[aerithsthingss]

Need some caleb x reader angst, but make it zayne x reader ending💁🏻‍♀️ you get it? Pls leave some recs😩🙏🏻

[toudan-deactivated20260423]

I WANNA KNOW! WHAT IS LOVE? — CHAPTER ONE

You meet Varka.

PAIRING.⠀Varka x Reader

CONTENT.⠀female reader | modern AU, single dad Varka, fluff, super corny cliché and cheesy, love at first sight, hinted age gap, Razor and Rosaria are Varka's adopted children in this, idk what else to say it's just pure fluff no angst here | ~5,5k words

A/N.⠀hello tumblr................. I know I said I wanted to write more Dottore but this man grabbed me by the scruff and now I'm in shambles so I'm making it everyone's problem

available on AO3 | index (tumblr) | reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

If there was one thing you would always be bitter about, it was the fact that people who preached exercise were right when they said that it works.

It improves your mood!

It did. You hadn’t had a mood drop in days.

It makes you feel refreshed!

You were en forme every day. You had all the energy in the world to deal with the rowdy students at school. Anger was not felt in a very long time, not even the slightest bit of annoyance or irritation. You were in significantly high spirits lately, and what would normally bring you down instead didn’t affect you at all.

It keeps you in shape!

Walking to work was easier and less tiring. Opening the map application and seeing the distance it would take felt less daunting and more motivating. It felt rewarding to reach the very end of that distance, making you more energised and ready for tomorrow’s journey.

Exercise was never your strong suit. Aside from your unexpected agility on the monkey bars, you weren’t an athletic child by any means. Football wasn’t fun, basketball was boring, volleyball as exhausting and swimming was too tiring. You preferred to stay still, studying and doing homework, playing a game for hours or having a sugary monstrosity for lunch. You still did. Even as an adult, the only exercise you really did was walking from place to place and stretching before bed. You were a busy person, you didn’t like being sweaty, and you didn’t like being fatigued.

Excuses, excuses.

Going for daily walks at the park had been on your mind for a while now, but it was only with your therapist’s encouragement did you finally decide to do it. You wanted to get better, after all, even if it came with having to do things you wouldn’t normally do. Plus, Wolfhook enjoyed the time outdoors, so the both of you got enrichment in one go.

The weather had been nice lately. The sun wasn’t too harsh or blinding; it was just right, keeping the day clear and warm. The breeze was light and comforting, and seeing the park be occupied by people made you feel less isolated. Every now and then, joggers stopped by to greet Wolfhook. He loved the attention; you, not so much. Still, you let it occur without much protest. Socialisation did do you good, too. Years of involuntary solitude had led to you becoming a lonely person — like just another cog in the machine — but it was being seen that made you feel like your presence was worth something.

It was early. The skies were still painted in hues of orange and blue, but there were already a handful of people out on their morning run. Not being one to particularly enjoy physical exertion, you had been strolling and occasionally chasing after Wolfhook when he got his hyperactive bursts. He was tired out from his previous sprint — he had been very adamant on trying to catch a bee, which he failed to do, thankfully. He walked beside you with gentle footfalls, tongue out and tail wagging side to side. The bell on his collar rang with every step he took, creating a steady rhythm amidst the morning tranquility.

Initially, you regretted not bringing your earphones — you needed a booster before work, after all — but the longer you were here, the more you appreciated nature’s music. The leaves rustling in the wind and birds chirping in the background created a symphony over the crunches of steps against the dirt path. People passed by with friendly smiles to you and your canine friend. Some gave out compliments and wished you a good morning, lifting your spirits and your daze.

This was nice, you thought. Humans formed a community wherever they went, and they were happy to let new people be part of it. It was a stark difference to your university days when you spent the lunch break on your own. You mentally made a quick note to engage in small talk with your coworkers later today. Some people found it unpleasant, but you found that it made you feel closer to them.

Aside from the kids, your coworkers were what you looked forward to when you came into work. Lisa always had a story to tell, Jean always had food to share, and Kaeya always had a compliment to brighten your day. Venti always found you during social events to make sure you weren’t awkwardly standing by yourself. For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel so alone. The memory of them made your lips curl into a small smile. Despite how scary planning for the future had felt in your teens, you felt very lucky to have found a job that you enjoyed. Days off meant for relaxing ended up feeling dull, but you took them wholeheartedly, lest you get chided for overworking yourself.

A loud, aggressive bark immediately snapped you out of the serene state you were in. Wolfhook growled ferociously, body stiff and hackles raised, straining against the leash and collar. The man he was barking at seemed surprised at the agitation but swiftly got over it, putting his hands up in surrender and letting out a hearty laugh. It took tremendous effort to hold Wolfhook back, considering his size for a nine-month-old dog. He bared his fangs at the man, drool hanging off the sides of his mouth. Guilt and worry crept into your system as fast as water could seep into fabric.

“I’m sorry!” you squeaked out. “He doesn’t usually do this!”

He waved in playful dismissal. “It’s fine! I get it. I’m big and scary.”

“No! You look great—!” You stopped your speech abruptly, awkwardly staring at him with wide eyes for a moment. The grin on his face only served to fluster you further. Pushing the feelings down, you tried again. “I mean, you look like a great person! I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

He crouched down and offer his hand, fondly smiling at the canine as he sniffs sit cautiously. “Not gonna do anything to you, buddy. See?”

Wolfhook nudged his hand with his snout before his tail started wagging again and he broke into what looks like a huge grin. Excited, he spun around and eagerly clawed at the man, panting in joy instead of hostility. You blinked, confused at the sudden switch but let go of the death grip you had on the leash anyway, letting him do as he pleased. Now, it was like he was never feeling endangered at all.

“That’s better,” you sighed. “I’m sorry about him. I can’t really predict when he’ll bark at someone. I promise he doesn’t always do that. Maybe he just got spooked by you suddenly approaching? N-Not that it’s your fault, of course! He’s just a bit jumpy sometimes.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he chuckled. “It happens.”

Although a part of you had been intimidated by him at first glance, hearing him speak alleviated your concerns. He sounded friendly and outgoing, which was a stark contrast to what you had expected him to be like. You thought it was the scar on his jaw that made you worried. He was handsome, tall and blond, dressed in a compression shirt and shorts with leggings underneath. His hair was slightly damp from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed from his run.

Realising you were boring holes into his face, heat rose in your skin from embarrassment, and you cleared your throat to feign nonchalance.

“So… I guess he just wanted to say hello,” you stammered sheepishly. You weren’t exactly prepared for a spontaneous conversation — hell, you didn’t even know if he wanted one — but the words slipped out of you anyway, flowing like they always did when you got nervous. “I’m sorry if that scared you. He’s never like this. You are…?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’m Varka. I’m the chief at the fire station. You come here a lot?”

“I just started coming here last week,” you explained after giving him your name. “I don’t get a lot of physical activity in, so I thought I’d change that… I’m still getting used to this addition in my routine, but Wolfhook is happy about it, so I guess I am too.”

“So his name is Wolfhook,” Varka mused, patting him on the head. “Hey, buddy. Don’t worry your mom like that again, alright?”

He let out a boof. Whether it was of agreement or acknowledgement, you weren’t quite sure.

Varka was warm, familial. You slightly felt bad for judging him so preemptively. As he gave the dog belly scratches, your mind started to wander. He looked too young to be a fire chief; he seemed to be in his mid-thirties or early forties at most. Maybe you were just used to every authority figure in Teyvat being past a certain age. The mining tycoon from Liyue was middle-aged, as was the director of the Snezhnayan Bureau of Investigation. Still, the current heir of the Dawn Winery was still in his twenties and Alice, the principal of the school you taught at, wasn’t too old herself.

Things could change, you supposed.

“Do you come here regularly?” you asked hesitantly, not sure if you were overstepping, but there was a deep-seated want to continue the conversation. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Yup. Every day,” he answered. “I actually live around here with my kids.”

You hummed in response. “That’s nice. I live around here too, but… I haven’t really had the chance to speak to my neighbours.”

It wasn’t that you hadn’t had the chance. It was more so the fact that you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Talking to children was one thing — they were innocent and harmless, but talking to fellow adults, and strangers at that? You’d dare say it was as scary as getting called by the professor to speak alone after class.

He got up, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Like he just had an epiphany, his expression brightened up. “You wanna join me?”

“I don’t like running,” you blurted out. “I’d hate to slow you down.”

“We can just walk and chat. I like talking to you.”

The ease with which he said it nearly made you choke on your own spit. Wolfhook sat dutifully at your feet, head tilted to the side as he watched him curiously. You nibbled on your bottom lip timidly, shifting your weight from one foot to another. It felt like your cheeks burst into flames.

“What about your workout?” You couldn’t quite meet his gaze, opting to look at Wolfhook instead. There was something about the way he focused on you that just had you forgetting how to function. Your heart was positively racing and if you could blush, you were certain you would be bright red. “I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“Hey, I’m inviting you for a reason.”

Wolfhook let out another bark.

He huffed, pleased. “See? He thinks we should walk together.”

Just say yes, there’s nothing embarrassing stopping you!

“Okay,” you said meekly.

He shot you another grin. “Shall we?”

He made you nervous. Why did he make you nervous? It was just a conversation. There was no reason for you to be flustered, but you were. Venti was arguably much friendlier, but you didn’t feel nervous or shy around him by any means. It must be the way Varka treated you as if you were already his friend that threw you off your game. You interacted with a lot of men in your life, but something about him was different. It was genuine and magnetic. Your heart palpitations weren’t calming down at all, which just made you burn even hotter.

You could feel Wolfhook gently pawing at you for your attention, but you also just knew he was judgmentally regarding you out the corners of his eyes.

“Are you sure your spouse won’t mind us being together?” you reluctantly asked, fidgeting with the leash in your hand. You didn’t want to be put in a confrontation with anyone, especially after your life had calmed down significantly since high school. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh.” Did you strike a nerve? “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said reassuringly. “I just haven’t met the right one.”

“I hope you’ll find them soon.”

“Thanks. Do you have anyone I should be worried about?”

You blinked, puzzled for a moment. You didn’t know why he had to be worried about someone when it came to you. Shaking it off, you told him, “No. I don’t have one either.”

“Great!”

Great?

Deciding not to think too much about it, you joined him.

He talked about his kids and how he adopted them after rescuing them from a fire that made them lose everything. His daughter was a volunteer at the Favonius Cathedral and it was nearly impossible trying to get his son to eat his vegetables. He was doing his best at being a good parent and it was clear from the way he spoke that he loved them. They were the main subject of your conversation, with him adding new remarks every time he remembered something. He said they didn’t like the vacation to Nod-Krai that he took them on last year, but he himself found Hiisi Island to be one of the most beautiful places he ever visited.

He asked you a lot of questions, always making sure you were involved in the conversation. In turn, you told him about yourself. You told him about how you weren’t a native Mondstadter but rather someone from regions away. Though you didn’t have any children of your own, you brought up Wolfhook and spoke of him like he was one. Varka seemed to smile brighter when you told him you rescued him after finding him abandoned, bloodied and starving on the street. Wolfhook wasn’t hostile anymore, circling around Varka and even letting him hold the leash while you cleaned up after him.

Without realising it, you started talking more than you usually would. There was a palpable chemistry between the two of you that you were exceedingly aware of, but you decided to keep your hopes low. Maybe you were being overconfident. Maybe it was just normal friendliness, getting along well with someone and nothing more than that.

As embarrassing as it was to be developing a crush at this age — on someone you just met, no less — you liked it.

You liked him.

He was fun to talk and listen to. He seemed to have lived a very fulfilling life and had unlimited stories to tell, and he always included you. While it wasn’t your first time talking to someone so attentive, there was something about him that made you feel special. It felt like you were starring in someone’s cheesy rom-com with how your heart kept fluttering.

The little dream bubble you were in popped when his alarm rang, its pitched jingle bringing you back to the present.

“My son’s going to wake up soon. I should go.” He pocketed his phone then looked at you expectantly. “Wanna do this again tomorrow?”

“You… want me to join you?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s fun talking to you.”

“Okay,” you breathed, acting like you weren’t just about to explode from the way he said it. “I normally arrive here at six.”

“Plenty of time for me.” He shot you a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You awkwardly waved goodbye and he jogged off, leaving you standing there watching him longingly. Meanwhile, Wolfhook pawed at you and beamed, claws gently scratching against the fabric of your pants. His tail was still wagging, a result of overjoy from making a new friend. He tended to be indifferent towards most people, but he had taken a liking to Varka despite the initial hostility.

You pressed your lips together. “He is not going to be your new dad, Hook. We just met! And it’s not like that!”

He snorted and sighed loudly, eyeing you in vague annoyance.

“I am not doing this with you right now,” you hissed, gently tugging his leash. “Come on. I need to get ready for work.”

The gymnasium was teeming with people, ranging from teachers, students, and the invited guests for career day. Your students had been excited about this since last week. Not a single day was spent with a sulking child. They were in high spirits, bombarding you with all sorts of questions like whether they’d meet princesses or witches. You had arrived early to help set up the event, busying yourself with making sure each booth was properly organised.

Jean had mentioned this morning about how most of the faculty members were familiar with the guests that would be joining today. Kaeya was close to the chemist named Albedo as well as the pilot Amber and the detective Eula. Venti mentioned that he was eager to see his drinking buddy again, having not seen him in quite a while because of their busy schedules.

For someone so heavily involved in preparing the event, you were also rather out of the loop. You didn’t know who else would be arriving aside from Kaeya’s friends, but you had heard that some well-known figures from Liyue, Fontaine and Sumeru would be arriving as well. From what you knew, there would be a researcher, a judge, a doctor, a forest ranger and an architect among other jobs. Mondstadt Elementary had close ties with other elementary schools in other nations due to their founders being in the same group of friends. Thinking about the scale of the event initially filled you with dread, but seeing the kids so enthusiastic had an effect on you too.

They weren’t disobedient by any means, but it was a challenge trying to keep their focus on you. Every time they saw a faculty member walking past the classroom, they’d immediately start chatting among themselves about what that person could possibly be doing. Classes had gone by smoothly and everyone separated for their lunch break, mood lifted and ready to fulfil their cravings. You stayed in the break room with Venti and Lisa while Kaeya and Jean went out for lunch with the guests they knew. You also mentally braced yourself for the amount of socialisation you’d have to be doing — you had a busy day ahead of you, and you were prepared for it.

When it was nearing the end of lunch break, you made your move to leave the break room. Your students were already waiting outside when you opened the door, eyes glimmering and grins bright. You nearly dropped your water bottle in shock. For a split second, it was like your heart had stopped beating entirely. You let out a sigh once you calmed down and crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the door frame.

“I guess you’re all ready, then?” you said, impressed and exasperated at the same time. “Well, let’s go.”

They trailed behind you like ducklings as you led them to the gymnasium. One of them, a boy named Razor, had his hand in yours as he clutched his wolf doll next to him. He was a new student, but he had taken to you fairly quickly. He wasn’t much of a talker, being shy and still adapting to his surroundings, but he stayed close to you as much as he could. Alice had mentioned to you how he grew up in isolation, so social integration was going to be somewhat difficult for him. Out of concern and empathy, you made sure to be as available to him as possible.

There were different booths and miniature models across the gym floor. Sucrose had gone all out in designing each booth and decorating them, splashing the place with colour. A handful of parents were also in attendance, ready to take pictures of their children wearing little uniforms and doing activities related to the career they chose. You could sense your students’ eyes on your back, eagerly awaiting for your signal, and you found it so endearing that you found yourself laughing softly at their behaviour.

“Can we go now?” Bennett pleaded, bouncing on his feet in front of you. “I wanna see my uncle!”

“Alright,” you said. “You can go to whichever booth you want, but I want you all to come back to me when it’s four. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Valberry!”

“Don’t run!” you yelled over the noise as they scurried off, though it only fell on deaf ears. “Be careful!”

Razor gently tugged on your hand, catching your attention. He was looking up at you with pleading eyes, bottom lip turning up into a pout. “Nervous,” he said. “Too many people.”

You crouched down to his height and gently placed a hand on his head, offering him a warm smile. “You can stick with me. Does that sound okay?”

He nodded sombrely. “Okay.”

You weren’t sure what Razor wanted to be when he grew up. All you knew was that he loved nature — he liked bringing you leaves and flowers he found at the park. He liked meat and berries, and he liked being outdoors. He knew a lot about wolves, always carried a wolf doll with him and had a plush key chain of it on his bag.

“Do you want to go see the forest ranger?” you asked, squinting to see if the booth was occupied. “You like nature, don’t you?”

He pointed at the other direction. “Bennett and Papa are there.”

“Then let’s go see them, yeah?” You smiled at the young boy, blooming with warmth. “Maybe that will make you feel bet—whoa!”

Without waiting for you to finish, Razor pulled you with him with surprising strength, nearly making you trip over your own feet. Whatever signs of anxiety he was displaying was completely gone. He had a mission, and he wanted you to be a part of it. Before you could warn him to slow down, your gaze locked with the person manning the booth he was taking you to.

It was Varka.

Your eyes widened. He beamed as soon as he saw you, calling out your name with delight. Bennett turned and excitedly called out Miss Valberry! before taking your other hand and pulling you closer. There was a reprimand resting at the tip of your tongue, but his smile was so brought that you couldn’t find it in yourself to be irritated. Hand in hand with the boys, you awkwardly stood in front of Varka, not sure what to say.

“Papa,” Razor said. “Miss Valberry.”

“Oh, so you’re the Miss Valberry I’ve been hearing so much about.” His eyes twinkled with mirth. The grey-haired boy had already let go of your hand in favour of leaping into his father’s arms. “Razor and Bennett always talk about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you responded, timidly wrapping the cardigan tighter around your frame.

While you didn’t think Bennett nor Razor were ones to be mean, kids were brutally honest. Although you knew you hadn’t wronged them in any way, the small anxious voice in the back of your mind made you rewind through your memories and try to find it. You watched as Varka scooped Bennett up with his other arm, now carrying two infants like they were as light as a feather. You supposed it wasn’t surprising that he was so strong. His job as a firefighter required him to be at top form. Still, seeing how easy he made it look had your pulse jumping in the slightest.

“Of course. Thank you for taking care of my son,” he said warmly. “And my little trouble-making nephew.”

“He’s not a troublemaker!” you insisted, genuinely offended on Bennett’s behalf. “He is a joy to have in class!”

He laughed. “I’m kidding. I know he’s a good kid.”

You gave him a weak, playful glare. “They may be your family, Mister Varka, but don’t you dare talk about my students that way again.”

“Mister?” he parroted light-heartedly. “I thought we bonded.”

“I—” you stammered. “I’m working!”

“Relax,” he laughed out. “I just wanted to mess with you.”

You huffed. “Work, Mister Varka.”

“Razor never told me Miss Valberry was so strict.”

You scowled at him.

He raised his hands up in surrender, grinning to himself. “Alright, I’ll start.”

Just like earlier this morning, he was captivating as he spoke. The students looked up at him and eagerly raised their hands to ask questions, both on and off topic. He answered them all with equal enthusiasm, and you couldn’t help but watch fondly. You wouldn’t have thought he was working a job as dangerous as fire safety with how his demeanour was. At the same time, you thought it suited him completely.

“Who wants to hear about my favourite mission?!”

“Me!” the kids all cheered, making him let out a hearty laugh.

And so, he continued to speak. Admittedly, you weren’t really listening to what he was saying. It wasn’t anything you didn’t already know, anyway. Whether you were subtle was at the very back of your mind as you watched him interact with the kids, the way his eyes crinkled as he laughed. The smile also suited him — it just felt right.

It wasn’t like you to be so infatuated with someone so quickly. You weren’t in middle school anymore. Trying to keep yourself together, you told yourself that he would do something that would turn you off completely soon enough. You only just met. He had many chances to let you down, and just like every other person you ever found yourself enamoured by, he would do it. There was no reason for you to be thinking this much.

Before you knew it, the bell rang, signalling the end of the day. Since Varka was already there, you let Razor stay with him. While the other teachers helped tidy up inside according to the previously agreed plan, you made sure every student met their parents safely. When you were done, you returned to help. You were carrying a stack of chairs to the storage room when Jean stopped you, placing a delicate hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll take care of the rest from here,” she affirmed. “You should go. Someone’s waiting for you outside.”

Though confused since you hadn’t even called for a taxi yet, you bid her farewell with a thank you and gathered your things. Tote bag hanging on your shoulder, you were opening up the ride sharing app when Varka called out your name. You blinked and looked up at him, seeing him visibly brighten up when he met your gaze.

“You’re still here,” you commented, dumbfounded.

He chuckled, almost as if he was nervous. “I was waiting for you.”

“For me?” You blinked owlishly. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No, I just… wanted to drive you home.” He cleared his throat. “As a thank you for taking care of Razor.”

“You don’t have to! It’s not a big deal, really,” you said, waving your hands almost frantically. “I’m just doing my job and I like taking care of the kids, so…”

“Please. I insist.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Well, if that’s the case… I hope you don’t mind.”

He opened the car door for you without hesitation. You met Razor’s gaze in the rear view mirror and softly smiled at him. He was hugging his doll close to his chest, idly swinging his legs back and forth while Varka moved around to enter his side of the car.

“Did you have a nice day today, Razor?” you asked. “Did papa make it better?”

“I liked today,” he answered. “Bennett. Papa. You.”

“Me?”

“Miss Valberry is nice.” He looked serene. “Like mama.”

Before you could say you were flattered, Varka suddenly coughed, banging his fist on his chest. You glanced at him with vague worry but made yourself comfortable anyway, fastening the seat belt over your body. Feigning nonchalance, he handed you his phone, the map app’s search bar already open for you to fill. Quickly, you typed your address and handed it back to him. His brows shot up in surprise upon looking at it.

“Huh. We live in the same neighbourhood,” he pointed out thoughtfully. “Hey, I can drive you to work and home. We probably leave around the same time, don’t we?”

“I can’t possibly ask you to do that,” you replied sheepishly. “I can call for a taxi just fine.”

“Miss Valberry say yes. Papa likes you,” Razor chimed in. “Talked about you. Wants to know you.”

“Razor!”

Amused, you couldn’t help the way the corners of your lips curved upwards. “Does he now?”

“Sorry. He’s very, ah, honest.” He cleared his throat again, cheeks tinted pink. “But the offer still stands.”

“If you insist,” you said. “I’ll take you up on that offer, Varka. Thank you.”

“Great! So, Razor…” He turned back briefly. “Wanna tell me about your day?”

You watched the young boy in the mirror with endearment, attentively listening to him doing his best to speak. It was perhaps the most you ever heard from him. You supposed this was what it was like when he was fully comfortable. A part of you hoped that he would let his guard down more with you, but these things took time.

Briefly, you thought about how you’d miss him when it was time for him to leave. The kids always made your day, but Razor was special. You had an affinity for him the moment Alice had brought him to your classroom. He was hiding behind her leg, hand tightly clutching his wolf doll as she gently urged him forward. His gaze seemed to fill with wonder when he saw you, making you feel warm and your heart squeeze on itself.

You snapped yourself out of it. He was only six; if Varka was apparently back here for good, he’d be a student at Mondstadt Elementary until he was eleven. There was no use dwelling in something that was so far away, but it was hard trying to stop yourself from falling into that rabbit hole once you found it.

Varka hummed. “So how’d you become Miss Valberry?”

“I was wearing pink on Razor’s first day at school,” you responded, warmth blossoming all over your chest again. “He said I looked like a valberry, so he called me Miss Valberry. And I suppose the other kids liked it too.”

“It suits you.” His fingers silently tapped against the steering wheel in a self-soothing rhythm. It was oddly adorable. “I’m guessing you know Jean and Venti?”

“Do you?”

“We’re friends,” he said. “I met them at the cathedral. Her sister is a priestess there. Venti… well, he’s a free spirit. We drink together sometimes.”

“Venti was my first friend when I came here for the first time.” You looked out the window fondly, watching the scenery pass by and turn into the familiar proximity of home. “He makes all my worries go away.”

“He has that effect on people,” he agreed.

He continued to talk even while you were all stuck in traffic, taking your mind off the impending anxiety of not being home past the usual time. Razor had already fallen asleep by now, head lolled to the side as soft snores left his mouth. Being in crowds with strangers often wore him out. He was still in the process of becoming friends with the rest of his classmates. The only people around his age that he knew at school were Bennett and Alice’s daughter Klee, who he liked hanging out at the playground with.

