing me now.”

“yeah.” he smiles, soft and a little shaky. “yeah, i am.”

“i was scared too,” you admit.

“of what?”

“of you seeing me.”

his eyebrows draw together. it’s such a cute sight you want to look away.

“why?”

you look down at your joined hands. at his fingers, long and elegant, wrapped around yours. at the contrast between them— his perfect, yours ordinary.

“because what if you saw me and it wasn’t enough? what if i was just—a voice? what if you looked at me and realized you’d built up something that didn’t exist?”

his grip tightens.

“hey.”

you look up. his face is serious now. all the playfulness gone, replaced by something fierce and certain.

“you’re not ‘just’ anything. you’re the person who’s kept me alive for so long. you’re the voice i fall asleep to and wake up reaching for. you’re the one i think about when things go wrong and the one i want to tell when things go right. you’re—” his voice cracks, just slightly. “you’re everything i didn’t know i was looking for.”

your eyes sting traitorously. you sniffle, expression crumbling a little.

“that’s— ugh, how can you say things like that so easily?”

“i have no idea. all of my filters go out of the window when i’m talking to you.”

you laugh wetly. “ridiculous.”

he brings your hand to his chest, presses it over his heart. his heartbeat is steady under your palm. strong. alive. here.

—

you talk until your voice goes hoarse.

about everything. about nothing. about the missions that went wrong and the ones that went right. about the night you first heard his voice on the comms, arrogant and charming and so impossibly alive you knew you were in trouble. about the first time he said your name— just your name, not control or angel— and how you’d replayed it in your head for days.

you talk about the scar on his ribs from a mission in kyoto. the one on your jaw from a previous field-job gone wrong. you talk about your favorite teas and his favorite sweets and the little bakery in ginza that makes strawberry cakes he’s been promising to bring you for years.

you talk until the building is completely quiet around you, until the night shift has settled into its rhythm, until the only light comes from the dimmed monitors and the city glowing through the windows.

you talk until there’s nothing left to say.

and then you sit in silence, hands intertwined, watching each other breathe.

“i should let you go,” you say eventually. “it’s late.”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

“you still need to rest. you just got out of the hospital.”

“i’ve been resting for two weeks. i’m tired of resting.” he shifts in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “i’m staying.”

“satoru—”

“you asked me to wait. i waited. now you’re done working. so i’m staying.”

you look at him. he looks back.

you realize, suddenly, that you don’t want him to go either.

“fine,” you say. “but if ijichi comes looking for me, you’re dealing with him.”

his grin returns, mischievous.

“oh, i’ll deal with him. he and i have a relationship now.”

“please don’t traumatize him further.”

“no promises.”

you’re about to respond— something about how ijichi has suffered enough, how he’s going to file another complaint, how you’re going to have to sit through another HR meeting about gojo satoru’s specific brand of chaos— when you realize he’s moved closer.

when did he move closer?

the small couch in the corner of the control room was supposed to be a compromise. somewhere for him to sit that wasn’t hovering over your shoulder while you worked. somewhere you could both be comfortable without breaking too many rules.

but somewhere in the middle of talking, in the middle of laughing, in the middle of him telling you about the time he convinced a junior agent that the security system was powered by ghosts, you both drifted. gravitated, like magnets finding their true north.

now he’s close enough that you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes. close enough that you can count the faint freckles dusted across his nose— barely there, hidden most of the time, but visible now in the soft glow of the dimmed monitors. close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin, making your heart beat in a rhythm that doesn’t feel quite like your own.

you should move back.

you should create space.

you should remember that you’re his supervisor, that there are rules, that this is a building with cameras and protocols and people who will absolutely talk if they find out.

you don’t move.

his eyes drop to your lips just for a second, but you catch it, feel it like a physical touch, like something warm unfurling in your chest.

“you know,” he says, and his voice is different now, lower, rougher at the edges. “i’ve been thinking about this.”

“thinking about what?”

he shifts closer. his thigh presses against yours, the fabric of his sweater brushes your arm. you can smell him now— something clean and warm, like cedar and winter air.

“this,” he says simply. “sitting with you. talking to you. being able to—” his hand comes up, slow, giving you time to pull away. you don’t. his fingers brush against your cheek, featherlight, tucking another strand of hair behind your ear. “—touch you. just to make sure you’re real.”

“satoru.”

“i know. i know.” his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone. “protocol. rules. distance. i know all of it. i’ve been telling myself all of it for three years.”

“and now?”

his eyes meet yours.