The sky was starting to get dark when the car stopped at your house. Varka walked around to open the door for you, offering you his hand. Instinctively, you took it. As you adjusted the bag strap on your shoulder, you heard a quiet whine from Razor who had just woken up from his nap. His brows were furrowed and he was blearily blinking his eyes open, the sleep slowly crawling out of his system.

“I don’t want Miss Valberry to go,” Razor murmured, hands curling into fists on the small window sill. “I want her to stay.”

“Miss Valberry has to go home,” Varka explained, gentle and fatherly. “You’ll see her at school, buddy.”

Unhappy with the situation, he pouted and relented. “Okay…”

After thanking Varka and bidding goodbye, you walked towards the front door with your keys in hand. When you didn’t hear the sound of wheels against the road, you curiously turned around and there he was, standing by his car, looking hesitant but eyes full of hope.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he spoke up, smiling in a way that looked almost bashful.

You softly returned the gesture. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

“Great. I’ll… see you,” Varka repeated with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Goodnight, Miss Valberry.”

“You don’t have to call me that. You can just say my name,” you said, cheeks heating up from how intimate it felt. “We’re not at school anymore.”

He quietly uttered your name, making your pulse jump. With one last smile, you said goodnight and stepped inside. The door closed with a quiet click, shutting out the world behind you, but the butterflies in your stomach followed.

[lokissweater]

your other half ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

{megumi fushiguro x honored one f!reader}

— “ when i close my eyes, you're standing there in front of me. ” ♬.ᐟ

summary: ever since satoru took you and megumi in at the ages of five and eight, you've been attached to the hip and inseparable— more so on your part, as you stuck to him like glue and never left his side no matter how much he huffed and puffed and yet always pulled you back in, megumi playing a huge role in looking after you, gruffly tending to your scraped knees with fruit patterned bandaids, or scolding you about everything and anything under the sun, you being the next up and coming honored one as megumi is given the doomed task of training you himself by the higher ups, and having to physically restrain himself from ever thinking of you as anything but a nuisance... but he slips up, getting dangerously close to giving in to your obvious acts of affection, thinking he's no good for you and you're better off without. but when a sudden threat to you made by the zen'in clan puts the both of you under pressure, megumi juggles his feelings for you with what he should do... and what he wants to do.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, fluuuff, ANGST w/ comfort, mentions of blood and a bit of violence not tew bad tho, mentions of death, mentions of murder, mentions of alcohol and drinking, character development megumi AFFFF, childhood friends to lovers, its an au but it has jjk sprinkled in heh, battle scenes huzzah, SMUUUUTTTT, p in v sex, creampie, DOM AGRESSIVE MEGUMI BRO IM SWEATINGGGG, unprotected sex (wrap it y'all), dirty talk, reader is gojo's niece, cursing, LOWKEY brat tamer megumi just a lil, sexual themes, megumi is older than reader by three years, he's hot and mean but a sawwwftie for reader, all characters are aged up, mentions of reader having ‘pink cheeks’ is only to amplify and over-exaggerate feelings of embarrassment, shyness, and everything in between, and not to be taken literally! this is a work of fiction, and you can imagine many things for yourself :)

word count: 19.7k (I KNOWWW BUT PLEASE GIVE ME A CHANCE PLEEASEE!!--)

authors note: THE FIC IS FINALLY HEEREEE OMGGG i am SOO fucking nervous about this one and what you guys will think of it, but i poured my little heart into this one and WROOTTEEE. 45k words total and splitting it into three separate parts is something i NEVERRR WANNA DO AGAIN BAHAHA I NEED TO LEARN A LIMIT. but more than anything, i hope this story makes you guys so so happy and warm and that you end up liking it :,))) i love you with my EENTIREE being and ty again for all of your precious love!!! MWAHHH <33333

this story is split into three parts with this being the first one!! you can access here parts two and three, which will also be available at the end of this piece! :)

“you’re weak y/n.”

megumi’s never cut you slack. not even once.

“again.”

you huffed out a breath and stood, dusting off your skirt as you looked up at him with a quirk to the brow.

“you literally just taught me this technique and you expect me to pull it out of my ass right now?”

you didn’t know why he was so grumpy all of the time, or why he chose to treat you roughly— especially in the instances of lessons or training.

“you’re a gojo.” he spoke flatly. “are you not.”

but it didn’t mean you disliked him in the slightest… more as seeing him as your guiding key of sorts, and you relied on him in a lot more areas than him just being your mentor— but in everyday life. in social circumstances. in everything.

and you knew that that probably annoyed the shit out of him… but you couldn’t help it. 

megumi was written to be your shadow from the moment satoru took the both of you under his wing, and you looked for him everywhere you went.

“okay…” you pouted. “so are you.”

megumi snorted.

“m’not.” he mumbled, plopping down on a lonesome wooden chair that sat across from where you were standing, where it is every training session, a singular piece of furniture placed specifically for him to watch you fumble techniques, succeed at techniques, or if he was simply just tired and over what you were doing— your practices sometimes set in a dingy basement underneath castle grounds. 

“you know i’m not.”

“what? you are though—”

“does it look like we’re related?” megumi squinted his eyes at you. “the man’s hair is white.”

you pursed your lips and looked to the side, crossing your arms and huffing again.

“so.” you walked a little bit closer to him, defiance evident in your body language. “doesn’t mean you’re not a gojo—”

“you share his blood.” he slumped back against the chair. “i don’t.”

“yeah… but he raised us both, didn’t he?” you tilted your head, peering up at him. “made us both ice cream sundays for breakfast and french toast for dinner?”

his eyes flickered to yours with a blank and unreadable face, the two of you holding eye contact for a moment before he eventually looked away and crossed his arms, giving a singular shake of the head that read a hard ‘no.’

“he’s your uncle. not mine.”

megumi’s always kept you at a distance.

“so are you also saying you’re not my other half and i should scram? hehe?” you gave him a silly grin, one that made his line of sight slowly cross back to you.

you knew in your right mind that he was not a gojo like you were, that he was no where near being anything shared with you… and in moments were megumi denied every aspect of love and care that he received from both you and your uncle, in moments where he tried to keep you at an arms length, and you always stubbornly dodging his attempts to and agitatingly throwing your arms around him, somehow always finding ways to stay by his side like a piece of sticky taffy?

you were grateful to be tied to him still, for you knew that if it weren’t for satoru simply taking megumi in just before taking you in years later… 

you wouldn’t be tied to him at all.

and you couldn’t— wouldn’t imagine a world where megumi wasn’t yelling at you. weirdly so.

“again.”

“man!” you threw your head back and groaned, dropping your arms and letting them loosely swing at your sides. “i thought i was on break megs i thought we were having a conversation—”

“we’re taking this long because you keep blabbering.” he grumbled. “hurry up y/n.”

“can you say please—”

“now.”

“alright!” you spun around and began walking to the other side of the basement. “fuck man…”

“if you get it this time—” he called from across the echoey room, and you turned. “i’ll bring you something tomorrow. from home.”

“yeah like what.” you grumbled while lifting your arms, your fingers folding and hands quickly moving to try at a technique, all of your attempts still failing and ending up with you repeating them over and over. “how about you take me home instead of leaving me here—”

“nope.”

you were currently enrolled in jujutsu academy, a prestigious university that taught their students the academics and skills required to master all kinds of jujutsu sorcery, an institution that’s been around for god knows how long and ran by a bunch of old fart higher ups (as satoru would say) that dictated the future of the school and its students, and it was an absolute requirement that all students dorm on castle grounds for all four academic years. 

they dictated your future in particular because you were a gojo… for you showed exponential mastery in jujutsu sorcery that exceeded the level of skill the rest of your classmates took up until now to learn, when you had it down at the age of fifteen with little to no effort at all, the elders voting unanimously years ago during a hearing with them behind doors and megumi and satoru standing in the middle, that megumi would be the one to train you and bring your gifts up to proper fruition, for he was gifted in adaption and teaching.

because while jujutsu sorcery came naturally to you, megumi’s effort put him to almost the same level you were. 

your grandparents went to jujutsu academy, your parents went there, satoru went there, and megumi did as well before he graduated two years ago, now serving as an assistant professor as well as your private mentor.

“megggssss!” you whined, dropping your arms. “who’s even gonna find out i went home anyways? no one. no one cares.”

“gojo does.”

“just hide me.”

“it’s not even that bad.” megumi rolled his eyes. “i was away from home too.”

and you missed him everyday he was gone.

just like now, you looking forward to holidays and extended breaks so you could just be home again under the same roof as your uncle and megumi.

and you wondered if megumi missed you when you were gone too…

“okay…” you spoke sadly, lifting your arms again to restart the technique megumi taught you today. 

he sighed softly through his nose at your tone and stood, taking slow steps towards you while watching your form with a blank face, arms still crossed.

he stopped right as he got beside you. 

“push your elbows out more.” he tapped lightly underneath your elbow to get you to raise it. “hands closer together.”

you listened, adjusting your stance and trying again. 

“you’ll be home for a week next month.” he mumbled.

“shh megs. i’m focusing.”

the corners of megumi’s lips twitched upwards, his extended arm retracting back and crossing over his chest again with the other, taking large steps back as he watched you repeat the technique a total of six additional times before it finally came into fruition, a gust of whirling wind that damn near replicated a tornado with bright purple electric bolts twisting out from your hands, the cobblestone basement unrecognizable while you were both embedded in the effects of your sorcery.

your techniques were always way bigger and stronger than his… and he preferred it that way, so it would come in handy whenever you needed it.

though he hoped you never would.

you snapped your arms outward and the effects seized, quiet filling your surroundings the moment the wind and lights dispersed from your fingertips, your chest moving quickly.

“good.” megumi walked over to you, his footsteps crunching underneath loose gravel that no doubt crumbled due to the force of not just by todays technique, but previous ones as well. “you’re done.”

the technique megumi taught you today— one you learned and performed successfully in a day, was one that took him three months.

you dropped your hands with an exhale, exhausted from hours of doing the same exact damn thing.

“finally...” you mumbled, your tired gaze following megumi as he crossed you and sat back in the wooden chair, him leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

he nudged his head to signal you over, and you listened, happily taking little skips in his direction and stopping once you got in front of him.

“i’ll bring you red bean rice cakes.” he spoke lowly. “i’ll make gojo make them for you.”

you gasped, your eyes twinkling as you thought of your favorite dessert in the entire fucking world, a specific kind that satoru rarely made because each time he did he’d almost burn the freaking house down, but nevertheless came out oh so yummy and delightful.

“yes! thank you!” you gushed with a big smile, and megumi stared. “watch him though megs last time he actually almost set the kitchen on fire even though he’s supposed to just flip the—”

you felt a little tug at the hem of your jean skirt and you stopped, head dropping down to see megumi fiddling with it.

“you’re wearing a skirt.”

“eh?” you spoke softly, stilling once you felt one of megumi’s fingertips poke at your knees, heat rising to your cheeks immediately.

“y—yeah i am—”

“i told you not to.”

the bashfulness dropped from your system and your eyes narrowed, leaning your weight on one hip and crossing your arms.

“but i love skirts megs you know that—”

“your knees y/n…” he mumbled, sighing through his nose as his index finger lightly ran over the skin on your left knee, his eyes trained on your mini scars that you got from all the times you’ve ate shit, or carelessly ran about without any means of protection or awareness. “you keep scraping your knees.”

your heart fluttered a bit, fondness creeping around your insides.

he always did this.

“they’re just little cuts...” you softly spoke, megumi’s eyes switching up to look at you, and you sending him a sweet closed-lipped smile in response. “it’s all good i haven’t fallen recently—”

he poked at a particularly fresh one and you winced, a squeak slipping past your lips as he rolled his eyes and leaned back against the chair, digging in his pockets.

“yeah and what’s that dingus...” he muttered, pulling out a bandaid and proceeding to roll up the sleeves of his white button up, tearing the packaging open after. “stop wearing skirts.”

“no.” you spoke firmly as you watched him peel the backing and carefully stick the bandaid over the new scrape on your knee, stuffing the wrapper back in his pocket once he was done. “take me home today and i’ll consider it.”

“you’re annoying me.”

“you’re annoying me—”

megumi stood, the chair scraping against the ground as he stepped to the side and began walking toward the exit, you staring flabbergasted before you quickly scoured for your bag and ran after him, swinging it over your shoulder.

“heyy!” you pouted. “where are you going?”

“m’walking you to your dorm.” he plainly stated as you both stepped out through the doors, going down the long dark corridor that led to the main grand hall of the school, both of your shoes clicking against the marble flooring. 

oh.

“already..?” you asked disappointingly, walking a few steps behind him. “are you coming tomorrow?”

“it’s my day off.”

“are you coming the day after tomorrow?”

“dunno.”

“wha—” you gawked. “are you not a professors assistant? what do you mean ‘dunno’—”

megumi looked at you from over his shoulder before turning his head forward again.

“when they need it. i’m here every couple of days y/n.”

“yeah well i always have a crap ton of homework to do every time you are here so i don’t even get to see you.” you grumbled, rounding the corner with him and stepping onto the main foyer of the castle, the ambience quiet and dim with only a few students still out and about studying or chatting. “how do you get away with working like— below minimum wage hours? you’re gonna get sacked you know…”

megumi snorted.

“and you’re gonna annoy me again if you’re wearing a skirt next time i’m here.”

“bite me.”

he quickly turned his head to the side and pursed his lips, stifling a laugh as you both walked up the grand rounding staircase that never seemed to fucking end, and one you never got used to either no matter how many times the two of you have trotted up and down these steps.

megumi’s well aware that you’re too stubborn for your own good to listen to him,  knowing that the next time he sees you, you will be wearing a skirt with another new cut on your knee that he’ll need to bring a bandaid for.

“you need to work on your clinginess.”

your jaw ran slack, stopping dead in your tracks on the staircase.

“hah?! what the hell do you even mean?!—”

but megumi didn’t even bother to turn around, you hurriedly hopping up the stairs again to catch up with him, finally arriving to your floor and going down the familiar pathway to your dormitory, several students recognizing their professor’s assistant and greeting megumi as they passed by.

“m’not clingy…” you muttered, looking off to the side as you rounded another corner. “go ahead and go back home. see if i care.”

he peered at you from the corner of his eye, slightly amused.

“i’m joking.” he spoke flatly. 

“you’re not funny.”

“neither are you.”

“hey!—”

he stopped in front of your dorm and you faltered, having not even noticed that you were already there, and kicking yourself for complaining and fighting with him the entire time rather than spending it having actual conversation with him, not knowing when the next time you’d see him would be.

there’s been instances where you don’t even see him for weeks at a time… 

and it was then that you realized that maybe you were just clingy…

“stop.”

you snapped your head up just as embarrassment bubbled up in your cheeks, an evident pinky vibrant shade that only intensified the moment he plopped a heavy hand on top of your head, you flinching a bit.

“you always do this when i leave...” he mumbled, bored half lidded eyes staring straight at you. 

“…do what?” you asked softly.

“get sad.”

“oh—” you felt your cheeks warm up again, you blinking up at him. “s—sorry.”

he huffed a little breath through his nose and looked off to the side. 

“i’ll come soon.” he dropped his hand. “just wait.”

“…right.”

megumi flicked your forehead and you flinched once more.

“ow!—”

“stop.”

“what?!” you rubbed the patch of stinging skin as you peaked an eye open. “what did i—”

“you’re doing it again—”

“bite me!”

he choked out a laugh and you stopped, him covering his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning forward a bit, shoulders shaking and the corners of his eyes crinkling, the vision taking you by surprise.

how pretty…

it was rare when he laughed, and each time you were lucky enough to catch it was like ingesting ample fuel that served to get you through the rest of your damn life.

you giggled softly alongside him, leaning up against the door of your room as your eyes literally glimmered up at him, megumi settling down himself and lowering his hand, meeting your gaze with that same expression of just— nothing, but somehow it being just enough for you. 

because even though those expressions and looks of nothing were grumpy and strict… they were familiar. 

they were kind. 

in his own special way.

you gently leaned your head against the door and gave him a thin lipped smile.

“leave before i cry.”

he rolled his eyes.

“you’re fine.”

you quirked a brow and raised your index finger, wagging it in his face in warning.

“don’t forget my red bean rice cakes okay? whenever the fuck i get them…”

he watched you— the way your shoulders drooped a little more than usual, the way the crease between your brows hadn’t gone away since the end of your training session, and the way you still made no attempts at reaching for the doorknob to go inside for the night, all made his eyes soften ever so slightly and feel a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“tomorrow.”

your head snapped up from being on the door.

“hm?”

“i’ll come tomorrow.” he spoke quietly, reaching up to absentmindedly move a few strands of hair over your shoulder before retracting his arm, clearing his throat and looking away. “with the rice cakes.”

you stared at him dumbly for a few seconds, doe eyes blinking and cogs turning until your face broke out into the biggest smile he had ever fucking seen, you jumping up and down and squealing and throwing your arms around his neck, him letting out a little ‘oof’ in response.

“yayyyy!” you cheered. “thanks megs! i’m so excited! just text me what time so i can make sure i finish my stupid homework beforehand and also tell gojo i said thank you in advance for the rice cakes—”

“get off.”

a smirk slowly crossed your lips, and megumi swallowed.

“no.”

he placed his hands on your waist, and barely so… just there on the surface like he was afraid of allowing himself to fully touch you for whatever reason, and yet— knowing exactly the reason at the same god damn time, another thing he refused to acknowledge and only triggered irritation towards himself.

“off y/n.”

“make me.”

“i won’t come tomorrow.”

your hands shot out and you pushed him back, your eyes wide and pleading as you knew that whatever megumi decided he was going to say or do, was bible.

“alright i’m off! i’m off...”

you sighed, dropped your arms and reached for the doorknob, rotating it and just stepping inside before turning back around, half of your body behind the door as you leaned your head against the edge of it, peering up at him.

“bye meggy megs.” you spoke gently. “don’t forget to eat a little before bed… i know you’ve been here for a while.”

and amidst megumi’s trial and tribulations about whatever the fuck was going on in his head, and amidst all of his agitating thoughts that were everything just— you… his eyes softened, and he sent you the teensiest little smile that quickly made your cheeks buzz and blush, him giving you a singular nod.

“oh!” you perked up. “and water my plants please i forgot to tell you.”

he had been. 

since you moved into the academy two years ago he’d been watering your plants.

“okay.”

you nodded. “…okay.”

and without another word megumi turned and left, walking down the quiet dark corridor with his hands in his pockets and shoulders tall, his footsteps echoing throughout and getting farther and farther away, you watching him until he eventually turned a corner and left your sight, the familiar feeling of loneliness and missing being anywhere outside of castle grounds creeping up on you like little relentless bugs.

megumi always kept you at a distance for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge.

and as he grumpily trudged through campus with his head down and mind preoccupied with thoughts that he couldn’t fully register… his annoyance for you only grew.

because it was like a block in his brain— stubborn and angry all of the time, and clogged up with fleeting replayed memories of the way you did your hair everyday, or the way you smelled like strawberry poundcake that was exceptionally intensified during the summer time, all notions that only further solidified his reasons why megumi wanted to stay the fuck away from you.

he wanted to stay away for reasons he didn’t even want to think about, opting instead to snapping orders at you, ignoring you, or just straight up being mean, it always earning him a smack upside the head or a scolding from satoru since he was a kid, and leaving behind a pit of guilt in his chest that he mistook for aggravation.

“how was the little miss?”

megumi placed his shoes on the rack by the front door and nudged his slippers on upon arriving home, eyes bored as he tossed his keys in a fish bowl and began making his way to the kitchen, crossing satoru as he went.

“fine.” 

satoru happily bounded close behind. 

“great! and how was training today?”

“slow.”

“slow?” satoru quirked a brow. “why—”

“because she wouldn’t stop talking and complaining.” megumi mumbled, bending down and opening the cabinets underneath the sink, rummaging through until he pulled out a little green watering can— setting it under the faucet sink and turning the water on.

satoru crossed his arms. “okay… but i take it she got todays technique?”

he nodded.

“you didn’t yell at her?”

megumi’s face twitched but he nodded again, switching the faucet off and trying to ignore that familiar pit in his chest.

“did you tell her she did a good job?”

megumi looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at satoru.

“i don’t need to tell her that—”

“okay so you gave her a little hug and a kiss goodbye?—”

megumi whipped around fully, mortified by whatever the hell was coming out of satoru’s mouth as he took a kitchen towel from the counter and chucked it at his face, satoru snickering and dodging.

“what?!” satoru pouted. “i’m just asking… can’t a handsome poor old man ask?”

“no.”

“okay but did you..?—”

“no!”

he sighed heavily and slumped against the kitchen island. “oh gumi…”

“what.” he grumbled, grabbing the watering can and beginning to walk out of the kitchen.

“if you keep being mean to her and treating her the way you do, she’s gonna end up hating you.”

megumi slowed.

should he even care about that? why would he…

why did he.

“let her.” he spoke, voice monotone as he made his way down the hall and up the steps to your room.

satoru sighed again and followed after him.

“i don’t think you want that.” satoru called out. “she looks up to you megumi she loves you and you need to be nicer before she finds herself another megumi.”

he scoffed, stopping and turning slightly. “the fucks that supposed to mean—”

“you’re without a care in the world right now because that girl puts you on a pedestal and you barely have to lift a finger.” satoru scolded, icy blue eyes staring straight at him. “and if you keep pushing her, she’s gonna find someone else eventually who treats her better than you do.”

“i don’t care what she does.” megumi spat, satoru faltering. “and im done having this conversation.”

“meanie…” satoru muttered through pursed lips, looking off to the side. “fine! suffer and lose see how that feels.”

megumi turned his back to him and continued walking when a sudden grab to the ankle staggered him forward, the sound of a loud heavy thump on the ground making him snap his head around to see satoru laying flat down on the hardwood floor, eyes desperate with a quiver to his lips.

“please gumi! let the light in! you’re the only man i’m okay with my niece being with please just give her a little hug—”

“—you made me spill water—”

“— or tell her she did a good job or give her a present for a successful training sesh anything!-”

megumi shook him off his ankle and satoru whined, face dropping flat to the floor as he sniffled.

“it’s no use it’s no use—”

“can you make red bean rice cakes.” megumi mumbled. “the ones y/n likes.”

satoru stilled.

“why…” he muttered, face still down and voice muffled. “you hungry megs? there’s food in the fridge—”

“it’s not for me idiot it’s for y/n.”

satoru’s head shot up.

“you’re going to the university tomorrow?”

“yeah.”

“but it’s your day off?”

“i had to bribe y/n for her to get the technique down—”

“yiiippeeeee!” satoru flew up and stood, arms out and extended as he cheered and bounced up and down on his feet like a madman. “i absolutely can my little gremlin! i’ll get started on it now—”

gremlin?—

“— and when you see her tomorrow and give them to her you’re gonna give her a little smooch and confess—”

megumi choked on his own spit and coughed, fist hovering over his mouth and cheeks burning as he stood there wide eyed.

“gojo what the fuck are you on?”

“oop—” satoru froze, gaze slowly locking on his. “did i say that out loud—”

megumi threw a hand out, exasperated. “yes!”

“who did?”

“you!”

“no i didn’t… heh.”

“yes you fucking did—”

satoru waved him off. “nonsense! go to sleep it’s late megs i’ve got cooking to do—”

“—watch the stove—”

satoru knew deep down that megumi did care.

because although through the years he’s watched megumi yell at you, ignore you, boss you around and sometimes straight up belittle you… he loved you. and satoru hoped he wasn’t mistaken about that.

megumi scolded you constantly but patched up your knees with fruity bandaids whenever you fell, megumi insulted you for being a scaredy cat but held your hand through whatever it was that you were afraid of, megumi huffed and puffed over every request you had for him and yet he’d do it— even if it was asking for a piggy back ride when you were too tired, another cherry bomb pop ice cream when you’d already had three, or taking you to the lake by the train tracks just a block from the house to catch fireflies— all through rolling of eyes and mutterings of ‘you’re stupid.’

he always did it. 

and satoru was a testament to all of it— watching behind cracked doors or hallways or secretly following you both for your safety when you snuck out in the middle of the night to the lake… and yet met with the sight of the purest form of love each time.

megumi keeping you safe.

satoru never had to lift a finger because megumi beat him to it. all of the time.

you: goodnight megs!! :D i hope you ate!! also bring enough rice cakes tomorrow so we can share >:3

megumi stared at your text message before placing his phone on top of a drawer, him stood by the window sill where you kept all of your succulents and plants, watering each of them like he did every night before bed, the sound of trickling water from the can the only thing heard in the room besides satoru’s banging of pots and pans downstairs, him placing the watering can to the side once he was done and trudging over to your desk chair, plopping down on it.

megumi: ok.

your response was almost immediate.

you: DAYUM

you: dry as always meggy megs… <//3 

you: but i still love you HEHEHEH

he swallowed, gaze trained on your last sentence as his thumbs hovered over the screen of his phone, his brain unable to compute a response.

annoying.

his eyes lifted to the picture frames you had next to your desktop then, photos he’s looked at a million times already, and not a single one that was without him as they consisted of the two of you throughout the different stages of your lives— megumi with a blank or irritated expression in all of them, and you with the silliest fucking grin next to him— his mind having difficulty admitting that you were inexplicably pretty and doe eyed and lovely, something that was obvious… but yet blocking each and every thought that tried to slip past the slimy barriers of his brain, him rubbing at his temples as he hunched over on your desk.

you were exhausting to think about, and it was even more exhausting to know that megumi had slipped up during training… when he succumbed to feeling bad for you over him leaving and proceeding to brush your hair over your shoulder— to touch you, the feeling of its silkiness still remembered by his fingertips as he slowly flexed and retracted them where he sat.

he shouldn’t have. 

he should’ve told you to suck it up.

megumi: go to sleep.

you: omg i thought you were ignoring me

you: hi :PP

megumi: go to sleep y/n it’s late.

you: BOO YOU WHORE

you: tell me you love me and i will.

heat rose up megumi’s neck and he rolled his eyes.

megumi: you’re gross.

megumi: go to sleep.

you: brat.

you: okay fine i will. see you tomorrow gumi :) <3

you: goodnight!

megumi stood from your desk chair and snatched the watering can from your window sill, quickly making his way out of your room and slamming the door shut, feeling like he was suffocating in there over his own stupid head.

megumi: night.

even though it was a well known fact that you were extraordinarily gifted and a gojo— something that was a rarity in itself since satoru chose not to pass down his lineage, megumi was the only one who knew that you were actually the weakest fucking person he had ever had to train, and the last person who should ever be put in battle to protect anything.

and that’s what he feared the most.

you were a crybaby, whiny, and too emotionally involved to the point where any time megumi manifested a faux curse to train your combat abilities, you screamed and ran two minutes in without even performing any techniques of your own to try and fight it off, him having to be the one to drag you back or kill the curse himself just to get you to calm down and listen.

your techniques were powerful, yes, but you weren’t— mentally, emotionally, and even sometimes physically, you simply lacked adequate conviction and resilience to be someone worth putting in the front lines, to protect an entire flock of your community and be the saving grace you’d been trained since five years old to be.

but instead of being put on this path of sparkling reputation, your family name had doomed you from the moment you opened your eyes at birth, and again when your parents died by members of the zen’in clan, you cursed with the burden of expectation.

because while everyone else saw you as a golden prodigy— the higher ups, your classmates, satoru himself… megumi saw a girl.

a girl too silly for her own good.

“don’t run!” megumi yelled, his booming voice echoing across the grassy open field as he heard you scream and hiccup, scrambling to your feet just as the curse managed to fling you back.

“kill it! kill it! kill it!—”

“no! i’ve given you enough free passes—”

“—eeeekkk!—” 

you squealed and flew across the lawn again, megumi watching in utter disbelief as anytime you raised your arms to perform a technique, literal pathetic sparks would electrify through the air and fucking disappear just as soon as they came, megumi’s frustration only growing.

at this rate, if the higher ups ever decided to throw you in battle, you’d die.

and the thought only made him angrier.

“y/n!” he barked. “get up!”

“i’m trying!—”

“try harder!” he manipulated his hands and brought out another faux curse, this time in the form of his demon dogs. “get up!”

you shakily got to your feet and coughed, sweat dripping down your face as you raised your hands again to flimsily try to form a technique, your chest erratic and palms trembling.

“megumi please we’ve been at it for hours i fucking can’t!—”

“do it!”

you were completely worn out, panting and stomach aching from all of the running and dodging you’ve had to do, you having only successfully gotten rid of one curse out of the eight that he presented you with, shame gripping your throat as you moved your hands and fingers again and again, dodged every blast again and again, and ran for your life for the millionth time that night.

“stop running!” he yelled. “how many times have i told you never run!—”

“but i’m gonna die if i don’t!—”

“on your left!”

you screamed and threw yourself across the grass, tumbling down a few feet before quickly stabilizing yourself and popping your head up, seeing the curse coming at you at full speed without any means of mercy or pity.

you hated how much you had to train, feeling like the higher ups completely robbed you of your college life as you had to do this almost every night for hours at a time, the only good thing about it being that megumi was your mentor and the one you spent those exact suffering hours with, even if you embarrassed yourself in front of him each time because you just couldn’t do anything right.

and you were scared… so god damn scared and nervous that the day would come where you had to face whoever the fuck in battle, you yourself knowing that you were too much of a wuss and just plain bad at combat to fight off anyone, your mind reeling with the constant fear of death that at this point seemed like a given for you, a lump creeping up your throat everyday that you thought of your sealed fate and leaving this world faster than you could ever think of.

you were ashamed all of the time, especially in front of megumi… knowing he’d put so much time into you just for you to get thrown around like a rag doll by manifestations of nothing.

why couldn’t you do it? why couldn’t you simply be brave? like megumi?

you shot a hand out and tried a technique one final time, the curse closing in on you and lame little sparks of purple emitting from your palms just before the curse suddenly screeched out a roar and flew to the side, disappearing into a mist of black until the air finally settled into silence— your hair brushing through the breeze and the sound of crickets ringing faintly in the distance.

your eyes slowly moved to look in front of you, your gaze met with megumi standing over you with the most pissed off look you’d ever seen on his gorgeous face, his hands balled tightly into fists at his sides that flickered with turquoise blue sparks.

he had killed the curse for you. again.

“get up.”

you sniffled and stood, your knees trembling as you did so.

“m’sorry gumi—”

“why do you keep running.”

you peered up at him.

“…i’ll die if i—”

“then so be it.”

your eyes widened, lips slightly parted in shock.

huh?

“i’ve told you this already y/n.” his voice was clear and stern, a difference from his usual moody mumbling and huffing, and you didn’t like it at all. “even if you get hurt, even if you die, you never run.”

he snatched your wrist and began walking with you across the field, his grip tight.

“it’s pathetic and you’ll die for being a coward and not someone worth remembering.”

you felt a pang to your chest and you looked down, tears brimming your eyes.

“you’re weak and your family name does nothing for you—”

you knew that.

“—you’re too emotionally fucking involved you cry about everything and i don’t know what else to say to you—”

you knew that as well.

and ironically if anyone else ever told you what he was telling you in this moment, you’d laugh and blow a raspberry in their face, not giving a single shit and going about the rest of your day as if nothing ever happened, as if no one ever insulted you.

but it was megumi. and your body stung all over with zero means of relief.

you didn’t deserve relief.

the sound of your little hiccups and sniffles made megumi slow, his long legs gradually stopping as he looked at you from over his shoulder, his eyes met with the sight of you hunched over and silently crying, you quickly wiping your tears but the attempts proving futile as the waterworks kept going, your frame trembling.

his gaze automatically trailed down to your knees, and his eyes widened at the sight of them battered and bruised, more than usual and injuries he knew a simple banana designed bandaid wouldn’t be able to fix.

fuck.

megumi’s shoulders eased from their tense position, and his eyes softened, letting out a little sigh through his nose.

“i’m s—sorry—” you sobbed. “i wish i could fight and— and listen to you but i’m scared all of the time and i don’t know how to— hic! not be—”

“y/n—”

“but i promise you i’m trying and i hate that i keep disappointing you—”

“hey—”

“and i’m so sorry that i can n—never get it right-”

megumi gently tugged you in and you paused, your face colliding softly with his chest.

he wouldn’t allow himself to hug you, as painful as it was. and he wouldn’t allow himself to let you stand there crying when he was the reason for it either.

so he allowed himself the closest thing to it— your face in his chest and the side of his cheek just barely grazing the top of your head, the hold on your wrist gentler… secure as he let his senses be engulfed by the scent of you.

of strawberry pound cake.

“stop crying...” he mumbled. 

you hiccuped.

“s—orry—” you sniffled and wiped your eyes, burying your nose back into his chest after.

he almost never did this— ever. only on rare occasions, and you tried your best to hold onto the moment for as long as you possibly could, committing it to memory and trying to bask in what it felt like to be so close to him, all of it setting a reminder off in your head of how much you actually loved him, as if you already didn’t know.

you loved him so much that it was ridiculous.

the way the two of you stood there in the middle of the open field, unawarely taking in each others scent that had always been achingly familiar to the both of you— 

like summer grass. like playdates by the lake. like melting cherry bomb pop ice creams.

like childhood.

the low ricketing of cicadas and crickets in the distance filled the air around you, light winds that rustled through the grass by your feet, through the strands of your hair and megumi’s, and through your tear stained cheeks, all playing a part in surrounding the both of you with the feeling of each other, of how you grew up as one singular unit, regardless if one was more bubbly and forgiving than the other.

it was always you and him.

“you’re too emotionally involved y/n.” he murmured, and you nodded against him.

“i know.”

“and you’re weak.”

“i know.”

“and you keep running when i tell you not to.”

“yeah.”

“but—” his grip on your wrist tightened a little, megumi’s self control bursting at the seams as he swallowed. “you’re not disappointing anyone.”

“yeah i am.” you pouted, nose digging further into his button up, your voice muffled. “i’m disappointing you.”

“you’re not.” he muttered. “you’re just irritating.”

so completely and utterly irritating that he wanted to keep you locked away— distanced from the higher ups and anyone else who wanted to throw you in battle.

but he shouldn’t fucking care about that he shouldn’t let himself. it was your will and what you were supposed to do and yet— he always ended up caring every time he saw you… one way or another.

“as long as you’re not disappointed in me… i’m okay.” you murmured.

megumi’s heart twisted in his chest then, and he nuzzled his nose further into your hair, eyes closing and heart beating out of his fucking ribcage, allowing himself again to relish in who you were… even if it was just for now.

“y/n.”

you shifted in his hold.

“hm?”

“heal your knees please.”

you laughed softly and went to look up, chin propping up on his chest as he reluctantly detached his cheek from your head.

“heh… you do it.”

megumi’s eyes trailed down to you and slightly narrowed, you giggling at his reaction.

out of all types of techniques there were— defense, combat, stealth, manipulation, it was healing that megumi lacked the most, spending hours of his schooling life studying his ass off trying to get the basics down, spending day after day practicing different restoration rituals and recovery spells, purposely getting paper cuts or bruises to test out his abilities and yet failing every fucking attempt, you stepping in instead regardless of his huffing and puffing to heal his little wounds.

that was the reason why megumi was almost to your level of jujutsu sorcery, because he couldn’t freaking fix shit, and ironically in more ways than one.

“ow!”

megumi had flicked your forehead and you whined, your fingers coming up to rub the reddened irritated patch.

“heal it.”

“obviously i’m gonna heal it megs the ball is tomorrow.”

he quirked a brow.

“the ball?”

“mhm!” you cutely smiled, your own brows coming to a furrow after a few seconds. “what… it’s literally the same every year how do you not know—”

“no i know.” he mumbled. “i never went.”

your jaw dropped. “never? not even once?”

he shook his head and you scoffed.

“laaameee. you’re missing out meggy megs! i heard the junior year ball is the best hehe.”

“i’m good.”

you sent him a silly little mischievous grin then.

“…that’s why you’re coming with me tomorrow.”

his eyes snapped down in your direction, a bewildered expression on his face.

“don’t be stupid.”

“i will be stupid.” you cheesed. “pleeeaaaseee gumi ill be bored without you… and i need a date…”

he shook his head. “you’ll be bored regardless those events are a waste of time.”

you pouted and attempted to pull away, but megumi’s grip on your wrist tightened and you faltered, your eyes locking with his for a moment before you gave him a gradual sweet little smile. 

“you don’t wanna see me in a dress?”

he paused.

“why would i want to see that.”

“it’s dark blue! with little flower beady things on it.”

“so.”

“so?” you pouted, your gaze trailing down to the grass beneath your feet. “i wanted your opinion on it…”

megumi swallowed, silence emitting between the two of you until he hesitantly lifted a hand, his index finger timidly tapping underneath your chin to get you to look up, you complying with wide eyes and a pounding heart.

you realized that megumi lately had been more affectionate with you on multiple occasions, something you immediately noticed anytime he did something that he normally wouldn’t do, tonight being one of those examples where he was kinder with you, more lenient, and cutting you slack over things he absolutely fucking should not.

where before he would put you on a time out for not killing curses like he told you to, or give you the silent treatment if he found out you were skipping lectures to sleep in, now for the past couple of months he was ignoring every sin you’ve committed and instead letting them go, which only made it harder for you to keep your big mouth shut and contain the doomed feelings you had for him locked up— especially when he paired his mercy with little pats of the head, wrist holding, or slight mini caresses of affection that could easily be misinterpreted as two people who were together. in love.

you were convinced he’d bite your head off, chew a bit, and spit you out if you ever told him how you felt.

but maybe… maybe he wouldn’t.

selfishly… stupidly… you hoped megumi loved you just as much as you loved him.

“you shouldn’t care about my opinion.” he muttered. “wear the dress if you like it y/n.”

“but i do care.” you spoke softly. “if it’s your opinion… i want to know...”

he stared down at you with an expressionless face, you unable to read him in the fucking slightest.

“my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“but it does.” you pushed.

his eyes formed into slits.

“ask one of your friends—”

“but i wanna ask you!—”

“you’ll look pretty either way it doesn’t matter what you wea—”

you both stilled and megumi’s mouth snapped shut, pressing into a thin line and stare widening.

god fucking dammit.

“you think i’m pretty..?” you tilted your head cutely, a sugary smile slowly spreading across your lips as you waited for his response.

he bit down hard on his tongue, loosening his jaw once the taste of metallic filled his taste buds.

“not what i meant.”

you quirked a brow.

“gumi you said ‘you’ll look pretty either way it doesn’t ma’—”

megumi mushed a quick hand over your mouth to shut you up, a vibrant pink shade so painfully obvious on his cheeks that you couldn’t help but giggle underneath his palm, him looking away in agitation and his scruffy spiky bangs covering his eyes a little.

so cuuteee!

“forget about it.”

“nuh uh.” you muffled.

“do it.”

you licked his palm and he ripped his hand away in disgust, eyebrows pinched as he wiped your spit on his sweater.

“you said i was pretty.” 

megumi’s eyes flickered to yours before they awkwardly moved away.

“okay.”

you lit up.

“so yeah? you think i’m pretty?”

he looked down and raised his arm to scratch the back of his neck, his mouth physically unable to move and his brain failing to compute how to deal with what he just said, him struggling so much that it felt like his heart was borderline strangling him, frustration filling his every vein as his mind scrambled around trying to figure out how to get you to be quiet.

but there was literally no way. he knew you and your big mouth would never let it go.

“guuumiiii.”

“hm?” he lazily dropped his hand, gaze switching to yours before zooming away again.

you laughed.

“what megs…” you pushed gently. “it’s okay for you to think that if you want to you know...”

was it though?

megumi didn’t think so. 

megumi didn’t think he deserved to think about you like that at all.

but inevitably, agonizingly, and admittedly… you were so fucking pretty to him that it made it hard for him to think about anything else, and any moment that he wasn’t with you… he was thinking of you, and he didn’t know how to stop that no matter how hard he tried.

because god he tried. since childhood he’s tried. he could close his fucking eyes and you’d still be there.

but any idiot numskull could see that you were beautiful.

and megumi definitely could.

“megs…?”

he didn’t need to see you in a dress to know. he didn’t need anything but you standing in front of him in the way that you were now, with your stupid scraped bloody knees and your doe eyes and the way you always looked at him like he created the very air you breathed… like he was everything.

and it made him angry. angry and weak.

he didn’t deserve to be anything to you. 

“so am i pretty or wh—”

“gorgeous.”

you faltered, pupils dilating as you felt your heart physically fucking stop, him looking at you with a blank face and acting like he didn’t just drop something like that on you.

you’d never heard that word come out of his mouth, and nonetheless directed at you, you parting your lips in attempts at trying to respond but your throat feeling too tight to even try and get anything out.

“but you don’t need me to tell you that.” he spoke. “everyone knows.”

everyone…?

your cheeks grew hot, and you quickly dropped your gaze and looked away.

at this rate, if he didn’t quit it, you knew you’d probably end up blubbering that you loved him, and you didn’t know if that was a good idea or the worst possible freaking—

“you shouldn’t have issues with getting a date.” he mumbled. “so don’t waste it asking me.”

you pursed your lips.

“m’not wasting anything.” you replied. “i was asking you for a reason.”

he blinked.

“go with me.”

his fists bawled at his sides and he swallowed, his grip tightening by the second as he looked down at you, afraid that he’d gone too far and maybe— maybe encouraged you—

but his mouth moved quicker than his brain could come up with a way to stop himself.

“why.”

he knew why.

he fucking knew man.

“because i’m in love with you megs.”

and for some reason… he needed to hear you say it. selfishly. just once.

because what he also knew, was that he had to break your heart to spare you from a life of isolation and just— nothing, which was the only thing he could provide for you when you deserved absolute happiness and serenity and bliss…

all things he could kill himself wishing over, spend the rest of his life bargaining with every divine entity just to become someone worth standing by your side… and yet it still wouldn’t be enough.

he wasn’t good for you, he couldn’t damn you and give you a life of desolation he— he couldn’t do that to you.

he loved you too much to do that to you.

“you’ll get over it.”

you stilled, flabbergasted.

what the fuck?

“huh—”

“it’ll go away just give it time—”

“megumi what?” you scoffed, eyebrows furrowing. “what the hell are you saying—”

“i’m saying get over it y/n.” he bit back, and you flinched at his snappy tone. 

“i’m taking you back to your dorm let’s go.”

you physically felt your heart break over his words, anger brewing up in your chest so god damn fast that you didn’t have time to let your mind think rationally over the situation.

“no.”

he rolled his eyes and reached to take your wrist, you instantly snatching it away and taking a step back.

“i said no.”

“y/n—”

“i tell you i love you and you tell me to get over it?” you spoke in aching disbelief. “the fucks wrong with you?”

“we’re leaving—”

“i love you and you know that.”

he wavered, heart beating against his ribcage as he damned himself over the look on your face.

“stop saying that.” he responded coldly with narrowed eyes, and it only made you angrier.

“i love you.”

“what did i just say—”

“i love you—”

“stop.”

you took a step closer.

“i love you—”

“enough!”

megumi’s arms flung out and grabbed you by shoulders, yanking you closer with a tight grip as he shook you with every word that he spoke, stare wild and what looked to you like anger… was desperation from him.

“are you stupid?!” he yelled. “how could you let yourself feel that way about me?!”

you stared at him with blown out eyes as he continued to shake you.

“how could you waste your fucking time y/n?!”

“m—megs—”

“—hah?!”

he pulled you in even closer that the tip of his nose brushed against yours, his hot breath fanning across your face.

“get a god damn grip.” he seethed. “i’m only here to teach you how to not be a nuisance on the frontlines so forget about me y/n.”

he shook his head.

“i’m not your partner, i’m not your friend, i’m a fucking tool the higher ups assigned to you so you could be lucky enough to not die on the field. so forget about me!”

silence filled the air then, his heavy labored breathing loud as his chest rose and fell erratically, his heart throbbing just as much as yours was as you both looked at each other, tears slowly welling up in your eyes that read nothing but betrayal and grief that was tied directly to him.

you always knew that if it wasn’t for satoru taking the both of you in, you had no place in megumi’s life.

and yet you always thought— that after all this time… through every moment he grumpily protected you and looked after you, dried your tears and guided you, made you snacks when you were kids anytime you were hungry, walked you and picked you up from school, tied your shoes and stuck bandaids on your cuts, stayed awake with you when you were too scared to go to sleep at night alone—

that you had earned a place in his life.

but you were wrong. 

so fucking wrong.

“how could you say that..?” you choked out, voice small and wavering. “why are you hurting me?”

he blinked, shoulders slowly relaxing as he loosened his grip on your shoulders, coming down from whatever the fuck he was on that made him lash out without meaning to.

“we’ve— we’ve done everything together since we were kids—“ fat tears continued to drip down your cheeks. “and you’re telling me none of it meant anything to you? that i— hic— i’m not even a friend to you?”

your biggest fear had always been that megumi was only around because he was forced to be.

and now that you knew that it was exactly that, your soul bubbled up with the most intense type of unfamiliar agony and heartbreak you had ever felt in your life— heavy and suffocating and a feeling you never thought would be because of him.

“why couldn’t you just say you didn’t love me back?!” you yelled suddenly, your heartache quickly manifesting into bitter. “why do you always have to be such a fucking dick!”

megumi felt a pang in his chest and he swallowed the lump in his throat, already regretting so much what he had done just because he couldn’t survive his internal strife, wrongfully taking it out on you instead and rejecting you in the worst way humanly possible, when he was supposed to let you down easy, not hurt you, not lie to you.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

at least— not like this jesus not like this—

you ripped yourself away from him and he snapped out of it, him blinking down at you.

“i’m sorry i misinterpreted what we were.” you mumbled, quickly wiping away your tears and wanting to just get fucking rid of them. “you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

what?

“i’ll speak to the higher ups myself and arrange your dismissal so you don’t have to train me.” you met his eyes then and his shoulders dropped in utter guilt over the look on your face. “we can be done from here. i’ll leave you alone.”

he shook his head.

“wait—” he reached out for you and you dodged him. “stop that hold on—”

“don’t touch me.”

you walked past him, your shoulder harshly bumping against his bicep as he staggered back a bit, his mind reeling over what was going on and unable to keep up with the way it was unraveling so quickly.

this isn’t what he wanted at all he— god his intentions were never to lose you entirely.

but what in the fuck did he expect saying those kind of things to you though? that you’d stick around still kissing his ass? how could he possibly and fucking stupidly think some shit like that?

he thought that this was for the best, that this is what was good for you, and yet he pathetically couldn’t stomach the reality of it once he got what he wanted.

“m’going back to my dorm. bye—”

he quickly reached and caught your arm with his hands, pulling you back a bit.

“no.” he breathed out. “no wait—”

you looked at him from over your shoulder and glared through your tears.

“i said don’t touch me megumi get off—”

“jesus listen to me y/n!—“

“what so you can keep telling me how much of a burden i am to you?!” you sniffled. “no thanks i should’ve caught the message years ago every time you called me annoying or stupid—”

“stop—”

“—let go!” you sobbed, more tears flooding in.

“please megumi...” you hiccuped. “let go of me…”

he stared at you then, the devastated and defeated expression on your face that shouldn’t ever be there in the first place, the way your body trembled and the tears on your wet cheeks, the new awful way you were looking at him now, the fucking blood on your knees—

made megumi gently, slowly, loosen his grip until your soft arm slipped from his fingertips and returned to your side.

he’d done what he was supposed to do, but in a way that was at the cost of you.

and he realized that even if you chose to hate him for the rest of your life, he’d force himself to learn to live with it if it meant you were happier somewhere else… with someone else.

living a life with all of the things he wished he could provide for you.

so he chose not to fix it.

“…let me at least walk you to your dorm.” he spoke up, voice hoarse from all the yelling. “there’s been word of the zen’in clan lurking around… whether its true or not i need to walk you back.”

you rolled your eyes and turned away from him, trudging your way across the field and through the freezing air to get back to your dorm on your own.

“fuck off megumi.”

gojo was livid when he found out what happened.

and for a man who never let a crack of anger, or anything else that didn’t resemble bubbling sparkling and annoying joy show through his exterior, something megumi didn’t even know gojo was capable of… was a sight that was odd and daunting.

because gojo resembled him— an expression of nothing, eyes shadowed and blank as the both of them stood in the middle of the kitchen, him having just admitted to gojo of what he had done to you and only met with absolute silence from him, a million words unspoken as gojo simply stepped around him and out of the kitchen entirely, gaze casted down with an aura that seeped utter disappointment.

no yelling. no reprimanding. no scolding.

and somehow that was worse.

you had kept your word and left him alone as well.

where once megumi would be bombarded with texts from you about the most random silliest things, or calls from you begging him to come to castle grounds to hang out with you, or goodnight messages with obnoxious amounts of hearts and smiley faces… were all gone since that night— his phone log empty and the date from your last text to him only getting farther and farther away as the weeks passed, his life so quiet that it tripped him up.

sixteen years of babbling, cherry pop ice creams, cry baby tears, and cheesy smiles over the simplest things, to suddenly nothing… was awful.

it was the first time megumi was experiencing life without your noise, and even though his methods in doing so were utterly unfair to you, he felt they were necessary.

to keep you at a distance that was way beyond an arms length, a distance that allowed you to flourish without the burden of who he was, and a distance that stopped you from going back to him.