“now you’re right here. and i’m tired of pretending i don’t want—” he stops. swallows. his hand is still on your face, palm warm against your jaw, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. “—everything.”

you should say something. you should be the responsible one, the practical one, the voice of reason that’s kept you both safe for years.

but his eyes are so blue and his hand is so warm and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, and maybe— maybe for tonight— you want to let yourself believe it.

you lean in. it’s barely anything; a centimeter, a breath, but his eyes widen, and his fingers tighten on your jaw, and you see the exact moment he understands.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers. “if you’re not—if you don’t—tell me to stop and i will.”

his voice is shaking, you notice, because of you.

you reach up. your hand covers his where it rests against your face. you feel the tremor in his fingers, the careful restraint, the way he’s holding himself back because he’s waiting for you to give him permission.

“satoru.”

“yeah?”

you pull his hand away from your face. for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. something that looks like heartbreak, like he’s already preparing for the no, already practicing how to smile through it. so you turn his hand over, press your lips to his palm.

his breath leaves him in a rush.

“i’m not telling you to stop,” you say against his skin.

his hands cup your face like you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break. his forehead presses against yours. his breath mingles with your breath.

“yes?” he breathes.

you don’t answer with words, instead, you close the distance.

the first kiss is soft, almost tentative. as if he’s still not sure this is real, still not sure you won’t disappear if he pushes too hard. his lips are warm against yours, slightly chapped from the dry air, and he tastes like the tea he stole from your mug when you weren’t looking.

it’s gentle, it’s questioning, it’s him asking if this is okay, if you’re okay, if you’re sure.

you answer by tilting your head, by pressing closer, by sliding your fingers into his hair the way you’ve wanted to do for hours. his hair is soft. softer than you imagined. it slides through your fingers like silk, and when you tug gently, he makes a sound— a small, surprised noise that gets swallowed against your mouth.

his hands slide from your face to your neck to your shoulders, pulling you closer and anchoring himself. you break apart just long enough to breathe.

his forehead rests against yours again. his eyes are closed. his lips are parted. his chest rises and falls in time with yours.

“okay,” he whispers. “okay. that was—”

you kiss him again and this time, he’s ready.

his arms wrap around you, pulling you fully against him, and you feel the strength in his hands, the careful control, the way he’s holding you like you’re something precious and something necessary all at once. his mouth moves against yours like he’s learning you, mapping you, memorizing every curve and breath and sound you make.

you make a sound that you don’t mean to make. it just slips out, something small and surprised when his teeth graze your lower lip.

he pulls back immediately.

“too much?”

his eyes search your face. his pupils are blown wide, darkening the blue to something almost indigo. his lips are pink from kissing you. his hair is messy where your fingers ran through it.

you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“just right,” you breathe and pull him back in.

you lose track of time somewhere between his hands finding your waist and your back meeting the arm of the couch. he catches himself before he presses you down, bracing an arm beside your head, looking down at you with something like wonder.

“you’re real,” he says.

you laugh. it comes out breathless, a little unsteady.

“i’ve always been real.”

“i know.” his fingers trace your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. he can’t stop touching you, as if he’s making up for all the times he was not able to. “but now you’re—here. and i can—” he presses a kiss to your forehead. “—and i can—” a kiss to your temple. “—and i can—”

his lips find yours again.

you wrap your arms around his neck, pull him down, pull him close. feel the warmth of him, the weight of him, the way his heart is beating just as fast as yours.

“satoru.”

“mm?”

“we’re in the control room.”

“i know.”

“there are cameras.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his smile is slow, lazy, satisfied.

“you’ll delete the footage.”

you blink.

“…what.”

“the security footage.” he shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “you have access, right? you can just— delete tonight. or overwrite it. or whatever you need to do. you’re a genius, yeah?” he grins, ducking his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “problem solved.”

“that’s— satoru, that’s against protocol.”

“so is this.” his lips find your jaw. “and this.” your neck. “and this.” the spot just below your ear.

you shiver.

“you’re annoying.”

“you always say that.” his voice is warm against your skin. “and yet you’re still here.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, his hair a disaster, his lips still pink from kissing you. there’s no mischief in his expression now— just open honesty.

“i’m not trying to make this complicated,” he says quietly. “i just— i want this. i want you. and i don’t want to have to pretend that i don’t every time i walk into this building.”

your heart clenches in your chest. you tuck a longer strand of his hair behind his ear.

“we can figure out the rest later,” he continues. “the protocols, the rules, all of it. but right now—” his thumb traces your lower lip, gentle, reverent. “—right now, i just want this. if you want it too.”

you look at him.

at this impossible, ridiculous, wonderful man who broke into your control room and locked the door and told you he’s been in love with your voice for two years.

you pull him back down.