“oh no wait!— do this one instead.”

you turned from your vanity mirror and looked behind you, your closest friend sat on your bed and digging through her literal suit case sized makeup bag, eyes lighting up once she found what she was looking for and extending her arm out towards you.

“this one! it’s like a brown glossy color i think it’ll look better.”

you reached and took the little lip gloss from her hand, sending her a grateful smile before turning back around towards the mirror, unscrewing the product and leaning forward.

“what was wrong with the other one?” you asked, being conscious of the way you were moving your mouth to prevent from accidentally smudging the color. “i thought it was cute.”

“it was too pink.” she replied, hopping off of your bed to join you at your vanity, sitting next to you on the bench and watching you blend the gloss. “this one looks better with your dress.”

you had almost ditched the ball tonight entirely, given that for the last couple of weeks you had lost your will do to practically anything, but the relentless harassment from your close friend and the countless times she showed up at your dorm banging on the door and screaming through the other side about how you were giving up on an experience of a lifetime… quickly convinced you otherwise for your god damn sanity.

you sat back to examine the shade and hummed, nodding as you capped the product and handed it back to her.

“you’re right my love! thank you!—”

“has he texted you?”

your face immediately dropped and she laughed.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry—” she swung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in a little hug. “i’ve been meaning to ask but i didn’t want you to disown me…”

you huffed out a laugh and shook your head. “it’s okay babe… but no he hasn’t. and i don’t want him to.”

your close friend pursed her lips and pulled back a bit, her arm unraveling from you and lifting a hand to smooth out your styled hair.

“he um… he finally showed up to my defense lecture the other day.”

your quirked a brow and looked at her.

you’d noticed throughout the last couple of weeks that megumi had stopped showing up to the classes he was supposed to assist for, your curiosity getting the best of you more times than you’d like to admit as you physically went to the classes he often lectured to scope it out, only to be met with either nothing, or the professor themselves informing you that he hadn’t been in for the day and were unaware of when he would be back.

“he’s gonna get fired.” you muttered, turning back towards the mirror and snatching the little beady orchards clips you had for your hair from the desk, their color matching your dress. “…but how was he.”

she laughed and shrugged.

“looked the same to me! pale, skinny, mean.”

a small smile spread across your face, your arms coming down as you shifted your gaze to her once more.

“sounds like he’s okay.”

and you were glad to know that, regardless if he had hurt you or not… for a part of you would always care about megumi no matter the distance or circumstance.

“i threw a paper airplane at him during class.” she snickered, and your jaw dropped as she held a hand over her mouth to try and stop her giggling.

“really?!” you asked incredulously, laughing. “oh my god don’t do that babe you’ll get in trouble…”

she snorted. “i could care less what that man does he was awful to you. i wanted him to send me up.”

you playfully rolled your eyes and stood, walking over to your closet to look for your heels. 

“did he do anything about it?” you called from inside, rummaging through your ransacked hazardous fucking wardrobe and remembering how megumi scolded you to clean it just before your fall out with him, your heart aching a little at the thought.

you missed him yelling at you… ironically enough.

“he just grabbed it from the floor and threw it in the trash…” she grumbled. “which is a shame because i wrote him a cute little message inside the plane.”

you gasped and jumped out of the closet with your heels in hand.

“girl— what did you write?”

she crossed her arms and physically turned away.

“…nothing.”

“hey!” you giggled, slipping on your heels and bending down to strap them in place. “don’t be mean to him please…”

she gawked and stood, reaching for her purse on your bed and swinging the sling over her shoulder. “but he was mean to you! i had every right.”

you gave her a look and she rolled her eyes.

“i didn’t even say anything that bad i just called him an asshat and that he should work on his big mouth—”

“hey!—”

the ball was held at the grand hall on castle grounds, the venue completely transformed with aquatic configurations and various spells of manipulation that altered the environment, the techniques used so advanced that it entirely immersed the students into feeling like they were in a literal aquarium, tiny little fishies and eels and jellyfish that swam about throughout the walls and ceiling, the hall lit up in various shades of sea blue that illuminated the floor and the formal attire of the students— an atmosphere that was charmingly ocean-like and moody, with the live band only further adding to the feel of the event.

you noticed too that there was an ample amount of security around, more than usual as rumors just kept spreading about the zen’in clan and their plans to pay a little visit to the university, everyone confused as to why the clan wanted any business with jujutsu academy to begin with, but you had a feeling… you knew deep down… that they actually wanted business with you.

“be happy y/n!”

your head turned to your close friend, her looking at you with soft eyes and a reassuring smile as you both stepped into the hall.

“at least for tonight! don’t think about him.”

“i’m not!” you waved her off. “i’m okay!”

“you’re lying you little brat.” she scolded, pointing a manicured finger at you. “it’s obvious when you’re sad and you have been.”

your shoulders relaxed a little as you stared at her, swallowing down the forming lump in your throat as you diverted your gaze ahead, unsure how to respond without the fear of accidentally triggering a blubbering wave of waterworks, something that had been a norm for you since that night.

you tried to block it out at first for the purpose of not letting your grades slip… but your attempts pathetically proved futile when you ended up thinking about the things he said to you during lectures or while you studied— his words and the angry expression he had continuously flashing through your mind like a broken record, only fucking torture for you and adding to the resentment you felt towards him simultaneously.

he had looked so done with you… and you hated that he did because it should’ve been you who was done with him.

and you liked to think that you were.

except you continued to wish you never pushed his buttons, or never admitted that you loved him or even— met him that night and just rescheduled the training session altogether… you willing to settle for absolutely anything if it meant you got to keep him, no matter if you had to live the rest of your life biting back your fat tongue to prevent yourself from telling him how much you loved him, or how much the thought of a life without him was worse than the actual thought of demise.

but you knew that wasn’t fair, because regardless of how much you stupidly loved him, he was a dick for disregarding the years you spent together and speaking of it like it was something fleeting, when those exact years were everything and more to you.

“do you want something to drink?!” your close friend yelled over the music, breaking you from your spiraling. “i’ll get it for you!”

you quickly nodded and linked your arm with hers. 

“it’s okay i’ll just go with you!”

“kayy!—”

you both walked across the hall to get to the punch table, weaving your way through several sweaty groups and crowds before eventually reaching your destination, both of you grabbing cups and carefully pouring the beverages of your choice with a ladle.

your friend brought the punch to her lips and took a gulping drink, her faltering a bit before a slow sneaky delighted smile spread across her lips, tossing her head back then and downing the rest of it.

you giggled. “what? you like it?”

she swallowed and wiggled her eyebrows at you.

“it’s spiked.”

your eyes flew open and you quickly took a big ol gulp yourself, your pupils twinkling at the familiar taste of tequila that you hadn’t had in months since your last break back home, the university lamely depriving its students of alcohol during special events as they deemed it ‘unclassy’ and ‘unprofessional,’ though the entire student body knowing that the reason they actually did ban it was because administration got butthurt over a former drunk student vandalizing the school’s emblem, it usually cemented pretty and golden in front of the main castle gates on the ground… only for it the morning after that years ball to have a big fat red dick across the body.

today, the ghost of a fat red dick still remained on the emblem— blurry and faint— but still there.

that student was satoru.

“how did they even smuggle it in?” you asked incredulously as you continued to take sips of your drink, funnily feeling gratitude for the person who managed to do it that unknowingly contributed in the mending of your broken heart, even if it was only temporary.

your close friend shrugged, already pouring herself another cup full.

“probably a repression spell or binding charm.”

you quirked a brow.

“binding?”

“mhm!” she put the ladle down and brought the cup to her lips, drinking a bit before continuing. “like they maybe binded the alcohol with a sugar cube… that’s at least what i planned to do!”

she stuffed a hand into her chest and your eyes followed, her funnily rummaging in there for a bit and you trying not to laugh as she eventually pulled her hand back out and extended it, fingers opening to reveal two little pretty sugar cubes sitting on her palm.

your mouth hung and you both uncontrollably giggled then as you snatched one from her hand to get a closer look, your eyes glazing over the crystallized sugar and amazed at how good your close friend was at binding charms, though it something that shouldn’t have been a surprise to you since sneaky spells like that were her forte.

soon enough word got around that the punch table was spiked beyond repair, and dozens of students huddled around the massive fountain bowl throughout the night to either scope out the credibility of the rumor, or just straight up go for seconds, you being one of them as you had lost count of how many refills you got and instead focused on secretly tossing more sugar cubes in the punch for your friend, her using duplication spells to make copies of as many cubes as she possibly could, gassing up her energy until her creations went from solid squares to literal puddles of sugar water.

and by the time the ball reached its halfway mark, more than half of the student body was fucking drunk with the way everyone was rowdy and loopy and louder than previous years, you and your friend still standing near the punch table acting like silly little body guards— admiring your creation as the beverage went from its usual blood red color to a neon glittering pink, stupidly hoping and praying that faculty wouldn’t notice and you’d both end up successful and unscathed.

“y/n!”

you turned around and watched your friend literally stumble up to you, her hands flying to rest on your shoulders to stabilize herself.

“you know itsuki? from my defense class?”

you tilted your head in thought, your mind a little too buzzed to try and locate what the face of a man looked like that wasn’t one with deep blue eyes and spiky black hair.

“nope!” you cheesed, and she laughed.

“he’s the cutie patootie one! the one that brought us that batch of cookies that one time after finals?”

your face lit up in remembrance.

“oh!” you quickly nodded. “oh yeah him! what about him?”

she grinned. “he just told me that he thinks i’m cuuteee! we’ve been hanging out for a while and i think i’m gonna try and get a little kissy kiss—”

your close friend stopped then, face and body completely stilling as her gaze shifted to something behind you, her eyes widening slightly.

your brows furrowed and you made an attempt at turning around to see what she was looking at behind you, but her grip on your shoulders only tightened, her line of sight shooting back to you.

“what?” you pushed, panic rising in your chest when she didn’t answer. “what?! is it faculty?! are we in trouble?! oh my god did they see what we did to the punch—”

she finally spun you around and pointed up ahead.

it was megumi.

standing there directly across from you at the other side of the grand hall, hands at his sides and staring straight at you with the same alarmed expression you had, your heart making a big plummet down to the pit of your stomach as you stood there, the silhouettes and frames of students fleetingly passing by blocking your view of him from time to time.

it had been three entire weeks since you last saw him, and although the time frame was silly and meer… it was the longest you had ever been apart from him completely.

why was he here?

did he not tell you that the annual ball’s were a waste of time and boring? 

did he not tell you to forget him?

you felt your hands grow clammy as you slowly craned your neck around to look at your close friend, her meeting your eyes with worry written all over her face as she leaned in.

“you okay?!” she asked in your ear, trying to combat the booming noise of the band’s music. “why the fuck is he here?!”

“i— i don’t know!—” you stammered, your head shaking and you physically afraid to look in his direction again. “maybe he got put on chaperone duty?”

“then why is he coming over here—”

“NO!—”

your head snapped ahead to see megumi pushing through the crowd to get to you, awkwardly sliding his way through nooks and crannies and plainly returning greetings to surprised students who recognized him and said hello, you spinning around to face your close friend with wild afraid eyes.

“i have to go i have to go i hav—”

“what?!” she pouted. “why?! maybe he’s coming over to apologize—”

“or he’s coming over to chew me out about the punch!—”

“oh fuck!—” she quickly snatched the cup from your hand and set it down on the table behind her. “you’re right you’re right go!—”

you took a step out before your close friend grabbed your shoulders and wrung you back in again.

“wait! will you be back? are you coming back? are you leaving—”

you frantically nodded. “yes! yes i will let me just lose him really quick i love you—”

“i love you too okay go! go babe go—”

she ushered you on ahead and you sped off through the crowd, megumi’s brows furrowing as he watched you zoom in a different direction, him stopping and blinking confusedly before he backtracked and went the way he thought he saw you go.

fuck fuck fuck fuck—

you didn’t know why he was here. 

but it took literally every ounce of your god damn soul not to give in and walk toward him, especially seeing how he was actually dressed up in a little black tux when he’s never worn something like that before, the closest thing being the white button ups and lazily tied ties he wore to work on campus or your training sessions.

you pushed and slipped through crowds of people in a hurry, spluttering out sorry’s and apologetic looks as you tried to look for any type of leeway, a hiding corner or— or fucking something to get you out of sight and away from the grand hall, your heart beating out of your chest as you suddenly stumbled on the hem of your dress, you just barely balling up the bottom of it and hiking it up before you felt a pair of arms snake around your waist and pull you, your back colliding against something hard.

you didn’t need to turn around to know exactly who it was, you immediately attempting to break free by wiggling and pulling at his arms, you lamely struggling as the grip he had around your waist was solid.

“y/n—”

“let go.” you spat, squirming some more.

“stop moving.” megumi mumbled.

“no.”

“just listen for a second—”

somehow you managed to break free from his hold and you ran, you just getting out of the main entrance of the grand hall and down a nearby solo corridor before you were snatched back again, a surprised squeal slipping past your lips as you felt an arm loop underneath your knees and the other under your back, megumi scooping you up and your arms flying to wrap around his neck for stability.

“the fuck are you doing?!” you kicked and squirmed and he only kept walking, face blank. 

“i need to talk to you.”

“well i don’t want you to talk to me—”

“too bad.”

you gawked. “i’m giving you what you want so piss off—”

“i changed my mind.”

you faltered, eyes blinking at him before your pride quickly simmered up again and you turned your head the other way in defiance.

“bite me.”

megumi sharply turned his head, stifling his laughter as you watched the way his shoulders slightly shook, your own relaxing and your face softening up over the familiar melody.

your stubbornness could only take you so far…

you sighed softly through your nose and accepted defeat, your head gently dropping against his shoulder as he eventually composed himself and continued to walk.

“where are we going…” you mumbled.

“just up ahead.” he replied. “by the courtyard.”

you meekly nodded, your nostrils catching a whiff of his familiar comforting scent that was mixed with a little bit of woody cologne, butterflies fluttering in your chest then as you subconsciously, slowly, placed your nose into the crook of his neck, nuzzling it in a tiny bit as you closed your eyes.

megumi’s grip on you tightened.

“which cologne are you wearing..?” you asked softly.

he looked down at you for a moment before returning his gaze up ahead.

“dunno. i got it from gojo’s dresser.”

you giggled and nodded.

“s’nice.” your arms loosened around his neck as megumi stepped through the entrance of the courtyard. “you smell good…”

and so did you.

like strawberry poundcake.

megumi bent his knees and carefully set you down on the cobblestone paving upon arriving, the night air soothingly warm as the gentle trickling droplets of the courtyards central fountain filled your ears, the two of you standing there in front of each other with rigid postures and avoidant eyes.

you absentmindedly played with the little rich blue flower beads on your dress before megumi spoke up.

“m’sorry for what i said to you.”

your eyes flickered up to meet his expecting ones, trailing back down after a bit and shrugging.

“it’s okay.”

“but it’s not.”

his voice was weirdly firm, and you pursed your lips to try and keep your crybaby tears down.

megumi quickly realized that he couldn’t keep you at a distance that was beyond an arms length.

but that didn’t cancel out the fact that he was shamefully still selfish as fuck. 

because although he couldn’t tolerate you absent from his life in the slightest— him completely agitated and annoyed at literally nothing everyday since the day he yelled at you, skipping out on work and getting an earful from the academy’s administration about it, feeling fucking weird without you talking his ear off, or having you next to him to look after…

missing you…

he still stood by his rotten oath that tormented him every moment he spent with you.

“i didn’t mean anything i told you.” he mumbled, his eyes locked on your dress. “and i’m sorry i hurt you y/n. really.”

his gaze timidly crept up to yours before dropping back down to the cobblestone beneath his feet.

and you noticed then that he looked so— small, the walls you had poorly built around yourself effortlessly crumbling the longer you looked at him.

“you are a friend… and i don’t want you away.”

a sneaky tear slipped down your cheek, you quickly wiping it away with the back of your hand.

“but—”

your gaze moved up, seeing that his were already fixated on you— soft and struggling to continue and tell you whatever it was that he needed to tell you, him fidgeting a bit and playing with the cuffs of his blazer.

but you already had a feeling of what he was going to say.

“i uh—”

megumi swallowed, his throat dry as he physically couldn’t get the words out, him hesitant and afraid and conflicted over what he wanted to say, and what he was supposed to say.

but he had to… he had to man.

“i can’t return your feelings.”

you bit the inside of your cheek.

…of course he couldn’t.

“m’sorry… i just—” he reached up and ran a hand through his spiky hair, looking off to the side. “i can’t…”

you already knew that, since you were a kid you knew that… but a part of you remained hopeful for the infeasible for reasons you yourself couldn’t understand, knowing that you’d end up gutted and borderline ruined in the end.

megumi was unique like that. one of a kind. 

and someone like him, someone as sweet and genuine as him despite his delivery and attitude, those attributes being the very thing you treasured about him, the very thing that was so silly to you and made you laugh all of the time, was a rarity in itself.

megumi was a rarity in itself— a man that wasn’t made for you no matter how much you wanted him to be, and one that you’ve belonged to in a way that he hasn’t to you.

your little hiccup made megumi snap his head up, and his gaze softened, watching you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes with your head down, his battered heart throbbing in utter guilt and self hatred over making you cry again.

that’s all he ever seemed to fucking do.

he took a tiny step forward and gently wrapped his fingers around both of your wrists, carefully peeling your hands away from your face and looking down at you with subtle sad apologetic eyes, you sniffling and trembling as you trailed your gaze up to meet his.

“i’m really sorry sweetheart…” he mumbled, and your bottom lip stupidly wobbled even more over what he for the first time called you, you wishing on every star that it was under different circumstances than the one you were doomed and set to be in now.

through red glassy eyes and tear stained cheeks you gave him a sweet sad smile, you slowly shaking your head side to side and sniffling.

“don’t be sorry gumi.” you quietly replied. “it’s not your fault at all… you can’t help what you don’t feel.”

he set one of your hands on his chest and reached, his thumb wiping under your eye with furrowed brows and slightly down turned lips, his brain scattered and fucking everywhere, unable to decide what to think or do for you that would make you feel a little bit better, for he was dumb and incapable of shit like that to begin with.

“you’re still my other half…” you grinned weakly through your tears, subconsciously tilting your head and leaning your cheek into his palm. “even if it means something different to me than it does to you.”

megumi felt a sting through his chest and he nodded, stiffly as he continued to try and wipe away your tears with the same thumb, his other hand slightly tightening over your wrist.

“stop crying dingus...” he murmured, and you giggled softly through your hiccups.

he felt he wasn’t worth your tears at all.

“do you at least still think i’m prettyyy?” you cheesed lightheartedly, silly and bubbly as you pulled your head up and away from his palm— his hand shiny and wet from your tears as he stared at it.

“i do.”

and you lit up then, expecting him to fully deny it and delighted to hear the contrary, despite the fact that he couldn’t return your feelings— you were satisfied to know that he at least saw you in some form of a different light besides someone he just grew up with.

“kay… we should—”

he suddenly reached out and bunched your cheeks together, bringing your face in and squinting his eyes, sniffing.

“…have you been drinking?”

you stilled, wide eyed as you looked at him.

“no…?”

“you reek of alcohol y/n.”

“…no.”

“who gave you it?”

“um— the punch was spiked… and then i spiked it some more—”

megumi rolled his eyes and released your face.

“you’re an idiot y/n administration is already looking for who did it because the students are being dumb—”

your eyes twinkled as he scolded you, you having missed it immensely as your ears swallowed every jab and reprimand.

“—you turn into a knuckle head too when you drink how much of it did you have?”

“dunno! heehee—”

“oh my god—”

“found you.”

the both of you froze, wide eyed and staring at each other as you heard footsteps inching closer from behind you.

“you’re satoru gojo’s little legacy… right?”

megumi’s face hardened and he slowly lifted his gaze.

“get behind me y/n.”

“what? why—”

“do it now.”

you immediately shut up and listened, scurrying behind megumi’s tall lanky frame and peeking through the gaps of his arms to reveal a man, weird and scruffy looking as he stared at you like a piece of fucking meat. 

“ahh… pretty little thing too… they didn’t tell me that.”

your pupils blew out and you cowered a bit behind megumi, gripping the fabric of his blazer as you dug your forehead in his back in fear.

who the fuck is they?

“how did you get on castle grounds.” megumi pressed firmly, and the man snorted.

“you think a silly tiny sealing charm is enough to combat cursed technique?”

something dawned on him then and his gaze switched from megumi to you, a slow gradual and creepy smile spreading across his face.

“she has that… right..? cursed technique? multiple?”

megumi reached and moved you further behind him, him taking a step to the side and blocking you from the weird man’s line of sight entirely.

“the fuck is it your business?” megumi spat. “it has nothing to do with you—”

“ahh! but it has everything to do with me young man!” he grinned, giddy as he slapped his hands together and rubbed. “and by the way you’re pouting… it is her! ahh… i can’t believe it’s me who found her they’ll be oh so very pleased—”

“shut up.” megumi barked. “leave or i’ll kill you myself.”

you gasped quietly. “m—megs hold on—”

but the man only laughed, sickly and uncontrollable as he took another step forward, you and megumi simultaneously taking a step back.

“you’re dying tonight my boy if you don’t hand her over.” he tumbled out hastily, his dazed loopy demeanor quickly swinging to agitation and urgency. “and quick. they’re waiting. they’re waiting they’ve been waiting—”

“who’s they?” you spoke up, peeking your head out and megumi whipping his back to shoot you a glare.

the man’s eyes lit up upon seeing you again.

“the zen’in clan my dear.” he replied. “where you’re meant to be.”

your blood ran cold, the color completely draining from your face as you stared at him, the rumors and warnings and everything else that you’d heard for the past weeks coming to fruition in this very moment, it staring right back at you and giving you an eerie feeling that scared you shitless, you unknowing of why the zen’in clan wanted you so badly or what they wanted to do with you, the thought only making you uneasy.

and megumi’s suspicions were confirmed with the man’s confession, him having an inkling about it from the way he was desperate to keep his eyes on you, afraid to lose sight and impatient throughout the entire interaction, megumi irritated over some random jackass from that idiotic clan coming over to try and take you away… yet the undeniable feeling of fear still annoyingly evident in his bones, for he knew the zen’in clan was ruthless and merciless when it came to fulfilling their lineage with irrefutable power.

and you were the missing key.

“give her and i’ll spare you.” the man spat, hand extended and expectant.

megumi rolled his eyes. “so what is this then? a fucking ambush?”

“call it what you will.” he replied. “but i’m not leaving without her.”

without another thought the man lunged and reached behind to snatch you, megumi quickly wrapping an arm around your waist and taking a giant leap back, blasting defensive rays of blue towards the ambusher that knocked him off his feet and made him eat shit on the grass.

“don’t run.” megumi warned through batted breaths, and you quickly nodded.

“i know i know—”

“stick to me don’t go off anywhere—”

“i know—”

“don’t try to use your techniques either you’re not ready—”

“megumi!”

he quickly looked behind him and spun back around to grab you by the waist again, him hurling both of your bodies off to the side and avoiding the turbulent blow of the ambusher’s cursed technique, it instead hitting the stone wall behind you and creating a crumbling massive hole, the two of you slamming down on the grass and tumbling over a few feet together until you came to a sudden halt.

“give me her!” the ambusher roared from across the courtyard, his voice echoing. “you idiot boy you’re ruining everything!—”

you felt fucking useless and pathetic.

if you had just tried harder, paid attention more during megumi’s lessons and took it seriously, or actually built yourself up to be someone that could handle a situation like this, megumi wouldn’t have to be the one scrambling around and using part of his defense techniques to protect the both of you— keeping you glued to his side and carrying you everywhere so you could move with him as one and avoid getting hit, being a total fucking nuisance and not being helpful at all in the slightest when you should’ve been.

but the ambusher continued to manifest his techniques and recklessly hurl them at you both, destroying everything in his wake until the courtyard was in complete shambles— scalding flames over areas of grass or parts of destroyed walls, chunks of cobblestone and gravel scattered everywhere, and both men continuing to fight until the courtyard was nearly unrecognizable, you for the first time witnessing the full extent of megumi’s strength and inexplicably amazed at his critical thinking and expertise… yet it unfortunately still falling a few steps behind the advancement of a technique like the zen’in clan’s.

and amidst your aimless bickering with megumi in trying to come up with a plan behind a piece of broken wall, the ambusher suddenly pushed a massive purple flame that caused the both of you to tear apart unexpectedly, the two of you tumbling on opposite sides of the court yard as he quickly ushered forward.