—

when you finally surface, the control room is even darker than before. the monitors have gone into full standby, the city maps dimmed to ghost outlines. outside, the building is silent— no footsteps, no voices, just the distant hum of the ventilation system and the quiet rhythm of your breathing.

you’re lying on the small couch, somehow. you don’t remember how you got here. your head is on his chest, his arm is wrapped around you, and his fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your back.

his heart is steady again under your ear.

“so,” he says after a long silence.

“so.”

“that was—” he pauses. you feel him swallow. “—so much wanting. finally. yeah.”

you smile against his sweater.

“was it worth the wait?”

his arms tighten around you.

“if it was necessary, i would have waited forever.”

you lift your head to look at him.

“you broke into my control room.”

“technically, i walked in.”

“you locked the door.”

“for privacy.”

you laugh softly. “and now you want me to delete evidence.”

he beams. “we’ll do it together. it’ll be romantic. our first crime.”

“it’s not romantic. it’s a security violation.”

“it can be two things.”

instead of smacking him in the head, you lean down and kiss him again just because you can.

he makes a surprised sound against your mouth, then melts into it, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

when you break apart, he’s staring at you like you’ve hung the moon.

“i’m going to kiss you so much,” he says. “like, so much. you have no idea.”

“is that a threat?”

“it’s a promise.”

you laugh.

he grins.

…much later— so much later that the night shift has changed over, that the first hints of dawn are bleeding into the sky, that your comm has pinged exactly seventeen times with messages you’re definitely ignoring— you’re still there.

his head is in your lap now, his eyes are closed, his hand is loosely holding yours against his chest.

“i should go,” he murmurs.

“you should.”

he doesn’t move. you don’t move.

“satoru.”

“mm.”

“you can’t sleep here.”

“watch me.”

you huff quietly. your fingers card through his hair, and he makes a soft sound of contentment, pressing into your touch like a cat finding the perfect spot of sunlight.

“ijichi is going to find us in the morning.”

“ijichi is going to find me,” he corrects. “you’ll be at your desk. diligently working. totally innocent.”

“you’re going to be asleep on my couch.”

“resting. recuperating. angel’s orders.”

you tug his hair gently. he grins without opening his eyes.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “i’m not—i’m not going back to just a voice. i can’t.”

your hand stills in his hair.

“i’m not asking you to.”

“then what are you asking?”

you think about it.

about rules and protocols against coworkers being in any kind of relationship and everything you’re supposed to be. about the distance you maintained for two years, the walls you built, the careful separation between control and agent.

and then you think about his laugh. his smile. the way he looks at you. the way he said i would have waited forever like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“…i’m asking you to give me time,” you say finally. “to figure out how this works. to figure out how we work. without—” you gesture vaguely at the control room, at the monitors, at everything, “—this falling apart around us.”

he studies your face for a long moment. then he sits up, slow, not letting go of your hand, and turns to face you fully.

“okay.”

“okay?”

“okay.” he brings your hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to your knuckles. “time. we can do time. i’ve already done it. what’s a little more?”

you smile. it feels like something breaking open and healing at the same time.

“you’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you.”

“i’m going to make it impossible.” his grin is back, bright and teasing, but his eyes are soft. “in the best way. i promise.”

you shake your head. he pulls you closer.

and when the sun finally rises over the city, painting the control room in gold and rose, you’re still there; talking. laughing. holding each other like you’ve finally found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

—

somewhere in the building, ijichi checks his watch. looks at the locked door. looks at the security feed showing nothing but an empty hallway where the control room should be. sighs the sigh of a man who has long since accepted his fate.

he sends one message to your comm:

i’m handling the morning briefing. don’t come in until you’ve had coffee. also, i’m deleting the footage from tonight. don’t ask questions.

then he turns off his phone and walks very, very slowly in the opposite direction.

some things, he has decided, are not his problem.

[ an. sorry guys i lowkey edged you didn’t i lmao. hope you liked this shit because i unfortunately didn’t]

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity. 

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.” 

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?” 

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself. 

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you. 

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination. 

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband. 

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him. 

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in. 

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest. 

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace. 

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal. 

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down. 

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. 

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality. 

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve. 

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you. 

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent. 

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him. 

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place. 

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena. 

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent. 

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side. 

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone. 

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit. 

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters. 

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence. 

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner. 

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts. 

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses. 

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—” 

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain. 

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing. 

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.” 

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—” 

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you. 

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry. 

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself.  she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward,  “take her away.”

 “y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction. 

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it. 

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly,  as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips. 

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words. 

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth. 

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters. 

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development. 

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?” 

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite. 

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat. 

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall. 

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either. 

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble. 

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?” 

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear. 

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. 

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena. 

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching. 

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince. 

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout. 

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident. 

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway. 

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it. 

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears. 

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip. 

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal. 

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought. 

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want… 

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back. 

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see. 

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it. 

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. 

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands. 

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

“Please.” “Im serious.” Your eyebrows pinched together in slight scepticism, but he refused to let you think negatively any further. “Sweetheart, if i would be lying, i wouldnt be here with you right now.” … good point. As much as Aventurine loved to tease and flirt with people for his own gain, he never let them get too close. You were an obvious exception though. “Just trust me, wont you?” Aventurine inched closer towards you in the tangled bedsheets, pressing quick yet playful kisses to your face. Slowly pulling back, he gently cupped the side of your face as he tilted his head to the side, egging you on to kiss him back. Bait, hook, line and sinker you leaned in, only for him to pull back again. That shit eating grin on his face emphasizing when you just eyed him needily. Hes lucky he has an incredible face card, no other man could pull it off as easily as he did. “Ill be right back, stay here.” “Its not like i can move much, Aven.” “... True.” You just rolled your eyes, watching him throw the duvet off of himself and stand up from the bed. Making his way towards the bathroom, he came back after a few minutes with a damp towel and a glass of water. Aventurine crowded you on his bed once again, cleaning you up with the towel, hands oh so gentle you could barely feel them. Meanwhile you silently wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes flickering over the tiny space between you and him, or how his nimble hands held the cloth. You couldnt help but remember all the times he used those same hands to play with a coin. “Cat got your tongue?” Aventurine hummed as his own eyes glanced up towards your face, obviously taking notice of how you just kept staring at him like you were in a trance. Extremely cute in his opinion.

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth to the side to be forgotten about, and instead he tipped closer towards you again. Hand coming up to tilt your own chin up to make eye contact with him. Both of you could definitely sense the building tension in the bedroom.

You were just about to say something, but it seemed like he beat you to it.

“I love you.”

Aventurine didnt waste much time and kissed you again, with a lot more passion and sincere care now. Almost like a starved man finally finding his food. And all the grudges you held before when he didnt give you much of a chance to kiss him seemed to dissipate almost immediately.

His lips pressed against yours seemed somewhat familiar, like you were meant to be doing this all along. Like two perfect puzzle pieces slotting together. You could only close your eyes and cherish this quiet moment between you two. “I love you too.” youd murmur against his lips, making him smile and pull back to admire you for a bit longer.

All the instances of when he flirted with you seemed to be paying off. He never wanted to leave. ୧‿̩͙ ˖︵︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵︵˖ ‿̩͙୨ heyyy mel again im so so glad you guys have loved my writing enough to send a couple of requests, its greatly appreciated! giggling and kicking my feet rn the support has been so so motivating. THANK YOU!!!

sunday's kisses are the very definition of reverent. to him, you are something to be worshipped in the same light of a god, something to be treasured and cared for and loved.

when he's in a hurry, he'll settle for kissing your hand or your forehead, mumbling brief words of love and praise before he goes.

however, when he has the time to touch you properly, his lips trail up your wrist, lingering on your shoulder and neck, before they find your mouth. there, he takes his time, hands coming up to cradle your face as he presses closer.

"you look wonderful, today," he murmurs against your lips, "even more so than usual. i find it hard to stay away. indulge me a moment longer."

you're more than a distraction to him - you're a constant temptation. his eyes wander to you whenever they can, and, if you're gone, his thoughts stay occupied with visions of you, your laugh, your body, your face ..

he may get carried away, controlled as he is, as his kisses grow deeper and longer. if you pull away, he'll blush, feathers flickering bashfully, "forgive me," he mumbles gently, "i seem to have forgotten myself."

each time you kiss, when you part for air, he studies you carefully for your reaction, "was that acceptable?" he always asks, even though you've kissed a hundred times before.

if you compliment him too much, or teasingly touch his arm or his feathers, he may stop you with a quick peck to the lips, soft, fleeting, to distract you from the pink on his ears, "that is enough teasing." he murmurs afterward.

if you fall asleep near him, he can't resist pressing a soft kiss to your forehead or cheek as he tucks you in with a whispered "sweet dreams, beloved."

kissing aventurine is, of course, a gamble every time. some days, you might get sweet, soft aventurine who takes his time with you, other days, you'll get handsy, fervent aventurine, who tugs you with him as he stumbles towards a private room.