“i need you alive—” he brought his hands together and formed various symbols directed at you, before you felt your body completely cemented to the ground and immobile, fear settling within you as you squirmed and struggled to break free from the gravitational pull of whatever it was that he put on you, megumi’s head snapping up and whipping around looking for you in a panic, scrambling to his feet once you were spotted and making a run for it to you.

“megs no!” you panicked. “go the other way!—”

“and i need you dead—”

you heard it before you saw it.

the familiar eerie buzz of a specific spell that was only taught through textbooks and scriptures, one that straight up resembled russian roulette with its low chances of success, yet nevertheless it still equally terrifying if whoever wielded the spell actually managed to get it to work.

it was death induce.

an old timey spell that’s outdated and outright useless with its supposed mechanisms, the incantation’s purpose represented in the name— to induce death, a spell that instantaneously stops all of your physiological bodily functions upon impact… but with a catch.

the spell only had a ten percent chance of success, with the other person casting the spell dying themselves upon failure, which is the sole reason why no one for the past several decades bothered to use it, and why the total required reading and studying you had to do for it added up to literally thirty fucking minutes, death induce being one of the most pathetic and time consuming spells of all time… and yet often completely overlooked.

because sure, ten percent was funnily low…

but it wasn’t zero. success of it meant death.

and as you looked across the courtyard, the infamously known yellow neon light that you’d seen a carbon copy of in your textbooks, the weird buzzing sound that signified it wasn’t any particular cursed technique or charm, the suffocating heat that radiated and burned your skin even when you were literally way over fifteen feet away, all signified to you that the ambusher was desperate enough to decide and play death induce’s game.

and yet so were you.

for the thought of megumi on the chancing verge of death petrified and nauseated you, the decision to partake in the ambusher’s idiotic ludicrousy one that was ridiculously easy when it came to megumi, regardless if it had to do with putting your life on the line and risking peril, you preferring it to be you knocking on death’s door rather than him.

but funnily, megumi preferred it to be him rather than you with the way he continued to agitate the ambusher, and bark at him anything he could think of that would direct his attention towards him and not you, rapidly pushing manifestations of his technique one after the other without a break just so the ambusher wouldn’t turn his head and see you vulnerable and struggling on the floor.

he needed to get rid of him. he needed to kill him.

because if what he was seeing in front of him in this very moment was true, if this stupid fucking moron was actually using death induce on him— dead or alive the ambusher would kidnap you and take you away, for megumi knew his level of training and technique wasn’t nearly enough for fighting anyone in the zen’in clan, and he wouldn’t be able to hold him off for much longer.

his body was in pain, throbbing and stinging all over with forming bruises on the surface of his skin, sweat dripping from his forehead and him freaking exhausted, his chest heaving as he prepared a defense charm to try and turn those chances of death induce to zero, facing the ambusher and waiting for the impact of scorching heat and blistering skin—

except it never came.

the sudden buzzing blast hurled a whirling wind of hot air that launched him away and across the courtyard, him slamming on the floor and rolling across the grass until his front knocked into a stoney wall and he stopped, a groan slipping past his lips as he rolled onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut, his bones aching and sore as he tried to push down the pain and get up.

megumi was utterly annoyed over death induce and how much of a piece of shit spell it was, but he was thankful that he at least surpassed its chances.

he cursed under his breath and slowly propped himself up on an elbow, one eye peeking open and scanning the destroyed courtyard in search for you, it hard to see through the smoke of the flames and dirt until—

he spotted you. 

on the floor and unmoving.

his face fell and he scrambled to his feet, booking it across the gravel and through the smoke until he got to you, getting on his knees and reaching out to turn you over by the shoulder, a chill shooting down his spine when you remained limp and unresponsive.

what the fuck happened? was the force that impactful that it knocked you away too? 

but— but that didn’t make any sense you were literally far away across the courtyard how the hell did you get over to him so fast—

megumi’s hands shot out and he placed his palms on your bare upper arms, finding that your skin was abnormally warm… and yet you were abnormally sickly looking.

why? why the fuck was your skin warm—

he continued to hurriedly feel across your skin, his palms flying from your arms to your shoulders, your neck and forehead until they settled over your cheeks, his breath quickening as he realized that maybe the reason why he had survived death induce… was because it didn’t hit him at all.

it hit you. 

and you fell under the ten percent.

“y/n.” he firmly called, him going a bit lightheaded when you didn’t answer.

“sweetheart—”

he readjusted his hold on your cheeks and gently shook your head, leaning over you with wide horror filled eyes and parted lips.

“h—hey—” he removed a hand from your face and placed the pads of his fingertips on the side of your neck just beneath your jaw, feeling for a pulse and changing his positioning over and over because he wasn’t fucking getting one.

he carefully set your head down and felt the other side of your neck.

nothing.

“god—”

he moved down and snatched your wrist, hurriedly feeling it around with his fingertips and borderline squeezing the life out of your skin.

nothing.

a low groan from somewhere else caught his attention and megumi snapped his head around, looking over his shoulder and eyes squinting— spotting the ambusher slowly awakening and rolling on a pile of gravel not too far from where he was.

he immediately put your wrist down and stood up, trudging over to the man and kicking him over onto his back once he got there, the ambusher letting out a wail of pain before megumi fisted his shirt and jerked him up.

“what fucking spell was that?! was it death induce?!”

the ambusher only continued to groan, his head lulling around.

“hey!” he barked. “who was it that you hit?! me or her?!”

with his eyes rolling back, the ambusher parted his cracked lips— voice hoarse and barely audible as he spoke, him seemingly dancing with the chances of life and death.

“her…”

megumi saw red then, throwing him back down and reeling his fist back to sucker punch him straight in the jaw, delivering hit after hit without mercy until his own knuckles were achingly torn up and bleeding, his heart pounding through his chest and feeling heat coming out of his ears as he knocked the ambusher out cold.

he didn’t want to believe that this son of a bitch killed you. he didn’t want to believe that you sacrificed yourself for him.

he didn’t want to believe that you were dead.

megumi let go of the man and stood again, running back over to you with his breath caught in his throat, panic ransacking through his nervous system as he reached you and got back down on his knees again, trembling hands gripping your shoulders and shaking you frantically.

“hey—” he wheezed out. “what are you doing huh? why’d you do that huh?”

there was still no response from you and he paled, hands going back to your cheeks and giving them a squeeze, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill as he tried to wake you up.

“please i’m sorry—” he begged. “i’m sorry baby i’m so sorry—”

he sniffed and quickly wiped his nose with the back of his hand, babbling and spewing out pent up feelings and thoughts that he never allowed himself to contemplate or acknowledge.

“i’m sorry i’ve been— i’ve been too mean i’ve always been too mean to you—”

megumi had always been harsh with you.

was this the price he was paying for that? was this the price he was paying for letting himself be blinded by his hardships and the inability to be emotionally and mentally stable, that he let himself just— inflict that and beat down someone as sweet as you?

“i didn’t mean any of it i didn’t mean any of it—”

why had he been so cruel to you? what did he think he was going to get out of it? what was the point when he loved you so much?

and why did you save someone as cruel as him? or forgave him without fail each and every time he yelled at you, insulted you, ignored you, made you cry?

why did you love him?

megumi’s mind went into a spiral as he shakily scooped you in his arms and lifted you up, your body limp and cold now as he ran out of the courtyard and through the halls, looking for some sort of open classroom or space that would allow him to try and bring you back, him ignoring every piercing agonizing feeling that racked through his body as he moved.

he was in a state of absolute denial— refusing to accept you were dead as he jiggled various door knobs or looked through classroom windows, hoisting you up further in his arms as he relentlessly looked, breathing ragged and cheeks flushed and his mind randomly flashing memories of the two of you when you were children, eating ice cream for dinner and collecting lady bugs by the lake.

would he ever get to do that with you again?

megumi turned a doorknob and it clicked open, his eyes widening as he kicked the door open and closed, speedily walking through the classroom and concurring it must’ve been some random botany class with the amount of potted plants and herbs splayed about, him making his way to the largest table in the room and sliding everything off of it— glass bottles and granulated cylinders shattering on the floor as he carefully laid you down, yanking his blazer open and shaking it off before tossing it to the side.

there was no such thing as bringing someone back from the dead, but megumi was delusional and lost as his eyes scoured through the classroom in search for any type of healing textbook, his gaze landing on a tiny bookshelf a few feet away and scrambling to it, pulling every single book out and hurriedly flipping through the pages in hopes of something that could point him in the right direction to fixing you, throwing and hurling any that didn’t help and cursing when he couldn’t find anything.

he ditched the bookshelf and made his way back over to you, megumi realizing then that he had to rely on his own personal knowledge and healing techniques to try and bring you back… when healing was the worst fucking skill he had, failing the class during his time at the academy and having to retake it nearly twice until he finally passed.

you were the one that excelled in it. you excelled in everything.

you were a gift.

with trembling fingers, megumi formed different symbols before placing his hands flat on your chest, a lime green light illuminating through your skin as he stood there hopeful for— for anything, but his shoulders dropping once the light flickered and went out entirely, like it always did when he tried healing techniques.

“please please—”

he tried once more.

and then he tried again and again and again— forming symbols and placing his hands over different parts of your body, him getting progressively more desperate and angry and fucked off that it wasn’t working, the way you increasingly just got colder and stiff— lifeless as you laid there limp, head lulled to the side with your lips cracked and the bags under your eyes sunken, the absence of your bubbly soul profoundly horrific to him as his bottom lip trembled and additional tears blurred his vision.

his healing techniques kept flickering away just as soon as he manifested them, and he kept trying until they were mere sparks of green and blue, him digging his fingers exasperatedly in his hair before reaching out, placing his hands on your waist and gripping at the fabric of your dress— the very same one you wanted him to see, and the very same one he didn’t have the balls to tell you that you looked absolutely gorgeous in the minute he saw you at the dance.

“baby i’m sorry man for— for everything i did everything wrong i shouldn’t have yelled at you i shouldn’t have—”

you had always been the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

“i love you! i— i do! i love you i love you—”

and it had been a privilege to grow up with you.

“come back to me please i’ll do whatever you want—”

tiny blue sparks buzzed from his palms as he continued to babble and hyperventilate, his hands grabbing and squeezing the meat of your skin through your dress, trying to get some type of feel of you that could fulfill his delusions that you were still alive, his mind continuing to torment him by playing different memories of his childhood with you.

“you’re just tired right? you just need to— you just need to lay down for a little bit baby—”

you couldn’t do this. you couldn’t shower him with love and the way you laughed, shape who he was as a human being, be the center of his world, follow him through every phase of his life and then just fucking leave.

megumi had envisioned it all with you.

you by his side, holding you, kissing you, getting the honor to call you his, you being his wife, you being the mother of his children— everything under the sun megumi had envisioned it all with you in foolish shame and resentment when it was anything but.

he was swimming in a suffocating pool of guilt that seemed to grab him by the ankles and pull him further down the longer he looked at you, dead and gone, him muttering nonsense and begging no one in particular for a second chance with you, not wanting you to be the lesson that teaches him to be a little kinder, but wanting you to be the one he comes home to and openly loves because he can.

he was stupid to think that he couldn’t. 

but it was too late, and through his mania of trying to awaken you, he thought about what gojo would do once he found out you were dead, he thought about the guilt he would carry for the rest of his life, and he thought about how he would be able to go on now that he’d heard you tell him once that you loved him.

through his blabbering and sorrow, the blue sparks under his palms increased in size and intensity, him unaware that he was manifesting part of his technique as thundering wind whirled around him, his wide wild eyes locked on you and remembering everything of you, placing his hands back over your chest and begging until—

an electrifying shock sputtered out of his palms and through your chest, the currents visibly twisting around your limbs as your upper body violently jerked up by the voltage, you laying there still for a couple of seconds before your eyelids flew open and you gasped for air, quickly sitting up and breathing erratically.

“oh my—” you placed a hand over your chest and swallowed, trying to catch your breath as your gaze switched to megumi. “what the fuck? wait i think i literally died—”

holy shit.

“i was in like— i can’t even explain i forgot oh my god it was so dark and then it wasn’t—”

…how?

“—and then now i’m here and i feel really funny like my skin tingles what did you—”

megumi let out a choked sob and you stiffened, him taking a staggering step forward and placing his hands at the edge of the table on either sides of you, his head hanging low and part of his spiky hair covering his eyes.

you blinked.

“…m—megs?”

you heard him sniffle and your heart dropped, his shoulders shaking and little hiccups slipping past his lips as he gripped the table, a mass of tears running down his cheeks as he stayed hunched over in front of you, choking and struggling to let it out as he cried.

you’d never seen him cry.

“gumi no hold on…” you put your hands on his shoulders and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “what happened? did you get hurt? what happened to that one guy—”

megumi lifted his head then and smashed his lips against yours, shutting you up completely and you freezing with blown out pupils.

what— what—

he was kissing you. like actually he was kissing you.

slowly, gently, he disconnected from your lips and leaned back a bit, him looking at you dead in the face with blood shot eyes and no expression.

your cheeks burned.

“what— wait i thought— what—”

“i lied.”

your brows furrowed.

“h—huh?”

“i lied. i love you.”

your eyes blew out of their sockets and you stilled, a hand flying over your mouth as you stared at him, your next words muffled.

“like— like as a friend or—”

“i’m in love with you.”

the same hand flew and slapped across your forehead instead in disbelief.

“yeah okay but like as a friend or—”

megumi lifted his hands and cupped your blushing cheeks, bringing you in and locking his lips with yours again— kissing you so deeply and borderline desperate with each mouthful, him swallowing you up as he took a couple steps forward through the kiss and settled himself in between your legs, your hands finding his wrists and gripping for stability as you tried to keep up with him.

oh my fucking god—

he pulled back with a tiny smack! and looked at you, both of you breathless with heaving chests.

“as in i want you for the rest of my life.”

you were at a loss for words, unsure where this was coming from after he had just told you that he couldn’t return your feelings, him looking at you all serious and breathless.

“but—“ you began softly. “but i thought you said—”

“forget what i said…“ he spoke under his breath, and he leaned in again with half lidded ditzy eyes to kiss you, completely enamored and intoxicated off of the way you tasted and the way your soft lips felt against his, his many dreams of getting to kiss you proving to no avail of what the actual thing felt like, and he didn’t understand how he went this long without it or how he could ever possibly prohibit himself from a privilege like that.

he was so fucking stupid.

he deepened the kiss and your hands shot out behind you, palms flat on the table to keep your balance as he pressed the front of his body flush against yours, kissing you so fast and raunchy that butterflies flew erratically in your tummy, this side of megumi completely new and foreign to you and one you thought you’d never get to experience.

and now megumi was a different kind of lost… one he preferred as he pulled away from the suction he had on your lips and dragged his mouth across your cheek, down to your jaw and down to your neck before he sucked and nibbled at the nape of it, his hand cradling the opposite side of it and the other kneading at your waist, drinking you up and giving you no space to breathe as you felt like little birdies were flying over your head, your heart thumping as one of your hands slid up his chest and fisted the white fabric on his shoulders, you licking your lips.

“m—megs—”

“shut up.” he mumbled against your skin, continuing his perverted literal attack on your neck as he slowly pulled the hem of your dress up and slipped a sneaky little hand under, settling on your bare waist and your face going fucking red over the feeling of his hand over the side of your panties.

megumi was a goner now that he knew what it was like to touch you in the way that he’d always wanted.

both of his hands slowly slid down and settled over your soft thighs, squeezing and kneading at them as he sucked on your neck, his lips eventually trailing further down to the plush of your tits and licking them up, your mouth hanging open and eyelids fluttering shut over how good it felt. 

you let out a little mewl of pleasure that snapped megumi from his trance, him quickly pulling his face out of your gorgeous tits and hands away from underneath your dress, his cheeks pink and mind replaying your tiny moan that went straight to his dick, a breathless huff slipping past his lips as he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand— the entirety of it coated from shamefully slobbering all over you.

“shit— m’sorry sweetheart i should’ve asked first—”

you pouted and tilted your head, disappointed doe eyes looking up at him. “why’d you stop guumiii?”

megumi’s cheeks turned a more vibrant shade of pink as he stared at your pretty face.

“because i was feeling you up without permission.” he mumbled, arm dropping back to his side and placing his hands on either sides of you at the table again. “i’m sorry.”

you grinned and shook your head.

“it’s okay megs! i—”

“no but…” he sighed softly through his nose and tiredly lulled his head to the side, the close proximity between you two intimate as he fondly looked over your features.

“i’m sorry for everything baby.”

you faltered, heat rising up your neck as your brain started short circuiting over baby.

you had no idea of what you had done that made megumi do a complete one eighty on you, the way he was acting so odd yet so endearing that you couldn’t help but melt at his sincerity… at his softness, your eyes searching his for a moment before you gave him a slow sweet smile.

“what’s everything gumi?” you asked gently, your arms lifting and wrapping around his neck, resting there lazily.

he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“for being mean to you.” he spoke lowly. “for yelling at you and treating you like shit all of the time.”

you softly shook your head against his forehead.

“you’re so silly.” you whispered. “you’ve never treated me badly megumi… besides that one night hehe.”

he sighed deeply through his nose and lifted his head.

“i’m a moron.”

you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and smiled, letting out a giddy little giggle that made him smile.

“s’okay… don’t be so harsh.” you spoke softly. “you’re kind gumi. you’ve looked after me all my life haven’t you? fed me rice cakes when you weren’t supposed to?”

you leaned forward and placed a soft cutesy peck on the tip of his cold nose.

“no one told you to do that… you have a genuine heart that’s big and full of everything good that you think you’re not.”

god how he loved you.

and for the first time in his life his mind was quiet… serene, now that he’d let himself accept the fact that maybe he could have something as good as you, even if he didn’t truly deserve it.

because he didn’t, he’s awful and selfish for keeping you.

but he didn’t give a single flying fuck anymore, choosing instead to work for the rest of his life to be someone that had the right to have you.

megumi leaned and gave you a quick kiss.

“i really love you...” he mumbled, and you perked up and beamed.

“i really love you too!” you happily readjusted the hold you had around his neck and tugged him in closer, his hands coming up to snake around your waist in response and pull you against him tightly, his nerves officially simmering down once he felt the warmth of your skin and the beating of your heart against his chest again, him actively blocking out the memory of you in the complete opposite state.

megumi still wasn’t sure how he managed to bring you from the dead, but that night he refused to split from you and take you back to your dorm, opting instead to taking you home and you bouncing off the walls over his decision, the both of you moving quickly in your dorm as he helped you pack and gather your things for the weekend (and him giving you a look once he saw your still messy closet…), him looking over his shoulders every five seconds as you speed walked through the castle halls and to his car, interlaced fingers tight and cemented as he guided you, megumi literally traumatized from the events of earlier as he didn’t let you out of his sight— a hand on your shoulder, a hand on your waist, and a hand holding some part of your dress as you both moved.

neither of you were aware of the whereabouts of the ambusher, if he was dead or alive, or if there would be more… 

but megumi didn’t want to take his chances and just go home.

PART TWO | PART THREE

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

@softbun0 @the-lazyyy-artist @cheeyah @ag-zio @luvvmae @blue-musingss @as1yasss @oporotheca @aqkermxan @cookey-lock @startwithrecords @mayacheiko @ackermanrage @pocoom @nervousshinnie @beekaboi @vickylovesochako @iloveoldermenn @uhnosav @jvpit3rr @monchxriella @slr3v @kissesazula @hqnge @featheryvee @allurearia @haokanie @wwwbriworld @aksqui @dee-writes-anime @floruilaa @skittleluverr @qwicksilver @getosangels @childesblanket @almostdelightfuldragon @spidergirlnr1 @naammiii @evelynxxo @hiithess @sophiejiro @l1v1ngzomb1e

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[dxnheng-deactivated20251203]

over, and over again.

pairing. nanami kento x fem!reader

summary. after two decades of war and wandering, kento returns home to find a kingdom fraying and a wife who has learned to live without him. you waited—faithfully, desperately—but the man who walks through the doors of your once-shared home is not the same as the one who left. a retelling of odysseus and penelope’s story, when the king comes back to ithaca.

contains. romance, angst, historical!au, greek mythology-inspired, post-war reunion, character study, hurt/comfort. historical inaccuracies, violence, blood, implied sexual content. inspired by and based off of the odyssey and epic: the musical’s ithaca saga. art by oretsuu on x word count. 11.8k a/n. this was a birthday gift for my best friend who has since left tumblr, and for good reason. happy birthday, wen! 💖 also thank you to @admiringlove for beta reading. song rec. would you fall in love with me again by jorge rivera-herrans, anna lea

There are eight-and-hundred men vying for your hand. You despise each and every one of them.

They reek of alcohol and arrogance, their voices overlapping in a constant tide of flattery and entitlement. Every smile is sharpened with expectation. Every compliment is a transaction. You are not a woman to them—you are a prize. A throne. A way to crown themselves king of a place they do not love and a people they do not serve.

They lounge in your halls like they built them. Their boots scuff the mosaic tiles your husband had laid. Their laughter fills the chambers where your son once slept. They eat more than the kitchen can replenish and boast about battles they’ve never fought. They drink your wine as if it was made for their indulgence.

You know their names. You know their fathers’ names. You keep a tally in the back of your mind—not out of interest, but because you must. A queen who forgets is a queen who falls.

At dusk, you sit among them, still and quiet, the embroidery in your lap forgotten. Your needle lies idle, and no one notices. They’re too busy toasting to their own futures, all of which end with your hand in theirs and a sword at your son’s back.

You endure. That is all you can do.

The worst of them, you have found, is Antinous.

He sits at the center of them all, draped over your husband’s seat; he is a man who has never earned power but has always expected it. His voice is the loudest, always the first to speak and the last to fall silent. He speaks of strategy and succession as though he is already king, and when he speaks to you, it is with the inflection of someone already convinced of victory.

Tonight, he is drinking the red wine that was made using straw mats and raisins. It is your favourite, and he knows this. That is the point.

When your gaze flickers to the goblet in his hand, he smirks like he’s caught you admiring him. “Come now, my lady,” he drawls, loud enough for the others to hear. “Do we please you yet? Or must we slay a lion and bring its pelt to your feet for your favour?”

Laughter rings out around the room, coarse and raucous. One of the younger men raises his cup in toast. Another whistles. Eurymachus mutters something under his breath that earns him a shove and a snicker.

You do not respond. You haven’t in months. That, too, they find amusing.

Antinous leans forward, elbow propped on the armrest that does not belong to him. “You will have to choose, my lady,” he says, lower now. “For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. Ithaca needs a king. And you need a man.”

Your jaw tightens, just slightly. That is all the reaction they will get from you.

You rise from your chair with the same quiet grace you’ve perfected over the years, ignoring the way his eyes follow your every movement. Your hands are steady, your spine straight. Your dignity is the only armour you have left.

As you step out the hall, past the tapestry of ships and storm gods, past the murmurs and the clinking of goblets, your mind, inevitably, wanders to your husband.

You remember him as he was: quiet, precise, impossibly steady. A man who spoke little but whose presence never had to beg to be known. He was not soft, not always kind, but he was good. Good in the way a harbour is—safe and constant, even when the storms rage. You remember his hands most of all. Not the way they touched you, though you have not forgotten that either, but the way they held the kingdom upright. Steady hands. Sure hands. A warrior’s hands that still knew how to cradle a child.

Your son remembers less. He was too young. But you see the fragments of Kento in him—flashes of that same quiet rage, that same sharpness, that same refusal to bow. He is no king, not yet, but he is his father’s son.

You reach the end of the corridor where the light begins to fade. You pause by the window, breath fogging faintly against the cool stone frame, and you stare out at the dark horizon. Somewhere, the sea still churns. Somehow, you once believed he would return.

But hope has a half-life, and yours has been decaying for years.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, and whisper a name you haven’t said aloud in longer than you can bear: “Kento.”