"slow down?" he might mock you on those .. excitable days, lips moving from yours to trail down your jaw as his hands press into your sides just enough to tickle, "whyever would i do that?"

he likes to kiss you in places he shouldn't - the more inopportune, the better. hallways, doorways, right before you walk into a crowded room, he might lean in close like he's going to whisper something important, only to press a dizzying kiss to your lips instead.

if you glare at him, he'll just laugh, pulling back to straighten his jacket, "relax," he hums lightly, "consider it good luck."

if he's feeling particularly smug, he'll make you chase the kiss - getting close enough that your eyes flutter only to pull back at the last second. he likes when you huff in annoyance, "impatient, aren't we?" he'll shut up if you pull him in by the collar, melting into the kiss with a surprised, but pleased, noise.

he's the type of person to kiss you mid argument. aventurine hates losing any verbal disagreement, so the second you start to get the upper hand, he'll kiss you to shut you up. he's shameless. you might shove him away, accuse him of cheating, and he only laughs, "mm? you were saying?" he muses - he knows you've already forgotten.

but, every once in a while, you might get lucky enough to catch a glimpse of aventurine that no one else gets to see. on those tired, private nights he might press his forehead against yours, grounding himself, before brushing his lips over yours with a soft exhale.

things are quieter then, simpler. he doesn't tease then, just brushes his thumb over the inside of your wrist as he kisses you again, this time lingering as he murmurs, "don't look so surprised. i can be nice sometimes."

blade doesn't kiss you often. it's not because he doesn't want to, it's because when he does, he finds it .. difficult to stop.

most of the time, he can settle for standing near you, maybe keeping his shoulder pressed to yours as he watches you with an unreadable expression.

when he does pull you in, however, his grip is firm, urgent, like a man who has been holding back for too long.

blade does not believe in quick pecks. when he kisses you, he's committed. it always lingers. one hand firm around the back of your neck, the other heavy at your waist. he doesn't pull away until he has to breathe, and even then, he doesn't go far, just enough to look at you, dark eyes studying your face.

if you tease him, make some comment about him going soft, he might get more intense - not cruel, but rough. he takes your chin between his fingers, murmurs "careful", low enough to make chills run down your spine, and then kisses you until your teasing fades into quiet breaths.

blade's not used to real, gentle affection. whenever you touch him, he assumes there's something you want. you place a hand on his shoulder or run it up his arm, and he raises an eyebrow, "what? do you need something?" he asks. you tell him all you want is a kiss and he scoffs, "you're incorrigible." he mutters, meeting you halfway regardless.

he's not gentle with most people. but, with you, he tries. when he touches your face or your side, he does his best to be light, careful. he won't admit it, but he fears he will hurt you one day and you'll turn away from him for good.

blade is the type of guy to kiss when he's angry. he might be jealous, overwhelmed, or just stewing in his emotions when he gets a hold of you, and then, it spills over. he grabs your wrist and kisses you, hard, like he's trying to pour all of his frustration out - that is to say, it's messy. when he finally stops, he's breathing hard, but the sweltering storm inside of him has quieted. ".. sorry." he mumbles in a quiet, almost ashamed voice.

jing yuan kisses with lazy restraint, like he's entirely in control and he knows it. he's not the type to rush, even when you lean in first. he might pause before you, tilting his head with a sly smile, before finally closing the distance.

he likes to be comfortable. most of the time, he's half reclined with you against his side, one of his hands rests at your waist while the other tilts your head this way and that.

he's always smiling against your lips, especially if you're easily flustered - it amuses him.

if he doesn't have hours to spend pressed against you, he'll kiss your forehead gently, a hand smoothing down your hair, "later," he murmurs it like an oath, pulling back with a wink.

he might chase your lips if you pull away first, a disapproving huff escaping him as his eyes open, "leaving already?" he drawls, stealing one last kiss before letting you go with a sigh.

if you're excitable or try to rush him, he'd chuckle against your mouth, slowing you down with a hand on your jaw, "easy now," he murmurs quietly. jing yuan prefers to savor things - and you're no exception to that.

if you're shorter than him, he gets a smug sense of satisfaction watching you struggle to reach his lips. he might stand up straighter, just to tease you for a moment, before giving in and bending down to kiss you. he can't help it, he thinks you're absolutely adorable.

you can complain, accuse him of teasing you, and he'd just give you an innocent smile, "teasing?" he echoes, tutting like that just won't do, "and here i thought i was being generous."

his favorite thing is to hold you in his lap while he kisses you - mostly because it means he can trap you there and take his sweet time.

jing yuan tends to linger close when you two part for air. noses brushing, his long hair tickling your neck as he hovers above you, breath warm when he mumbles something teasing. he's in no hurry to move away.

boothill, on the other hand, loves quick, playful pecks. but .. they tend to turn into something more. he'll pull back after one like that was enough, before muttering something like "ah, hell," under his breath and diving back in for more.

he kisses like he's showing off. if you get flustered, you'll fuel his ego for the next week and he may never let you live it down, "a little kiss gotcha all worked up, huh? a tough thing like you?" he'd tease, pinching your cheek.