You hear a creak behind you, followed by the distant thud of the great doors opening. You don’t turn this time. You don’t need to. It’s just another suitor arriving late, another voice to add to the chorus of greed. But your hands clench into the folds of your robe, and your thoughts—sharp, honed like flint over years of silence—snap into focus. This cannot continue. You cannot continue.

The law binds your hands, but your wit has never needed permission to move.

You breathe in—and then you think of his bow: taller than you, carved from ash wood. No one but Kento could ever string it. Not even your most arrogant suitor has dared to try. It hangs still, untouched, in the weapons room behind the hearth, more symbol than tool. A relic of a man half the room no longer believes in.

You turn and begin walking back to your bedchambers. Purpose blooms in your chest like spring after a long, bitter winter.

Let them mock. Let them boast. Let them believe your grief has made you weak and your patience has made you docile.

You will give them a game. A challenge only one man can win—and when they lose, they will have no one but themselves to blame for what comes after.

Let them line up like fools. When they fail—when they all fail—you will be free.

At night, you are plagued with thoughts of your husband.

Sleep slips through your fingers like water, no matter how tightly you try to hold it. The sheets are cool beside you—always cool, always empty. The dark makes it worse. When the torches go out and the halls fall quiet, when even the suitors sleep in their wine-stained stupor, it is just you and memory. And memory is never kind.

So, you lie awake beneath the canopy of your marriage bed, the one no man has touched since he left. It was built by his own hands, carved from the roots of an olive tree that still grows through the floor. It cannot be moved. Neither can you.

You remember how you met. He had come to court your cousin, sharp-tongued and always the brightest in the room, while you were only there to pour wine and not to be seen. But Kento noticed you, quiet and watchful, and when he asked your cousin about war tactics, you answered instead—too quick, too bold. His eyes met yours, then, curious.

The next day, he returned with flowers—your cousin’s favourites. But he handed them to you.

Kento never asked for permission; not from your family, not from the gods. He simply looked at you one morning in the orchard and said, “If I’m to fight for something, let it be you.”

You married in the spring. Your hands smelled of fig and lemon blossom. He laughed, a rare sound, when you nearly tripped walking towards him because you were so focused on his face.

He was always so careful with you, always so patient. You remember long walks by the cliff, fingers brushing until he finally had the courage to take your hand. You remember lazy mornings with bread and honey, and the way he’d rest his chin on your shoulder while you read, just to be near.

You remember the first time he laid beside you—nervous and reverent, as if you might vanish if he moved too quickly. He hadn’t said much, but his hands had trembled, and his mouth had found yours like it had always belonged there. That night had been slow, sweet, full of promises he only whispered against your skin. Kento was careful. And then he wasn’t.

By morning, you could barely walk. He’d only laughed when you hit him with a pillow, his voice still hoarse from the things he’d begged for the night before.

You found out you were carrying a child only a few weeks later. He was still there then—busy, yes, pulled in ten different directions by the court and the kingdom—but he never missed a night in your bed. You waited to tell him, wanting to find the perfect moment. He found out before you could.

He had come back late, with dust on his sandals and his hair messy. You were asleep, or pretending to be. Kento pressed his lips to your forehead, then to your belly. “I know,” he’d murmured. “I know, my love.”

You’d blinked up at him, startled. “How?”

“I overheard Eurycleia and the others in the kitchens. They aren’t being very subtle about it.”

You both laughed, then. He’d gathered you close, hands spreading over your stomach. “Thank you,” he whispered, like a prayer.

For a while, it was good. The best it had ever been. Kento carved toys from olivewood with the same hands that had once carved your wedding bed. He kissed your growing belly each night. He spoke to the child before it was born and promised them the sea and the stars, and a world that would greet them with open arms.

When your son came into the world, Kento cried—quietly, of course. He always cried quietly. You saw the way his shoulders shook as he cradled the boy in his arms for the first time. The baby had your eyes and his father’s brow. His father’s frown, too, when he slept.

“He’s perfect,” Kento said, over and over. “He’s perfect, he’s perfect, he’s perfect.”

Then the war came; a war for someone else’s pride, someone else’s honour. Kento didn’t want to go. You knew it in the way he held you that night, tighter than ever, like he was already grieving what he’d lose. He went because honour is a god that does not take no for an answer, and the Trojan War was its altar. 

“I’ll be back before the baby walks,” he promised, voice low in the crook of your neck.

Your son had learnt to run before you received his first letter.

You remember watching other men return. You remember standing by the docks until your knees gave out. You remember the pity in their eyes. 

Years passed. Your son forgot the sound of his father’s voice, babe as he was when he left. You had to teach him what Kento looked like from paintings and stories. You forgot the feeling of being held.

You hate it. Not Kento—never Kento—but the war, and the state it has left you in. You hate the war for stretching one year into ten; for stealing your husband from your bed, from your son, from your arms. You hate the gods for not letting him come home to you for ten more, and now, you do not know if he ever will.

Now—now, you’re expected to smile politely at men who spit in the name of the house he built. Men who whisper that you should move on; that you’re selfish; that Ithaca needs a king, not a memory. They never saw the way he knelt to speak to children, or how he never raised his voice unless he was scared. They didn’t see the man who kissed you like it was a vow, who brushed his lips across the back of your knuckles and pinched your side to see you giggle. The man who chose you, again and again, even when everyone else expected otherwise.

You press a hand to your chest, as if that can soothe the ache. It doesn’t.

Your son is not in Ithaca when you announce the contest. Perhaps, you think, it’s better that way, because he would not approve.

He is his father’s son—sharp-eyed and proud, always quick to speak when he senses injustice—but still too young to understand the quiet violence of strategy. He does not yet know that survival sometimes demands cruelty; that a queen must trade dignity for time, over and over again, and pray she can reclaim it in the end.

You stand at the head of the hall with the bow placed beside you, the same bow Kento carried to war, the one he strung with ease before riding out to defend a kingdom that now forgets his name. It looks heavier than you remember.

A hush spreads, then breaks. Laughter first—low and dismissive. Then a chorus of jeers.

“The widow’s gone mad,” one says.

“At this rate, she might as well ask the gods to descend and marry her,” Eurymachus crows.

“She’s stalling,” Antinous calls out, grinning wolfishly. “She is afraid to choose, so she hides behind toys and tales.”

“This bow,” you say, “belongs to my husband.” 

Husband. Not dead king. Not memory. Husband.

“No man but him has ever strung it,” you continue. “Not in battle. Not in sport. Not in ceremony.”

A few of the men shift, uneasily now. The laughter falters.

You rest your hand on the bow—not to provoke, but to remember. Your fingers trace the smooth curve of it, worn by time and use and love. He had carried it across the Aegean. He had strung it by firelight while your son slept beside him. He had left it behind only because you asked him to.

“Twelve axes will be placed in this hall, in a line.” You lift your chin. “Whosoever can string this bow, and shoot clean through all twelve, may take my hand.”

Silence, this time. Not out of respect, but disbelief. 

“String it?” a voice says, incredulous. “That bow’s half stone!”

“Do you want a king or a circus act?” another cries out.

“She means to humiliate us,” Eurymachus spits, rising. “A trick. A delay. While her brat of a prince runs to Sparta to gather allies.”

Your eyes flick to him. “You are welcome to leave.”

He sneers but says no more.

Antinous steps forward instead, not angry but amused. “Very well,” he says. “Let us dance for her. Let us parade like fools in a hall that no longer belongs to us.” He bows mockingly. “Though it’s hardly fair, my lady, to mourn a man and dangle his ghost before us.”

You say nothing, only signal to the servants. The axes are brought in, iron mouths agape. One by one, they’re planted down the hall. You watch them with the stillness of a woman who has waited twenty years, and will wait twenty more if she must.

You take your seat again, and fold your hands, waiting for the first man to try. Not a single one of them moves.

A beggar enters your hall at twilight.

Dust clings to his shoulders like ash from some distant pyre, and his beard is streaked grey with age or travel—you cannot tell which. He leans heavily on a staff, feet dragging, and still the guards do not stop him. Perhaps they think him harmless. Perhaps they are tired of keeping count of the men who come and go.

Only one creature sees him for what he is.

Argos—your husband’s old hound—lifts his head from where he lies slumped in the shadow of the threshold. No one tends to him now. He is too old to be useful, too loyal to be loved by anyone but you. But at the sight of the beggar, his ears twitch. Then his whole body trembles.

The beggar stops. He looks down, and kneels, slowly, painfully.

Argos, who has not stood in days, tries to rise.

His limbs fail him, but still he whines—high and soft and aching, the sound of twenty years in a single breath. The beggar’s hand moves to the dog’s neck, just below the ear. Argos goes still. His chest does not rise again. The beggar lowers his head and says nothing.

Then the laughter begins.

“Look at him!” Antinous sneers from his seat, wine dripping from his lip. “Dragging fleas into our court like gifts! Shall we feed him, my lady? Or toss him back into the sea?”

Another suitor—a lean man with too many rings—adds, “I say we test his spine. Perhaps he’ll dance if we strike him hard enough.”

The beggar does not speak. He does not even flinch.

Eurymachus tosses a crust of bread at his feet. “Come, old man! Tell us a tale worth hearing. Or did you lose your tongue along the road?”

Still, the beggar remains silent.

Your voice cuts through the hall: “Bring him to me. Prepare some bread and water for this man, and give him a place to rest if he so desires.”

The beggar inclines his head, eyes low, and only then, speaks. “Thank you, my queen.”

You lead him to the side chamber—the one where you used to spin wool at night, when your boy was smaller and the house quieter. Now it serves as nothing but a place of hiding. When you are alone, you speak first.

“Who are you?”

The beggar bows. “No one of import, my queen. A man who has seen many harbours and lost more years than he can count.”

“Yet you have found your way to my hall,” you say. “To Ithaca.”

He does not deny it. “I met your husband once,” he says. “Long ago, in Crete.”

You inhale sharply. “Crete?”

“Aye.” He nods, eyes distant. “He came with spoils from Troy. Wounded, but still boasting. We shared a fire for one night only. He ate little, and drank less.”

“And what did he say?” you ask, throat tightening. “Of Ithaca? Of… me?”

The beggar’s mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and a wound. “He spoke of home like it was a person, not a place.”

You don’t dare blink.

“He spoke of a woman with eyes like storms,” the beggar says, voice threading towards something gentle. “Who ruled her house with both hands. Who wove lies as well as she wove thread. Who could outwait the gods themselves if it meant saving what she loved. He said that no one would believe him when he spoke of your mind. That beauty they could imagine, but not your sharpness. He said you could gut a man with your silence.

“He told me about your garden, and your love for oranges. He told me that you preferred thyme over roses; that you once caught him stealing figs before dinner and made him eat them all before the sun went down. He said you made him laugh until he was sick.

“He said your son had your eyes but his stubbornness, that he liked to sleep curled up beside the hearth while you sang to him, and your husband held both of you in his arms. He missed the boy most at night.”

You swallow hard. Something in your chest splinters.

“He said,” the man continues, eyes downcast, “that he dreamed of your bed. He did not say why, but he worried that if he returned and it had been moved, he would know the gods had lied and you were gone.”

“And where did he go, then?” you whisper. “Where is he now?”

“I do not know. But I was in Thesprotia recently. There, I heard word of him again.”

“What word?”

“That he is alive. He has wandered long, but not without purpose. He comes home, slowly.”

You close your eyes. The ache that floods your chest is old and familiar—but tonight, it stings sharper than it has in years. You want to believe. You want to fall to your feet and ask this stranger if he’s seen the scar on your husband’s thigh, or the streak of gold in his hair that only shows in summer, or the way his voice goes rough when he says your name. You want to ask if he still dreams of you.

But you’ve lived too long on hope. It is not a kind thing. It gnaws at the soul. It leaves you hollow.

So you open your eyes and steady your voice. “Thank you, traveler, for your stories.”

He bows, slow. You rise to leave, your hand hovering near the door. Then you turn, just enough to glance back. “Your eyes,” you say, “remind me of him.”

The beggar does not answer.

Often, you have dreamt of what your life would have looked like if Kento had not left for war.

Tonight, after the beggar has been granted a bed and rest in your home, you stand by the window and let the sea wind carry you into that life where Kento never sails.

He wakes beside you every morning, body solid and warm beneath the sheets of your shared bed. You would grumble when he takes the covers, and he’d kiss your shoulder in apology, already half-laughing. You’d eat breakfast together at the sun-warmed table by the window—simple things: bread, still warm from the oven, figs and olives from the orchards he helped plant. Your son would run into the room with scraped knees and stories of birds and battles, and Kento would scoop him up with ease, toss him into the air just to hear his laughter ring like a bell.

You’d watch him be a father. You’d watch him teach your son how to hold a bow—gently at first, guiding his small hands, whispering patient praise. You’d watch them argue, in the way children and their fathers do, about where the stars go when the sun rises. Kento would lose on purpose, feigning deep consideration before letting your son convince him that the stars must sleep behind the moon.

You’d sit in the garden while your husband reads out loud, his voice low, your son half-asleep on your lap while the olive branches murmur above your heads. Some days you’d fight, but it would never be over war. It would be about fruits left out too long; mud tracked on clean floors; your son’s cat left loose to steal fish from the kitchens once again.

At night, when the house is quiet and the wine is sweet, Kento would press kisses along your jaw, your neck, your fingers, as if to count the years he got to stay.

Your son would grow in front of both of you. You would argue about whether to cut his hair, and whether he should learn the sword before numbers. Kento would lift him high on his shoulders during the harvest festival, and you’d catch both of them stealing honey cakes from the tray.

You imagine watching him age; the way his shoulders would broaden, the lines by his eyes deepen with laughter and not grief and bloodshed. You’d grow old with him, and sit beside him on the same bench every dusk, tracing his palm, not searching for calluses left by war, but the ones left by work in the orchard, in the stone of your shared home.

Maybe—maybe—you would have had more children.

Maybe your halls would ring with more voices and more tiny feet. Maybe he would have taught your daughters to string a bow, just as gently as he taught your son. Maybe he’d have read to them, holding them in his lap, one hand still tangled in your own. Maybe on stormy nights, when the winds howled like gods against your windows, all of you would sleep in a tangle—limbs and breath and heartbeat; Kento curled beside you, one hand wrapped around your waist, another resting on your daughter’s foot.

Maybe.

But dreams are dreams, and dawn comes cruel.

You stand at the window until the stars blur through tears you refuse to wipe away. You press a hand to your belly, as if to call back that life. It isn’t real. You know this. Yet, when you finally turn from the window, crawl into the empty half of the bed carved from the olive tree, and curl around the hollow he once filled, you think:

I miss you. Come back to me.

The fire in your chamber is burning low, little more than a memory of warmth now. Its light flickers across the tiled floor, casting long, shapeless shadows against the stone walls. You sit at the edge of the bed, robes drawn tight around your frame, though the night is not very cold. Your fingers are idle, twisted in your lap. 

The shawl you’ve pulled over your shoulders is soft but not warm, but it is dyed Kento’s favourite colour, and so, you plucked it out of your closet and draped it over yourself. Beneath the hush of the night and the distant echo of laughter from the great hall, you can hear the ocean.

The door creaks open. You do not have to look up to know it’s Kento’s nurse from the time he was a young boy. Eurycleia’s steps are familiar—uneven, a little heavier on the left, her sandals dragging ever-so slightly with each step. She has always walked like that, ever since she took a blade to the leg in some scuffle you do not know of.

She carries a basin in her hands, steam rising gently from it. The scent of crushed myrtle and olive oil follows her into the room.

“Leave it by the stand,” you say listlessly, eyes still on the fire.

But she doesn’t set it down.

“My queen,” she says, and her voice is not the voice she uses when she brings you wine or folds your linens. It is strained and urgent.

You turn slightly towards her. “What is it?”

Eurycleia moves closer, the basin shaking in her hands. A droplet of water splashes over the edge and lands on the stone with a soft pat.

“I saw it,” the old lady breathes. “I saw the scar.”

Your brow furrows.

“The scar,” she repeats, quieter now. “Just above his knee. The one from his boar hunt. The only one he carries.”

You freeze. For a moment, you cannot speak. You see it in your mind’s eye: the pale ridge of old flesh from years past, the way it curved slightly, a mark carved into him when he was still just a boy, too proud to stay down, too stubborn to yield.

“Eurycleia,” you whisper, but she is already moving forward, her voice trembling with emotion.

“It is him. I knew it the moment I touched him. I was washing his feet—just as I’ve done a thousand times before, for a thousand other guests—but when my hands reached that scar, I knew.” Her voice cracks. “My fingers remembered before my mind did.”

You swallow hard.

“He said nothing,” she goes on, “but his shoulders were the same, as were the weight of his hands, though worn. I wept, child—I fell to my knees and kissed his knuckles.”

“Don’t,” you say suddenly, too sharply. “Don’t say that.”

Eurycleia stops short.

You rise from the bed slowly, the shawl slipping down your arms. Your heart beats too loudly in your ears. You remember the beggar’s voice; the way he spoke of your marriage bed; the way he looked at you like he had seen your face before time had turned it older. You almost—almost—believed.

“He asked me not to tell you,” Eurycleia says, her voice catching on unshed tears. “But how could I keep it? Not when you’ve waited so long. Not when he is finally here—”

“I did not hear you.”

Eurycleia stares at you. You blink. A strange fog has descended behind your eyes. You can see her lips move, her mouth forming the words again. But they don’t reach you.

“Say it again,” you demand.

She tries. You see her throat work. You see the desperation rise in her eyes, the way her hands shake as she grips the basin tighter. Her lips part, but the sound dies before it reaches your ears.

You frown. “Eurycleia?”

The old maid gasps softly, as if something invisible has brushed against her throat. Her mouth opens again, but she cannot speak—or if she does, you cannot hear it. Only the fire crackles now. Only the sea murmurs beyond the walls.

“I… I must’ve been mistaken,” she whispers finally, though her eyes are wet. “Forgive me, my queen.”

You stare at her. Something is wrong. Something curls at the edge of your senses like mist. It presses against your skin, prickling like gooseflesh. But you cannot name it, or hold it.

Eurycleia bows her head. Her hands are trembling so hard she nearly spills the basin. She sets it down by the stand as you originally asked, but her eyes do not once leave your face. 

“I’ll return come morning,” she murmurs.

You nod slowly, unsettled, your arms folded across your chest. The door closes behind her. You don’t know that a goddess stands silent in the shadows near the hearth, her hands still warm from weaving silence over your ears. Athena watches you with something like sorrow and something like pride. She does not smile. She does not move, either.

She knows your husband requires just one day more, and so, she must make you wait.

One by one, the suitors try.

First is Leiodes—the youngest, the most eager, his face still untouched by war or wear. He steps forward with forced confidence, brushing back his hair and muttering something about strength inherited. He kneels beside the bow and lifts it with reverence, though it’s clear he’s underestimated its weight. His arms tremble as he fits the string against the horn, teeth bared. He pulls—once, twice—but the string does not yield. The bow doesn’t even bend.

By the third attempt, his knuckles are white and the sweat on his brow betrays him. He looks towards you, perhaps hoping for mercy, perhaps hoping your gaze will soften. It does not. He drops the bow with a heavy thud and steps back, his pride folded beneath him like a damp cloth.

Next comes Eurymachus, chest puffed up with wine and mockery. He swaggered through the morning, but now, his laugh rings hollow. “She must have tricked the bow,” he says with a wink to the others. “Soaked it in oil, or warped the wood. Anything to keep from marrying any of us.” 

The hall chuckles obligingly, but when he crouches down to try, the jest leaves his eyes.

Eurymachus is broad in the shoulders, used to wrestling, to hunting, to boasting—but not to being humbled. The bow creaks under his grip, but the string doesn’t budge. He braces it against his knee, then against the arch of his foot, hissing under his breath. His face flushes red. He snarls and digs in again, now angry, now reckless. The bow groans. The string twitches. But it does not yield.

He lets out a curse, harsh and guttural, and throws the bow down so hard, the sound echoes through the stone.

“It is cursed,” he mutters viciously. “Rotten with her dead husband’s shadow.”

Then Antinous approaches. The hall quiets at once.

He says nothing. Sharp-featured and sallow-eyed, he walks like a man already wronged. His jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck drawn taut like bow strings themselves. He does not bow; he does not ask. He grips the bow with both hands, as if it had insulted him just by existing. His knuckles bleach to white. His fingers find the grooves carved by your husband’s hands—the marks left by years of war and duty. You think you see hesitation cross Antinous’ face, but pride burns hotter than sense.

He plants his feet, straightens his back, breathes out through flared nostrils. The wood groans. The string resists.

The tendons in his arms strain and quiver. Veins bloom down his forearms like vines under his skin. His shoulders lift, tense with effort, and still the bow refuses him. Antinous bites down hard—hard enough that blood beads at the edge of his lip. His face is blotched with rage now, mottled red and pink. The sweat on his brow trickles past his temple and into the collar of his tunic, soaking it dark. 

The string moves, but only a breath.

You wonder briefly if he will break it, not out of anger, but out of fear. You wonder if he will destroy the thing that will not obey him, rather than admit his hands are not worthy. But in the end, he does not. With a growl low in his throat, like a cornered animal, he hurls the bow away. It strikes the stone floor with a sickening sound—a crack and rattle like bone hitting marble, brittle but final. Several of the suitors flinch.

Antinous turns away from the bow as if it has burned him. His hands are shaking. His mouth works soundlessly, and then he spits at your feet, full of fury, like the failure is yours to carry, like the bow was made to humiliate him and you were the one who strung it. It is an insult, yes, but when you look at him, you see not a man, but a child dressed in silk and silver, furious that the world does not bend at his command.

None of them—not Leiodes with his trembling hands, not Eurymachus with his curse-tainted tongue, not Antinous with his flame-fed fury—can meet your eyes, for the bow has bested them all.

Still—quiet, still, and watching—stands the beggar. You did not see him enter the hall; he slipped in quick as a minnow and twice as quiet. He has said nothing, and moved not an inch. 

You watch him. Your hands are clasped too tightly before you, but you do not loosen them. Your heart, traitor as it is, pounds against your ribs.

He steps forward. 

A hush falls, sharp and sudden—then breaks just as quickly as a wave against rock. Gasps flutter through the hall like startled birds, chased swiftly with laughter—loud, cruel, and incredulous.

Antinous barks it first, loudest, the sound brittle from the strain of failure still clinging to his limbs. His face, red from exertion and shame, twists into something venomous. “You, old man?” he jeers, spit flying out of his mouth. “You think you can do what princes cannot?”

More laughter follows, mocking and disbelieving. Eurymachus leans back, a goblet in hand, wine sloshing over the rim. “Let him try,” he drawls. “Maybe the gods will pity him and give him strength to match that stench.”

Leiodes winces as if in apology, but says nothing. Others lean forward, eager now, hoping for the final humiliation of the evening: a beggar trembling beneath a weapon meant for kings. But the beggar does not flinch.

“I ask only to try,” he says. There is no boast in his voice; only request. He steps fully into the light and bows low. 

Your eyes meet his. You do not speak. You do not smile. You feel every gaze in the hall prickling your skin, waiting to see if you will laugh too, if you will dismiss him like the rest. 

You nod.

They laugh harder when he lifts the bow, like hounds yipping at a wounded stag. You see it clearly in their faces, the slight upward curl of Eurymachus’ lip as he drinks in what he thinks will be a humiliation, the smug glint in Leiodes’ eyes as he leans forward like a spectator at some stageplay, and Antinous—Antinous, still bristling from his own failure, his hands bruised and red from trying to force the bow into obedience—stands with a sneer stretched tight across his face, certain that this will end in a joke.

It doesn’t.

The beggar turns the bow in his hands, slowly, reverently, and there is something in the motion—not practiced, but remembered—as though his fingers have not forgotten the shape of it, the weight of it, the grain of wood carved by a man who loved you. He lifts it to his knee, not rushing, not fumbling, and with a strength honed in absence, war, and silence, he strings it one smooth, effortless motion.

The sound it makes is sharp and sudden, a clean, taut hum that slices through the noise of the hall like a blade through silk.

Just like that, the laughter dies.

It dies in the back of their throats, in their chests, where the mockery was swelling and ready to burst. Eurymachus lowers his cup. Antinous blinks. Leiodes stiffens. All the noise in the hall collapses into silence, thick and stunned. Still they watch—thinking maybe, maybe, it was luck. Maybe he cannot draw it.

But he reaches for an arrow with a steady hand and fits it to the string like he was born to do it. He does not boast. He simply raises the bow and draws, arms steady, posture perfect, his breath shallow and even.