he definitely talks before kissing, and he doesn't make himself obvious. he might beckon you closer all innocent - "c'mere a sec," and, by the time you realize what he's meant, he's already pulling you in with a grin and capturing your lips.

he wants to see your pretty face properly when he kisses you, so he always pushes back your hat or brushes your hair behind your ear, admiring you with half lidded eyes.

jing yuan smiles gently against your lips - boothill, on the other hand, is full on grinning, laughing, talking, all the things that make it increasingly difficult to kiss him. if you scold him for it, he just tilts his head at you, "aw, what? you gettin' impatient, now?"

he likes when you get a little rough, maybe pulling him down by the collar, "demanding." he'd quip against your mouth, all warm breath and crooked smiles.

he does that cliche guy thing where he corners you before he kisses you, pressing one hand against the wall by your head to box you in, "goin' somewhere?" he might ask as he grins down at you.

boothill gets exceedingly clumsy when he gets caught up in a kiss. his hat slides off his head and he doesn't notice, you two stumble into a dresser and he just laughs, you trip and fall backwards onto a bed and he's climbing on top of you like it was all part of his plan.

he has his moments, though. moments where he leans down to kiss your temple, where he lets you lean against him, where he peppers kisses across your face when you cry. moments that prove he's got some semblance of softness left in him, even if it's just for you.

“Phainon,” you try again, scrunching your face so. “Release me.”

He pecks another kiss to your cheek, his big body hovering over you to peck another one to your lips, then another. You sigh after his fourth attempt, your cheeks heating due to his ministrations. When he leans down again, you press the palms of your hand on his mouth, this ceases his attention finally,

“Phainon, Lady Aglaea summons my presence and duties beckon for me—“

“Duties can wait for a little bit longer.” Phainon’s rasps stop you short.

Between the soft layer of Kephale’s dawn, you finally break from your sleepy stupor, staring languidly at the way the golden light from the open window carves a halo around his half-naked figure, his eyes crinkle when he notices you staring up at him.

“Hey, you.” He gently takes your hand into his rougher ones, pressing a tender kiss on your pulse in greeting. His mused-up white hair lay astray and bent in different directions all over his forehead.

“Stay for a moment, here with me.” he looks at you again. “Please?”

Titans, those big blue eyes of his…

“You know I can’t.” Your eyes drag towards the open window. “It’s already Lucid hour.”

Phainon’s face fell a little. “It’s been quite awhile since I had you in my arms like this. Can’t you spare my greed even just for a mere moment?”

It has been a long time since you were like this with him. Being Okhema’s destined deliverer and a prophesied hero does not spare him any free time for casual leisure, and even if he was granted with it—you wouldn’t be available, with the rising threat of the Black tide, you were busy tending to the citizens. If not, you were patrolling the Eternal City till Curtain-fall hour.

You reach out to hold his cheek, before slowly tugging him down so you can peck his forehead. You admit that you had missed Phainon just as much as he had to you. Your mattress—the smell of mint and cleanly-washed fabrics has long forgotten his scent of sunbaked and woodsy aroma that seems to accompany his very person. You’d reminisce and yearn for the familiar sheets to smell just like the sun, so you can at least pitifully imagine Phainon’s presence beside you whenever he would embark on another mission outside of Okhema.

When you pull away you playfully poke his cheek. “You’re pouting.”

His face does not lift at all. “Do you truly insist on leaving?”

You pondered and while you did, Phainon traced his hand up your wrist to your palms, interlacing both your fingers together. His rough-hewn palms feel so warm against your own, comforting almost, like a blanket.

“I suppose I can be late…” Phainon’s wide blue eyes perk up. “But, if I get an earful from my superiors, I trust that Okhema’s deliverer will come to my aid?”

Phainon laughs, a honey-like and sweet kind. “You needn’t ask a second time, however I'd appreciate it if you reward me with a kiss on the lips, perhaps?”

You sigh heavy, though it sounded more like a playful huff of air. “You greedy man.” despite your outward mutter, you wasted no time to curl your fingers behind his neck and pull him into your embrace, slotting your lips with his like a perfect puzzle piece and the white-haired hero hums a pleasant sound, one hand cradling your torso and the other crawling to your caress the bareness of your thighs.

This is certainly gonna be a very long day for the two of you, wrapped around in each other’s embraces like this. But for once you simply enjoyed the company of his presence.

MYDEIMOS

When you realize the warmth of his slumbering chest against the bare of your cheek, your eyes flutter, his quiet breaths stirring you.

You paid no heed to your bird’s nest of a hair, instead when you lift your head, your eyes immediately hang over Mydeimos, quietly watching as his roughened face with a scrunched brow sleeps heavy, his melted peachy hair muse like a lion’s mane. You let out a quiet breath, at least for the most part, he seems to be at ease…

A brush of sound tickles your ears, and at the edge of the tent—you feel a presence approaching.

“My lor—“

You pinned your gaze with the person and lifted a finger to your lips, signaling him to hush. Hephaestion blinks, before realizing that Mydei is fast asleep. The man nods his head, finally understanding what you meant and slowly ducks under the tent, making himself comfortable in the open space beside you, and you let him.

You hear a relieved sigh beside you, “I was worried the events of yesternight would deter his slumber.” Hephaestion spares you a kind look, “I’m glad you are around to help him.”

You shake your head. “You praise me too much.” Then, you gather your legs to your chest. “It seems like you lacked sleep, Hephaestion. If you feel any pain, I could perhaps conjure up a remedy for you…”

“I’m doing alright, please do not worry about my health.” He gazes back at Mydeimos, this time his eyes fill with the subtle of blues.

“No one…” he starts, hesitates, then swallows. “No one would be sleeping at peace knowing that Perdikkas—“ though his rasp stops there, he needn’t continue further for you to understand what he meant, the surrounding air hangs heavy after his statement.

Since Perdikkas died yesterday, no one in the Kremnoan Detachment was resting properly, everyone was brimming with grief and you can still remember the warmth of his blood staining your palms, trying your very best to stop how he continued to bleed all over the ground despite your efforts to heal him like how he had taught you.

He’s shot with a poison arrow, you can only do so much at that time.

You lift a hand and cradle Mydeimos’ cheek.

“Our prince should not have to witness such a thing.” You murmur and the man beside you hums in agreement.

“But you are aware that he would face even tougher battles in the future, especially against King Eurypon.” Hephaestion says, “if that day arrives, i want you to support him like how you always have.”

You look at him over your shoulder, “what about you?”

And he simply smiles, but you understand him even with just a single glance. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it till the end of this journey, especially with Perdikkas gone and his illness seems to be catching up with him…

“Hephaestion…” at your reluctant tone, he reaches out to pat your head, it was to reassure you but you feel nothing but the crushing weight of sadness in your chest.

“I’ll still be here. Anyways for now, I will tend to other matters.” He proceeds to stand. “Are you gonna remain here?”

You spare Mydeimos a look, your gaze softening like crushed herbs on mortar and pestle. No one, not even Hephaestion knew what had happened yesterday when you had reluctantly announced Perdikkas to be dead, his chest no longer moving. At that moment, Mydeimos, the exiled prince had his back pinned straight and a crown of halo settling behind the pinks of his hair shading the campfire.

He was immediate with his commands, he had told Leonnius to tell the others of what had transpired, leaving some of the aftermath to Hephaestion as he softly touched your shoulders and told you to leave Perdikkas’ corpse to Ptolemy and Peucesta. Your hands had a slight tremor when they hoisted his body from your arms and Mydeimos had slotted in the space beside you, his rough-hewn palms gathered into yours as he brought it to his lips and kissed each bloodied fingers so tenderly.

“I…Perdikkas, he…”

“Shh.” Mydeimos hushes you, softly cradling the back of your head and lets you lean on his shoulder. He’d consoled you as you softly weeped, and sure enough the entire night bleeds over and the quiet campfire has been extinguished as everyone somberly heads to their own tent.

You, however, could not sleep after feeling your friend die in your arms. Just when you were about to take a stroll, you heard the softest of weeps coming from the main tent—Mydeimos’ tent.

You would have given him the privacy, but when you hear the crumbled sobbing of Perdikkas’ name leaving his lips you cannot help the sorrow from bursting from your chest. When you reach his tent and softly call out his name, he doesn’t not hide his suffering. Nor does he pull away when you enter and immediately pull Mydeimos in your embrace like how he had a few hours ago, his tears felt hot on your shoulder and you held your own anguish.

“Shhh, hush now. Mydeimos.” You were the one reciting words to him now, and Mydei lets his hands fall on your torso until he fell asleep on your lap and you continued whispering words to him until daybreak.

Hephaestion calls out your name and you break from your revery. He looks at you with quiet concern and you simply give him the sweetest smile you can muster, “yes, i’ll remain here until he wakes.”

The man does not question you any further, but the smile he sent your way was that of relief. He bids you a short farewell and leaves you with Mydeimos where you softly caress his bangs and press a soft kiss to his forehead. I’ll remain here till my last breath if I must, so you have a shoulder to cry on, Mydeimos.

ANAXAGORAS

There’s a strong scent in the room along with the soft rustles of pen against paper. Your first instinct was to utter his name, a drunken slur and a yearning’s call.

“Anaxa?”