Then, he releases.

The arrow sings—a high, keening whistle—and you do not breathe as it sails through the hall, so fast and clean that the air seems to part around it. It hits its mark, perfectly. It slices through the twelve axe heads in a single breath, threading the impossible path with such elegance that it is almost unreal.

The silence that follows is absolute. It is the kind of silence that weighs on your shoulders, that hollows out your ribs, that makes the hair on your neck stand on end. Someone drops a goblet. It rolls against the floor and clinks softly against the stone.

He reaches for another arrow. He does not lower the bow, and when he speaks, his voice is steel and storm and grief.

“You thought I was gone,” he says, voice cutting like the winter wind. “You thought you could bleed my house dry. You courted my wife and slept in my halls. You dishonoured my name.”

Antinous opens his mouth, his face pale and drawn, some protest or insult already on the tip of his tongue—but he will never get to finish it.

The arrow finds his throat before the words can escape.

It drives straight through, sinking deep into the soft hollow above his collarbone. His eyes bulge with shock, blood blooming from his mouth like some vile flower. He stumbles back, choking, grabbing at the shaft with trembling hands before he collapses in a wet heap of limbs and cloth, twitching once before falling still.

The beggar—no, not the beggar, not anymore—shrugs off his rags.

He stands tall now, no longer stooped, no longer disguised by age or ash or dust. His shoulders are broad, his chest scarred, his hands steady. The torchlight catches on the jagged lines that mar his skin—scars you once kissed, and new ones that streak across his skin—and his eyes, when they meet yours from across the hall, are unmistakably his.

Kento.

You whisper the name, but no sound leaves your lips.

The hall erupts into chaos.

Chairs scrape across stone. Men leap to their feet, some cursing, some crying out in terror. A few rush for the door but none make it far. Kento is already moving, already shooting another arrow, this one through Eurymachus’ eye. Another man falls, screaming. A third tries to wrest a weapon from a pillar, but Kento is faster.

Your son bursts through the archway, breathless and wild-eyed, sword drawn but not yet stained. His voice is young and sharp, panic laced beneath the edge of command. “Mother!” he cries, cutting through the screams and the sobs and the clamour of war reborn in a dining hall.

You turn to him. He looks so much like Kento once did, and you can see the fear in his face—not for himself, but for you.

“You have to go!” he shouts, reaching for your arm. “Please—back to your chambers, now! It isn’t safe—he’ll protect us, but you have to move—go!”

Your feet feel rooted, your gaze still locked on the man with the bow—your husband, your fury, your grief—but then another arrow flies past, so close you feel the wind of it against your cheek, and instinct finally seizes you. You let your son pull you, let one of the guards posted outside the doors guide you away. 

The sounds of vengeance rise behind you, as your husband’s war cry echoes off the walls like thunder, and all the men who dared defile his home begin to fall like wheat before the blade.

“I do not wish to see him.”

The shroud lies folded at the foot of your bed. You haven’t touched it since the day they scrubbed the blood from the dining hall. Three years it took you to weave, and now it lies finished—useless. Pale linen, soft as mist, with silver thread glinting faintly in the low morning light. Each stitch was a stall, a prayer, a plea for one more day. A ruse to delay the suitors, yes, but more than that: a map of grief, of waiting, of memory. You had woven your sorrow into the weft, hidden your hope in the thread. Every night, you unwove what you had crafted in daylight, as if the act could rewind time itself.

Your chambers are quiet. There is only the crackle of the hearth, and your son standing just past the threshold, shadowed by torchlight.

He does not speak at first. His hair is mussed, his tunic stained—not with blood, thank the gods, but ash, soot, dust. His sword is gone. His voice, when it comes, is too steady for someone so young.

“He asked for you,” he says, and then, hesitant: “I do not understand.”

You do not look at him. You trace a knot in the wood grain with your thumb. 

“I do not wish to see him,” you say once more, as if saying it twice might make it true.

“You don’t mean that, mother.”

You turn then, just enough to catch his expression. His jaw is set—not in defiance, but in hurt and confusion. 

“My father is alive,” your son says, as though you might have forgotten. “He is alive, and he came back, and he fought for us—for you—and you haven’t said a single word to him.”

You close your eyes. The crackle of the hearth, the soft whisper of linen shifting as you curl your fingers into the hem of your robe—these are the only sounds you let yourself hear. Your son waits patiently for you to speak.

“I know he’s alive,” you say, voice barely more than a breath. “I know he fought. I know he won. I know he stood in that hall and killed the men who made a mockery of this house, of our name, of me. I know all of it.”

Your son crosses the room slowly, crouching beside you like he did as a child, when storms shook the windows and he wanted only to be near your warmth. He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. You open your eyes and study his face—your boy’s face, a striking image of his father’s, only unlined and unwrinkled.

“And yet I cannot—” You swallow hard. “I cannot make my feet move toward him.”

“Why?” you son asks, his voice cracking now, no matter how hard he tries to steel it. “Why, mother? He is your husband returned after twenty years, and yet, last night, he slept on the cold, hard stone outside your door.”

You flinch.

“I saw him,” your son adds. “I went to find him. He hadn’t moved. He just sat there with his back against the wall, as if that was all he deserved.”

You press your lips together. “He left me,” you say. “He left us. And when he came back… he didn’t even say my name.”

Your son looks stricken, but he doesn’t argue. You go on. “He was kind and patient. But he spoke to me like I was a queen, not a wife. And I—I don’t know what to say to a man who carries so many ghosts in his silence.”

“He is trying,” your son says quietly. “He came back to find you. He sat in his own house like a beggar and bore every insult. He saw your face and did not cry out, did not ask for your love—he only waited.”

“I have been patient.” Your breath is slow and shallow. “He has changed.”

“Then so have you,” the prince says, and his face solemn when he says it. “You waited all these years. I saw you every night by the loom. I saw you unpick all the stitches of that wretched shroud by firelight, as if time could be rewritten with thread. You did not forget him, mother.”

Your hands twitch in his hold.

“And now he is here. And you are afraid.”

“I do not know what to say to him,” you whisper.

Your son smiles. “Say anything. Say nothing. Just look at him—I think that will be enough.”

You look toward the folded shroud, the linen pale against the bedcovers. Three years of weaving and unweaving; it was your lie, your shield, and your promise. Slowly, you rise.

“Have him brought to me,” you say. “And tell him he may sleep in warmth tonight.”

The king of Ithaca looks out-of-place in his own home.

He stands just past the threshold of your chambers, shoulders stiff, hands empty at his sides. In the firelight, he looks both older and younger than you remembered: lined with grief yet carved with something terribly familiar. His tunic is clean, but the scars along his arms, his throat, his cheekbones—those are worn like old jewellery, too many to hide. His hair is longer, and his eyes are dimmer but no less sharp. He looks at you like a man drowning.

You do not move from where you stand near the hearth. You do not rush to him. You watch him as you might watch a stranger, hands twisted into the folds of your robes.

At last, he speaks.

“I have no right to ask it,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “but I will fall to my knees here if I must. I have wronged you beyond measure. I left you to fend off wolves with no promise I would ever return. I broke every vow I made the day we were wed and I became your husband.”

You stay silent.

Kento’s mouth twists into something pained. “If you can find it in your heart… after all the wars I fought, the years I spent trying to escape the will of the gods, the blood that stains my hands—” He swallows thickly. “If there is even a sliver of love left in you for the man I once was, or the man I am now… I beg you, let me earn it again.”

The fire crackles between you, filling the room with an uneven, wavering glow. You lift your chin, your throat tight.

“Move our bed from this room,” you say.

For a moment, he only stares at you, his expression blank—then confused. His mouth opens, then closes again; and then his face crumples, not with sorrow, but with a sudden, furious kind of grief. He steps forward, one hand trembling at his side. His voice is rough, shaking with force when he speaks.

“You may curse my name,” he says. “Lock me out of my house. Disown me as your husband, deny me as father to our son. You can ask anything of me—anything—and I will give it to you without protest.”

His hands clench into fists.

“But please, my love,” he chokes out, “do not ask me to move our bed, for that would mean cutting it from the very roots of the olive tree where we first met.”

The silence that falls afterwards is a living thing, pulsing in the hollow spaces between your ribs. You are afraid to breathe.

Because you had not told a soul about the secret of your bed—how it was carved into the very roots of your house, how it could never be moved without tearing the room apart stone by stone. Only the two of you had known. Only the two of you would ever know.

Now you know it is truly him. Your hands fall to your sides. Your knees weaken. Your lips part before the sound comes. It escapes you like something long-buried, torn from the chest, raw with disbelief and aching and everything you have swallowed down for the last twenty years.

“...Kento,” you whisper. Then again, as your chest caves and your knees begin to give, the sob breaking loose from somewhere deep, “Kento.”

He’s at your side before you fall.

Strong arms catch you mid-collapse, wrapping around you with the kind of ferocity only born from long, painful absence. You feel the tremble in his limbs, the way his breath stutters against your temple. He holds you like something precious and already half-lost; his grip is sure and his embrace is unwavering. And you—gods, you cannot stop shaking. He doesn’t speak. He only pulls you closer.

You bury your face into Kento’s shoulder, into the torn fabric of the cloak he hasn’t removed, into the scent of dust and salt and smoke that clings to him. Your fingers twist into the fabric at his back, knuckles tightening from the force of it, as though you’re terrified he might disappear if you don’t hold him tightly enough.

Still, Kento tries.

Even as his own tears fall, as they track silently down his war-worn cheeks and drop into your hair, he tries to wipe yours first, with the heel of his palm and the trembling sweep of his thumb. It is foolish and futile. He can’t keep up. You’re both crying too hard, and still he tries—frantic and tender all at once, like he’s trying to undo the years with nothing but the press of his fingers to your skin. He kisses the salt from your cheeks and calls you by the name only he ever used: soft, low, sacred.

His hands are not the same. They are rough now, harder than they once were, palms callused and weathered from bowstring and blade. Faint scars web the skin—new ones, ones you do not know, gathered in battles far from home. They smell of blood and brine, of war. 

But they are his hands, and they are still gentle.

So gentle as they cradle your face, as though the thought of hurting you is unthinkable. So warm that, for a moment, you forget the winters you endured without him. So familiar that your soul sings with the reminder that they had once held your son, your waist, your heart.

He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, your tears mixing now on skin that’s been too long apart. “I came home,” he breathes shakily. “I came home to you.”

When he kisses you, you let the years collapse around you. You let the time shrink to nothing between the press of your lips and his, and the memories of what’s passed pour into the space where his mouth meets yours. 

His lips taste like longing, like salt and breath and yearning. The kiss tastes like two decades of grief—then joy, and disbelief. His mouth parts against yours and you breathe each other in like lifelines. Your hands move without thought, up his chest, over his shoulders, into the gold of his hair now dulled by dust and time.

Kento lifts you in one smooth motion, arms firm beneath your thighs, and you gasp—not from surprise, but from the sheer, crushing rightness of it. Of him. The world narrows to the span of his chest, the warmth of his body, the echo of his heart against his ribs.

He lays you on the bed like you are sacred. You still his hands, not because you want him to stop but because you want to look at him. His brow is furrowed, his eyes red. There’s blood beneath his nails, soot still clinging to his skin. But when your eyes meet his, there is nothing but tenderness there.

You reach for the hem of his tunic. He lets you strip him slowly, lovingly. He does the same for you.

It is not the rush of youthful hands anymore. He touches you like he’s learning a language he once knew but forgot. He kisses your shoulder, your ribs, the dip of your hip. You trace your fingers down the planes of his back. He trembles when you touch the scar on his side, and you lean forward to kiss it, too.

When you are both bare, Kento studies you, as though making sure you are real and not another trick played upon him by the gods. You kiss him again, and pull him down with you onto the bed you once swore you’d never share again.

The room is quiet, but for your breath; the creak of wood beneath you; and the soft, gasping litany of his name from your lips.

Kento is careful. Then he is not. Then he is careful again.

After, when the fire has burned low and the residual light spills across the sheets, you lie tangled in each other’s limbs, spent but warm. His arms are around your waist. Your leg is hooked over his hip. His chest rises and falls, steady beneath your cheek.

You touch his body like a scripture, relearning him through fingertips and memory. His breath hitches when your palm brushes over his ribs. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer. He turns towards you, eyes open now, lashes still damp with the tears you both shed, and he watches you as if you’re something made of starlight and all he has ever known is shadow.

You trail your fingers along his chest, over old wounds and new ones, mapping out every change like cartography; like if you trace every inch, you’ll understand what the years have done to him. His skin tells stories now: the long scar across his side, the faded one behind his shoulder, the cuts on his knuckles that weren’t there before. Each mark feels like a sentence in a book you never got to read until now.

“Here?” you whisper, brushing your thumb over a rough patch beneath his collarbone. Kento nods once.

“A blade, from the seventh year of the Trojan War.”

You kiss it. “And here?” You drag your finger down a line along his forearm.

“A javelin. It didn’t take, thank the gods.”

You hum, soft and sad, and keep going.

He touches you too—slowly, worshipfully—as though he is afraid you might shatter under his hands. His palms drift over your stomach, your arms, the curve of your breasts. He murmurs something about your hair being longer, about your voice sounding the same. About your heart still beating the same against his.

“It’s still you,” Kento says, and he kisses your throat like it might prove it.

In return, you run your hand through his hair—softer at the crown, streaked with silver at the temples now—and say, “I thought I had forgotten what your voice sounded like. But I hadn’t. It was always there, in the back of my mind.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and you lie like that for a long time, breathing each other in. You curl closer, your legs tangled with his, your hands pressed to the pulse at his throat. For the first time in twenty years, you both sleep without fear.

When morning comes, light spills pale and golden across the stone floors, soft and unthreatening, a blessing. You are still sleeping, a faint furrow between your brows, curled close to Kento’s side, one hand resting over his heart.

He does not wake you. Instead, he rises silently, wraps a cloak around his bare shoulders, and steps into the hall where Eurycleia waits with a basin of fresh water  and a careful, tearful smile.

“My lord,” she whispers, bowing low.

Kento’s voice is quiet but steady. “Come,” he says. “Walk with me. There is much I must know.”

They walk slowly through the palace corridors, past the scattered wreckage of the battle that has not yet been fully cleaned away—the broken tables, the bloodstained curtains, the gouges in the marble where swords clashed and humans fell. The air still smells faintly of blood and iron.

Kento listens as Eurycleia tells him everything: how long you waited, how fiercely you fought to preserve your home and your honour. How you stalled the suitors with cleverness and grace. How you sat weaving that cursed shroud by day and unraveling it by night, a thousand little acts of defiance stitched into linen.

But when she speaks of the maids, her voice lowers, thick with shame.

“There were… some,” Eurycleia says carefully, her hands wringing into her robes, “who did not remain faithful to your lady, my lord.”

Kento’s mouth tightens but he says nothing yet.

“They—” Eurycleia swallows, as if the words taste bitter. “They aligned themselves with the suitors. Openly, and secretly, both. They mocked your house and betrayed their duties. They slept in the suitors’ beds and carried messages and plotted against your son and your wife.”

“How many?”

“Twelve, my lord. Twelve who forgot themselves. Twelve who forgot the kindness and shelter you and yours once gave them.”

They walk a few more paces before Kento stops, turning his face slightly towards the east windows where the sun is beginning to climb. 

“And the rest?” he asks. “The ones who stayed loyal?”

Eurycleia’s eyes shine with tears. “Most did, my lord. Most remained true. They wept for your absence and prayed every night for your return.”

Kento nods slowly. His hands curl into fists at his sides—not out of anger alone, but out of something deeper: betrayal, yes, but also grief. Grief for the loss of innocence in a home he had worked so hard to reclaim.

“They will be spared,” he says. His voice brooks no argument. “The loyal ones shall be honoured for what they endured.”

“And the others?” the old maid asks quietly.

Kento does not answer right away. He looks back down the hall, toward the heavy doors of your chamber where you still sleep, exhausted after years of waiting and grieving. He thinks of the scars you bear—not just on your skin, but deeper, hidden in the quiet places of your heart. 

“They will answer for what they have done,” he says finally, as cold and steady as the sea. “But not today, and not—”

There is a thud of quick footsteps—the half-clumsy, half-careful sound of youth—and his son rounds the corner, his hair mussed from sleep, his tunic crooked. His eyes are the same colour as yours, and that was how Kento had identified him in the first place, and hatched the plan to get rid of all the suitors plaguing his home. His face is bright with something that is almost wonder. 

Kento straightens instinctively, and the boy—no, not a boy, a man now, taller even than Kento—halts awkwardly before him. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like a child caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens. 

He stares, not at Kento’s sword or his scars or his face, but at him, drinking him in like a man starved for memory.

“My lord,” your son says at last. 

Then, without waiting for permission, he steps forward and clasps Kento’s arm in both of his, in a grip that is too tight and too eager to be anything but a son’s love. Kento lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and clasps him back, their foreheads almost brushing as they stand there, caught between strangers and family.

“I dreamed,” your son says in a rush, the words tripping over each other, “of what you would be like. When I was small, mother would tell me stories—of how you carved, and sailed, and were cleverer than the gods themselves—but she never said your hands would be so big—” he laughs a little, boyish despite his years—“or your voice so quiet.”

Kento smiles faintly, something wry and aching tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You grew taller than I ever expected,” he says.

“And you came home,” your son says, breathless. “You came back.”

Kento lays a hand on the back of his son’s head, fingers threading through golden, sleep-ruffled hair. It is a touch both unfamiliar and natural, as though some old instinct, long-buried, has risen back to the surface without thought.

Behind them, Eurycleia dabs at her eyes, sniffling quietly.

“Come, mother must hear this,” your son says, tugging at Kento’s hand like he is still a boy of five and not a man grown and blooded in battle.

Before Kento can refuse, he is already being pulled down the hall, back to your chamber door, which he gazes upon with something like dread and longing all at once. The door creaks open under your son’s hand. Inside, you still sleep, curled in the tangled sheets. The hearth fire has burned low, embers breathing faint orange against the stone. Outside, doves coo softly from high eaves.

“Mother,” your son calls gently, stepping inside and dragging his father in with him. “Wake up. There is someone here who owes us a great many stories.”

You stir at the sound of their voices, slow and reluctant, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You shift beneath the linen, the cool air whispering across your bare shoulders, and then you blink up at the sight of them—your son’s bright face, and behind him, Kento, standing stiffly, as though he fears he will frighten you.

It is almost too much, the sight of them together—the boy you raised and the man you mourned—and for a moment, you simply lie there, drinking in the sight of them.

“Stories?” you rasp, your voice rough with sleep.

Your son grins. “He must tell us of his journeys. Of how he outwitted monsters and gods. I won’t let him leave this room until he does.

Kento lets out soft, breathless chuckle, something rusty with disuse, as if he has forgotten the sound of his own laughter.

“If your mother wishes it,” he says, “then I will tell you everything.”

You sit up slowly, gathering the sheets to your chest, your heart pounding strangely in your ribs. Your husband’s eyes find yours, and there is a hesitation there: a silent asking. You nod, and he comes forward at last, sinking to sit beside you at the edge of the bed.

“Start from the beginning,” your son insists eagerly, flinging himself onto a nearby stool like a boy half his age.

Kento glances at you once more, seeking permission. And you, who have waited a lifetime, who have unraveled your days into threadbare hope, reach out and rest your fingers against his knee. 

It is enough.

He draws in a breath, long and steady. He speaks slowly at first, as if the words are heavy on his tongue after so many years of silence.

“I left,” Kento says, his hand resting lightly over yours where it rests on his knee, “with little more than my sword, a handful of men, and the blessing of the gods—though I am not sure, now, if it was a blessing at all.

“The war dragged on longer than we ever dreamed. Ten years of siege. Ten years of watching good men fall. Friends… brothers-in-arms… And then there was the journey home. Worse, in some ways. The gods are not kind to men who outlive their victories.”

He speaks of lotus-eaters and Cyclopes; of cannibals and sun-cattle; of shipwrecks and sirens; of men turned into beasts by the whims of witches, and of endless, hungry seas that swallowed the unwary whole. He speaks of betrayals and broken oaths; of false harbours and cruel storms; and of besting the sea god with his own trident.

At times, he falters. His voice catches on certain words, and though your son urges him on with eager questions, Kento’s gaze always returns to you, as if anchoring himself with the sight of you, alive and breathing.

At last, he whispers, “There were nights when I thought… perhaps it would be easier not to return. Perhaps it would be a mercy to let the sea claim me, as it claimed so many others.”

You reach for him then, instinctive and sure, your fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. His hand turns at once, catching yours, threading his rough fingers between yours with a gentleness that breaks your heart all over again.

“But then, I would remember the stories I had promised to tell. The ones you would be waiting to hear. And here I am,” Kento finishes, a little hoarsely, “with nothing but scars and memories to offer.”

There is a long silence. The morning light has grown brighter, casting warm bars across the stone floor. Your son shifts, glancing between you both with a frown of sudden seriousness.

“You are wrong,” he says, surprising you. His voice has changed—no longer the eager boy but the man he has become. “You brought yourself back to us. That is enough.”

Kento turns to look at him fully, and something flickers in his eyes—something you think might be pride, sharp and swift and fierce.

“And you are more than enough to make the years worth it,” he says.

Your son flushes, ducking his head, embarrassed. But you catch the smile he tries to hide, and give him one of your own. Kento turns back to you. His hand still cradles yours carefully, as if he fears you might slip away if he lets go. You search his face—the new lines, the quiet grief carved into them—and find only the man you never stopped waiting for.

“I have more stories,” he says, a little shyly.

You smile, the first true smile you have allowed yourself in years. “Then you must tell them all.”

So he does.

Kento stays, sitting at the edge of your wedding bed, your son sprawled on the floor like a boy again, and you curled among the tangled sheets, listening as your husband speaks the years back into existence—until the sun climbs high and the day outside the palace walls is no longer new.

Later, when the sun hangs high and the world beyond your chamber calls for duty and rebuilding, you stay hidden away in the quiet.

Kento sits behind you, his knees bracketing your hips, a simple wooden comb in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he works through the tangles of your hair. The comb drags gently from crown to end. His hand follows after, smoothing the strands, his touch so light it barely stirs the air. 

Your robe slips lower with each movement, baring your shoulders to the firelight. The hearth crackles quietly, the smoke sweet with cedar. 

“I should have come sooner,” Kento says, after a long while. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I tried. Gods know I tried.”

You say nothing, only tilt your head forward, offering more of yourself to his hands.

“There is one story I did not tell you, because I was ashamed to say it in front of our son,” he says, and the comb stills for a moment against your scalp. He drags in a slow breath before continuing. “There was a goddess on an island far from here.”

You hum, noncommittal.

“She found me after the shipwreck. I had nothing.” He huffs a bitter, humourless breath against your temple. “No crew, no ship, no hope left in me. She said she would save me, and she did.” His hands return to your hair, combing through steadily now.

“She gave me food and a bed. She healed my wounds. And when I could stand again, she told me I would stay. That I was hers.” He pauses, slowing as the comb catches on a stubborn knot. Gently, carefully, he works it loose with his fingers.

You say nothing, your breath shallow in your chest.

“She offered me immortality; a life without pain or fear. She said she would make me forget everything. Forget Ithaca. Forget you.” Kento’s voice cracks slightly, like a blade drawn too tightly across a whetstone. “I refused her. I told her no. Again, and again—but it did not matter.”

The fire pops in the hearth, unnervingly loud in the silence.

“She… she did not need my permission.” His hand trembles against your hair. “I fought her. For years, I fought her. I counted every sunset, every turn of the seasons. Seven years. Seven years of dreaming of your face and waking up to hers.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to catch the sight of his face over your shoulder. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, his mouth drawn tight with sorrow.

“If I had found a way to escape sooner,” he whispers, “our son would have been only three-and-ten. Still young enough to need a father. Still soft enough not to know how to raise a sword.” 

He drops the comb, letting it fall with a soft thud to the furs beside you. His hands find your shoulders, pulling you back against his chest. He wraps himself around you like armour, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

“I am sorry. For every year I was not here; for every tear you wept while I was lying in a false paradise,” he says, breath hot against your skin. “If you ask me to atone for it until my dying day, I will.” 

His voice drops lower still, thick and desperate. “I only beg you—do not doubt that I was yours, even then. Every breath I took belonged to you. Every one.”

You turn in his arms. His hair is tousled, coarse between your fingers. He is trembling—this strong, steady man you have loved since youth—and he looks so, so tired.