Despite such a whispered breath, the sound of writing ceases, and if you were more conscious, you would have realized your mistake of not calling him by his full name like how he usually preferred it to be, except what touched your ears was his deep voice, a little monotonous but gentle nonetheless.

“Did I wake you?” Anaxagoras asks and you merely stir in the sheets, his side of the mattress is still warm and smelled just like him—the soft aroma of something fruity. You settle your gaze on him, who never left the comfort of his chair and messy desk, after such a sight you cannot help but be petulant.

“…you promised me you wouldn’t meddle with your research.”

“Did I now?” He asks but his eyes remain plastered on his books and research.

“Anaxagoras.”

“Fine, fine. I heard you the first time, no need to call me again.”

He finally closes his books and turns to your direction, for a moment your anger almost concludes, for the confident and spiteful sage that everyone was used to seeing was now wearing nothing but a loose, white dress shirt and pants, his dark cape and embellishments, tight corset and gloves had forgo and a button or two from his dress shirt is open, showing the bareness of his pale chest, the one where a deep scar in the shape of a star could be seen. It's something that he rarely shows others, others but you, you remember him telling you one time.

You turn away and exhale in frustration, more to yourself than him for ogling, but Anaxa seems to take it a different way.

“Are you mad at me?”

You ponder softly. “A little, but if you truly need to finish what you need to do, then I won’t stop you.”

Then he’d sigh like he had lost a debate, finally standing from his seat, his footsteps a sharp resound. “If you word it like that, how can I focus knowing you are indeed mad at me?”

You cannot help but poke him a little. “Oh? The famous, strict professor from the Grove, worried about how I would feel?”

Anaxa gives you nothing but a deadpan, when he finally closes the distance, he reaches out and squishes both your cheeks with his hand. “Consider yourself lucky that I gave you the liberty to do as you please.”

Then, you were caught surprised when he unclasps his metal tie, letting the softest strands of sugarcane hair fall over his shoulder.

“What…what are you doing?”

Anaxagoras stands there in front of you for a moment, as if asking himself the same question. Another sigh from him, then he spins around and plops at the end of the mattress with crossed arms.

“Go on, play with it.”

You stayed there, awestruck. “With your…hair?”

The chains of his eyepatch jingle when he spares you a look over his shoulder, his pretty eyes of boysenberry and mint casting you a look. “You wish to play with it, no? Don’t think I never noticed how you constantly look at it with itching fingers, now go on before I change my mind.”

You try to hide the grin from your expression, but despite having only one functioning eye, it does not go unnoticed by the professor—you smile, and it’s the type that lingers as an aftertaste in his mind.

You smile at him with such sweetness, and for a mere moment, he wishes to covet such an expression. Your musings and reactions had always fascinated him to such a degree and now he cannot stop thinking of how your fingers feel, combing through the loose silks of his green hair.

The last time he let anyone touch his hair was when he was a young boy, at that time he was no professor nor was he a conversationalist, underneath the tree of his home city-state where he tinkered with the mechanical bird, his older sister would fashion his short hair, picking at the leaves that dare to fall on his head and comb through his soft locks.

Anaxagoras reminisced this moment briefly, he hums and unconsciously finds his hand wandering behind to touch your knees, where his fingers gently caressed the skin there as you quietly worked on his hair into complex knots.

The room hangs with a comforting silence, where you both drink in each other’s presence without the usual snarky words thrown at one another. It doesn't take long before your mood has been lifted and Anaxagoras’ hair is set into two pigtails interlaced with magenta ribbons.

He sighs quietly for the umpteenth time amidst your soft giggles.

“Feeling better?” He finally breaks the silence, but despite such a loose question, there’s a tone of endearment hidden between those words. In response, you’d press a gentle kiss at the back of his neck, sending soft shivers down his spine as you softly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, laying your head behind his neck.

“Better, sorry if I sounded demanding and pulled you away from work.” You try to peek at him but he has already turned his head over his shoulder, aware of how close both your faces are.

Looking at him like this, you could’ve sworn there was a smile…

“Well, it’s not like it’s important work.”

“Then, do you wanna lay back down with me?” You pat the empty spot of the mattress, Anaxagoras raises a brow.

“What?” You asked.

“I would ruin what you made.” He points towards his two pigtails. “Are you fine with that?”

“I can always redo them.” This made Anaxa’s face sour. But he’d comply with your wishes, again and again he does, at first it was because he wishes to see those cute expressions from you—but now, he wishes more of you than ever before. When you both lay on the bed again and you seemed to drift to sleep first, Anaxagoras raised his hand to slowly caress your cheek.

And for once in his life, he’d sleep at ease, knowing that when he awakens, you’d be there to greet him with a smile.