You kiss him once, soft and chaste.

And again, your hand cradling the side of his face, feeling the stubble scrape against your palm. And again, more fiercely, pouring into him all the words you cannot yet speak aloud.

You kiss him until he shudders and breaks, a low, desperate sound escaping from deep within his chest. You kiss him until the sadness spills from him like a wound finally allowed to bleed clean. You kiss him until he believes you are real beneath his hands, until the guilt begins to crumble from his shoulders.

You kiss him, over, and over again.

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[lone-trailblazer]

New variable

Paring - Phainon x reader

Word count - 8.7k

Warnings - heavy story spoilers about Amphoreus and Phainon (if you haven't finished the quest, this is your warning), fighting (no explicit injuries, one is a friendly spar), reader is described as female with defined traits (eye + hair color, and named after someone worshipped), angst here and there, somewhat sappy at some points in the story, does this count as slow burn?,, smut (oral, praise, some biting, pet names, service top Phainon, some body worship i guess??,, p in v, creampie)

Overview - You were not supposed to be here. You shouldn't exist in the confines of this planet, yet you prevailed. Years gone by, a lone wolf, a wandering healer whose name is not known. They call you The Merciful, word of mouth spreading across the lands. They say you must have been blessed by Phagousa themselves, your golden touch, a remedy for all. They assume you to be a lost Chrysos Heir, given you the name of Panacea, your real one never uttered to a single soul. They shan't know- can't know the truth.

A/N - soo.. my fingers were just itching again, and I decided to come up with a little something. Please know I am no expert on Greek mythology and only researched a little bit for the story's sake. This fic is NOT 100% lore and time accurate, and the characters are probably gonna be slightly ooc. If you find any mistakes... please excuse me, I'm not a native speaker, I'll try to catch them all 👹..... also, I've been trying to be sure reader dearest doesn't seem too OP, so forgive me for the info dump at some point 🧎

—————————————————————————————————

The gravel crunches under your feet, and the wind bites against your face as you wander through the desolated lands of Castrum Kremnos. The once so glorious city of warriors and gladiators, reduced to nothing but a ghost. A shell of its former prestige. You drag your gloved hand along the concrete wall of a home at the outskirts of this desolated ground.

The air tastes like sorrow, death, and despair. Nothing new from wherever you go. You stop and look up at the sky, clouded and gloomy, despite Kephale's ever-persisting sunlight. You fix your hood, covering your face under the worn fabric.

“You do know that it's quite impolite to stalk someone, no?” Your voice breaks the eerie silence. Then, light-footed as ever, your… you don't even know how to address her. Companion? No, too close. Acquaintance. Yes. Your acquaintance makes an appearance.

“Say… Panacea… what are you doing here?” Cipher speaks in her usual, all-knowing tone and steps into view. “Didn't think I'd ever catch you this close to Okhema again.”

A huff, partly amused, partly indifferent. “I need to stock up on some necessities, I fear. Okhema is the closest from this point onward.”

She cracks a sly grin. “Hey, why don't I bring you there just a little faster, then? After all, I still owe you for last time.”

You raise a brow. Is she referring to two months ago, when the Flame Reaver had her on the brink of death?

“No, thank you. I'd rather keep such a big favor for more important things. I've walked greater distances than this.” You decline, though your tone isn't impolite. “However, if you have the valuable time to spare, why don't you accompany me and show me the goods?”

That sly smirk is on her face within milliseconds of you finishing your sentence. “Oh~ Well, I do have a bit of time on my hands at the moment… So why not. Just follow me, mercy. I'll show you the best route.”

You can't help but scoff at her nickname. Mercy. “Are you mocking me, Cifera?”

She can't help but let out a hearty laugh as she marches ahead. “Me, mock you? No, no… It may sound weird coming from me, but I hold you in quite high regards, actually.”

“I know you do, I merely jest.” You offer a soft chuckle in response as you fall into step with her. “Though, the sentiment is mutual. We have a mutually beneficial relationship, dare I say?”

Cipher hums as the two of you make your way towards the holy city of Okhema. “True. We help each other outta trouble. I wouldn't still be here if it weren't for you, after all.”

“But you know I don't ever turn a blind eye to people's pain, so…”

“Yeah, yeah… I knew you were there. That damned prophecy had me on edge for centuries, but now? Now, it's like a burden lifted. So, thanks, I guess.” She snorts.

“It's nothing.”

The first step into Okhema's grounds has you huffing. It hasn't been the same, and yet it also has. Such a weird feeling, coming back after so many years.

“Oi.. is time catching up to you, mercy?” Cipher nudges you with a grin. “C'mon, Marmoreal Market has some real good stuff you gotta try.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” You bite back a snort, fixing your gloves and hood as you follow her. Okhema is no stranger to refugees and foreigners at this point, hooded figures and cautious strangers having become more common now than ever with the Black Tide encroaching mercilessly.

“Let's try to avoid the other Chrysos Heirs… they ask too many questions.”

Cipher nods, knowing your aversion to getting involved in any of their affairs. She's not much different, but she has that twisted obligation to step in if needed… you, however, are rid of such bounds. “You know, mercy, sometimes I envy you.”

You turn to look at her, her arms lazily pulled behind her head as she leads you, “Envy me?” You echo back.

“Mm.. you're free of responsibility of the Flame Chase, no sense of obligation to anything or anyone. I often find myself wishing to be in your shoes.”

A hum, low and contemplative, as you lower your head. “It's not that simple, I fear. But for the most part, I'm glad I'm not bound like all of you are.”

Cipher stops in front of a stall that sells fresh bread and fruit.

“Two loaves of your finest bread, and a handful of those fresh berries, please.” You tell the store vendor, keeping your eyes hidden under the hood as you reach for your coin pouch and lay a generous amount out. “Will this suffice?”

The vendor's eyes almost bulge out of his head at the amount of coins. “M- Ma'am, this- this is way too much-” The man hastily fishes the needed amount and pushes the rest back towards you.

“Oh.” You breathe, “Did they lower the prices…?” The coins clink and jingle as you drop them back into your pouch and pocket it again. The vendor hands you your bread and fruits, which you safely store in your bag, before moving on with Cipher by your side.

“Hey.. it's been a good two-hundred years since the prices were that high, mercy.” She nudges your side and snickers. “Been a hot minute since you visited, eh?”

“Suppose that's true… However, I appreciate that man's honesty. I should've left him a tip.” You mutter more to yourself, but Cipher's sharp ears catch it anyway. You know they do.

“Hey, wanna check out the bathhouse? They have small private baths, too. I know you don't like exposing yourself to others.” She suggests, pointing ahead to said location.

You ponder for a moment. “Huh… I guess we should indulge in some good rest for once. Why not?”

“Yes!” Cipher victoriously pumps her fist and grabs your arms to drag you ahead.

“You sure you want to head back? You could at least stay the night, y'know.” Cipher tells you, leaning against a pillar close to Okhema's city borders. “My place isn't too close to the commotion, or we can just check you into one of the rooms-”

“Who's your friend, Miss Cipher?” A male voice suddenly cuts into Cipher's sentence. And she groans.

“Friend? We are merely acquaintances, occasional coworkers at best.” She scoffs and looks at the tall guy. “Why are YOU out so late, Phainon?”

The man, now known as Phainon, chuckles and eyes your hooded figure. “I was taking a stroll when I saw you with company, which is a rare thing in itself, Miss Cipher. So I got curious.”

You momentarily press your lips together. Why him, of all people? “Please excuse me, I have to get going.” You speak curtly, words laced with urgency.

“Wait, mysterious stranger, it's not safe outside the city in these trying times. You should take shelter in one of the inns.” Phainon frowns, taking a step toward.

“I appreciate the hospitality, but I must get going. I cannot afford to linger in places for too long.” You offer a polite bow of your head and turn to walk away.

Too close. Way too close of a call.

“Care to explain?” Phainon looks at Cipher with a confused frown.

She pulls a face and shakes her head. “Nah, not really… not my story to tell, hotshot. See ya!”

And suddenly, he stands alone, watching your retreating figure get smaller and smaller.

Word got out that close to Castrum Kremnos, in a small city-state about two hours west of it, the Black Tide had breached the lines. The people are fighting back, but their defense is barely holding on, and more people are falling by the hour.

So what do you do? Of course, you make your way there. The view that greets you is nothing short of destruction and massacre. Bodies strewn all across the streets, monsters and humans alike. A frown tugs at your lips as you step around the carnage, finding a group of people surrounded by monsters.

With a sigh, you summon your greatsword and hack down the monsters - precise swings of the hefty blade, cutting the monsters clean in two, limiting their companions’ movements with the slowing effects of the element of Imaginary.

Before long, the monsters are defeated, you will away your weapon and step toward the group of battered Kremnoans.

“I can sense you're tainted by the Black Tide..” You mutter as you assess the men. “But don't fret, I can heal you.”

The five men exchange weary glances, clearly worn down and running on nothing but fumes. “Please, Miss… we are all that's left from this city…”

Without another word, you take off your gloves, revealing your golden hands. They don't glow, but they stand out regardless. You begin to heal the men, one after another - from worst to minor injuries until they're all stable, no longer running the risk of turning. Once done, you pull your gloves back on and get back up, the hood still shielding your face from their eyes. “You should go, always head East, and within a day's march, you will reach Okhema. The Black Tide won't reach you there… and now go, time is of the essence.”

“Thank you, thank you, Merciful one!” They call as you leave - heading further into the damage zone of the Black Tide.

It's been two weeks since your little endeavor in that city near Castrum Kremnos, and those very men you had saved spread word wherever they went. 'The faceless traveler with the golden touch and a mighty sword. The Merciful one who stepped out of their way to save the doomed.'

It didn't take long for the news to spread like wildfire, especially in a city like Okhema, where Lady Goldweaver has eyes and ears everywhere.

“This traveler… why haven't we heard of them before?” Mydei's gruff voice is first to break the silence, “If that person has such great abilities, where have they been?”

“Maybe the ones who they had helped before didn't make it back to get the word out..” Phainon ponders, hand on his chin in thought.

“That traveler had saved those Kremnoans without hesitation, took care of their ailments, and sent them on their merry way…” Aglaea says, tone thoughtful. “They also mentioned that they fearlessly continued their journey closer towards the Black Tide's heart. Who knows if they will even emerge again.”

Castorice frowns, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Lady Aglaea… what do you make of this news?”

“I want to dig deeper… I doubt that such a skilled healer would stay unheard of for no reason.” The Goldweaver responds. “Hyacine, would you do me this favor?”

“Of course, Lady Aglaea. It'd be my honor.” Hyacine nods eagerly. “I will ask around the remaining scholars.”

“Thank you kindly.” Aglaea smiles, before she turns to look at Mydei and Phainon. “Can I trust you two to follow this lead?”

The two men exchange glances, before they both nod. “The Black Tide's got nothing on us, especially not now since I have claimed the Coreflame of Strife.” Mydei huffs and clenches his fist.

“We will surely find that mysterious, miracle traveler and bring them back with us, Lady Aglaea.” Phainon nods sincerely.

“Very well. Trianne will open the century gate for you two to save travel time. Just find her in the garden once you're ready to head out.”

The air seems to stand still, as if frozen in time, as you cross the battered streets of Styxia. The place they assume to be your home. The river of souls has long since claimed the streets; its pull, however, evades you wholly.

“So, you found me.” You stand at the end of a dock, looking ahead - but your senses never betrayed you. You knew you were being tailed. “Why?”

Footsteps approach, halting within ten paces of you. “You match their description down to the T.” Phainon, you remember his voice. “Is it really you? That mysterious, faceless traveler? The person they call The Merciful all across the lands?”

You heave a sigh and turn around, though it does little to reveal much, a mere glimpse of your mouth as you speak. “I have no business with you, Chrysos Heirs…” You trail off, taking in the other person. “Strife..?”

Mydei's gaze hardens. “How do you know, traveler? We have been on your trail for a week, no one gave you this bit of information.” His words are laced with equal parts hostility, as they are caution.

“I can sense it, crown prince of Castrum Kremnos. The unmistakable presence of the lance of fury's coreflame. It must have been a tough battle.”

The two men raise their guards - no idea who or what they are facing. “Please heed our words, traveler. We are not here to start a conflict, we merely came to ask you to come back to Okhema with us.”

A low chuckle slips past your lips, and you shake your head. “I will not be returning to Okhema, I'm afraid. Whatever questions you may have, I will answer three of them here and now honestly before I keep moving.”

Mydei grits his teeth, ready to protest.. but Phainon puts a hand in front of the Kremnoan. “Hold. It's better than nothing.” He mutters to the demi-god of Strife, before he raises his chin and assesses your cloaked figure, “Well, traveler, we suppose that is as generous as it gets, so you have our thanks for cooperating under compromise. Now, three questions… One, what is your motive?”

You hum - he's as quick-witted as you remember. “My motive is merely to travel the lands and lend a hand in trying times to the ailments of the people. No more, no less.”

Mydei scowls, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Very well… Two, what do you know about the Flame Chase?”

That question makes you scoff, but a slight smirk tugs at your lips regardless. “To sum it up, I am well aware of the prophecies, burdens, and duties you all have to shoulder… However, I do not wish to get tangled in your affairs.”

Phainon frowns, though you certainly aren't the first, nor the last, to say such a thing. “I see… Now, the third and last question… What's your name? I doubt it's ‘The Merciful’, or ‘Faceless Traveler’.”

You pause for a few beats - contemplating. For a moment, you were tempted to lie, give a false name… until you remembered. “Panacea.” It's neither entirely true, nor is it false. But they don't need to know that. “Now, I will return to my devices. I hope we don't run into each other again anytime soon, Chrysos Heirs. Farewell.” You bow, before you turn back around and step forward - right into the river of souls.

“WAIT!” Phainon frantically calls, rushing ahead- but it's too late. “For Titans’ sake- she just-”

Mydei clicks his tongue and grabs Phainon by the shoulder. “Let us return, we got enough.”

Phainon trembles slightly, but ultimately relents and lets himself be led away by the prince.

Mydei casts one last glance to the very spot you fell into the sea - a gnawing feeling of ‘it's not over’ swimming in his mind.

“She jumped into the river of souls?!” Hyacine almost shrieks, and Castorice looks nothing but mortified.

“It's true. She answered our questions, told us she hoped she wouldn't run into us Chrysos Heirs again anytime soon, and then just…” Phainon recounts with a frown, brows drawn together in equal parts confusion and worry. “Castorice, is there any way for other mortals to get out alive?”

She briefly looks away, her whole demeanor stiff. “I'm afraid not, Lord Phainon.” The words are uttered quietly, almost cautious.

“Alas… Hyacine, what did you manage to find out?” Aglaea sighs and turns to the healer.

Said girl takes a breath before responding. “The remaining scholars at the grove, as well as Professor Anaxa, couldn't tell me all that much…”

A momentary silence falls upon the group of six. “However, there have been few records over the past half millennium mentioning a wandering healer. The records speak of similar traits as we have managed to gather. Golden hands, no face to put to the person. Back then, the first mention of a name for her was ‘Panacea’. Professor Anaxa helped me with this, as he told me during the era before the one the first records showed up, there was a renowned healer. Many believed that woman to have been intricately blessed by Phagousa, something close to a demi-god, but not quite. That woman has been named Panacea upon birth. Ever since then, said name has been a symbol of mercy, healing, and compassion.”

The Chrysos Heirs all exchange glances upon the things Hyacine managed to dig up. It wasn't a lot, but it wasn't nothing, either.

“So, what Hyacine is telling us…” Tribbie looks at Aglaea, “That this traveler is associated with someone people over half a millennium ago associated with a demi-god?”

“That sounds outright insane.” Mydei huffs, his face pulled into his usual blank expression. “Even if there was a demi-god at one point with such powers, then that wouldn't align with our twelve titans and everything we know of… and besides, wouldn't you know of this then, Aglaea, Tribbie?”

The two demi-gods exchange glances, before nodding.

“You're right, Mydeimos.” Aglaea starts, “We would. Which is precisely why all this is so… puzzling. There are only twelve titans, and while Phagousa is associated with healing properties to some degree, it isn't to this extent. And besides, THEIR coreflame has been lost to THEIR tides long before the first records were made according to Hyacine's research.”

“My head hurts…” Castorice mumbles. “This doesn't make sense at all..”

“It doesn't… which makes us believe that there's only one other possibility.” Tribbie nods, “Maybe that traveler is from beyond the sky.”

The group goes silent - pondering Tribbie's words. That was a possibility they hadn't even considered before.

“Which then again begs the question - is she able to resist the river of souls? What exactly is she, and what ties her to Amphoreus?”

“Getting quite into it, huh?” Cipher lazily comments as she approaches the group. “You're speculating about that healer girl? Take my words of advice and drop it.”

Aglaea frowns and looks at Cipher. “Cifera, what do you mean by this?”

The demi-god of Trickery huffs. “It's not worth the effort. She's not causing any trouble, so why should we play detective?”

The Chrysos Heirs break into something close to arguing amongst each other, until Tribbie loudly clears her throat. “Guys, guys, let's all calm down, shall we?”

Mydei scoffs and crosses his arms, Castorice looks mildly uncomfortable, and Hyacine and Phainon exchange awkward glances.

“Miss Cipher, you sound like you know something we don't. Care to enlighten us?”

Cipher drags a hand down her face. Of course they would say that. “I made a promise to keep my lips sealed. No can do.”

Aglaea raises a brow. “A promise? With that traveler?”

“Nope, nope, not answering. If you want answers, find mercy yourself. Bye!” Cipher quickly uses her coin of whimsy to flee the scene - leaving the other Chrysos Heirs behind with mixed feelings.

You frown. “They're speculating that heavily already?”

“They already suspect you're not from our world. They're even quite sure you didn't die when you jumped into the river of souls.” Cipher rolls her eyes, sitting upon a wall, feet swinging lazily. “I told them to drop it, but I doubt they will.”

“Fuck…” You curse under your breath and look up at the sky, brows creased as you mull over the possibilities. “This isn't good. Cipher.”

She looks at you and blinks, giving you her full, undivided attention. “Mercy?”

“How much do they know about what's beyond the sky of Amphoreus?”

Cifera hums and ponders your question. “Well, Aglaea and Tribbie are well aware that there's more to the universe than just Amphoreus, as well as other worlds. Naturally, the others were also let in on it over time. But that's as far as it goes, I believe.”

You narrow your eyes to the ground. “Do they know about Aeons, too?”

The demi-god of Trickery snorts. “As if. All they know of is our titans. I think little Princess Homebody would crack her skull open trying to grasp the ideals of Aeons.”

“You know so much, yet you're not bothered at all. How come?”

“Well, I know a lot of shit I shouldn't. Just for the record.” She shrugs, “And I think this is also why we work so well together, don't you think, mercy?”

A snort slips past your lips. “Can't deny that. You're too smart for your own good, but you're also the only one I feel I can trust with the whole truth… I owe you that much for keeping my identity protected so well.”

“I knew it.” A third party enters the scene.

You sigh, Cipher scoffs- then disappears in a flash. You don't fault her for it.

“How did you survive the river of souls? I demand answers.”

Phainon stares you down as you turn, your face still hidden by your hood. “We did some digging… Panacea.”

You huff in amusement. “Cute. Did you think it'd shock me that you'd use the name I have been given by the people? The one I willingly told you?”

The man blinks, not having expected that response, or that level of calm. “Who are you?”

“Didn't you do some digging, Chrysos Heir? You disappoint me, truly.”

Phainon clicks his tongue. “If you aren't willing to speak…” He summons his sword, dawnbreaker, and extends the blade your way. “Then let's settle this in a duel. I beat you, you answer any questions I may have. Truthfully.”

“And if I beat you?” You chuckle lowly and summon your greatsword. “What do I get out of it?”

Phainon's confidence falters. “What… What can I offer you in return? Answers, too?”

You hum and throw your greatsword from one hand to the other as you think. “Why not. Word for word. Strike for strike.” You extend your own blade forward. “Give me your worst, Chrysos Heir.”

Phainon's demeanor steels, and he charges.

You don't remember for how long you two have been clashing blades and exchanging blows, but this seems to have no end. He attacks, you block, you counter. He blocks and parries, tries to strike you down, you dodge.

Rinse and repeat.

The only difference, though? He's getting sloppy, you are not.

“How- How are you not exhausted…” Phainon pants roughly as you hit a particularly hard strike at him, his own sword barely blocking the strong hit.

“Because I'm not like you.” Is all you give. “Do you forfeit, or do I need to cut your head off?”

“You-” He almost snarls, and within renewed vigor, he unexpectedly knocks you on your ass with a swing you couldn't properly block.

Before you can get back to your feet, he holds the tip of dawnbreaker to your throat - and finally gets a look at your face, for the fall has knocked your hood off your head. Your hair, your eyes, they're silver like polished steel as your gazes clash.

“Heh…” You crack a crude smirk and slowly raise your hands. “I admit defeat. You beat me fair and square.”

Phainon catches his breath and pulls his sword away from your throat before willing it to disappear. “Now… I want answers.”

You follow his example and make your own weapon disappear and slowly sit up, no longer bothering to hide your face from him now that he has seen it. “Very well. As we agreed on, you ask, and I shall reply with nothing but the truth.”

The Chrysos Heir nods and takes a breath. “Are you really from beyond the sky?”

“Yes.”

“What's your real name? I doubt it's mercy or Panacea. You said yourself, the latter has been given by the people.”

You hum and relent, telling him your real name at last.

He blinks, then nods.

“However, I would prefer you keep it to yourself. To everyone, I am Panacea.”

“I shall respect your wish.” He nods, then continues. “Now, next question… where do your powers really come from? They don't add up to what we know about our Titans at all.”

“Ah… that's going to be tricky, but let me break it down for you as easily comprehensible as possible, Chrysos Heir.” You begin, “Beyond Amphoreus, other worlds are influenced by Aeons. Call them gods, if you will. Might be easier to imagine it that way. They reside over paths, and paths give the people powers.”

Phainon nods, obviously mulling over your words as you speak.

“One of those Aeons is Yaoshi, the Abundance. In short, THEY are a gentle Aeon. All THEY want, is to spread health and long lives. THEY bear no ill will toward anything. Healers usually gain their powers from THEM.” You preface. “Now, those people are what we call Pathstriders. Those people dutifully identify with the Aeons' will and make use of THEIR powers that have been granted… and then, there are Emenators. Emenators used to be regular Pathstriders who have been directly graced by the Aeons gaze, giving them immense powers and to fulfill the Aeons' will.”

Phainon can only blink dumbly at the massive amount of information you have just dropped on him, but then, he slowly nods. “That's… yeah. I… think I understand. So, you're an Emenator of the Abundance? Which makes you so powerful to withstand even the river of souls? And to heal the ailments of the people?”

“Precisely. I have had the honor to have been bestowed with an infinite lifespan and these golden hands of mercy.” You hum and peel off your gloves to let him glimpse the golden skin that wraps around the very tips of your fingers, and all the way about halfway up your lower arms before gradually fading out into your actual skin tone.

“Wow, they… are oddly beautiful.” He mutters, seemingly entranced by the sight of the odd coloring. “Alas… what is your purpose in our world, Miss Panacea?”

You chuckle. “To intercept the Flamechase, I'm afraid. Which is why I have been stranded in your world for the whole of… roughly five centuries.”

His eyes widen, and he sucks in a sharp gasp of air. “You… stand in the way of the Flamechase? Why?”

A momentary silence stretches between the two of you, as you never planned to reveal your purpose to the very person who stands right at the root of it all. But you made a promise to be truthful, so you tell him. “To prevent you from becoming an Emenator yourself.”

Your words punch the air right out of his lungs, and his eyes go wide with shock. “What- What are you talking about…?”

A sigh. “I really shouldn't be telling you all this… but I made a promise, and I keep my word.” You slowly rise to your feet and look up at the Chrysos Heir's bright blue eyes. “There are so many things you have yet to find out and master, and I can't tell you unless you find out or break out of the cycle… which you haven't managed before. So, all I can safely disclose now, is that you can never lose your way or your meaning… because if you do, destruction will swallow you whole.”

Phainon's gaze wavers as he lets your words sink in, and they seem to sink deep. “I- I don't-”

“You don't need to understand right now, Phainon.” You finally utter his name- but that seems to be his undoing.

He suddenly drops to his knees, and his gaze is just… so far away. And everywhere at once.

“Shit- hey!” You quickly crouch in front of him and reach for his face, but before you get the chance to touch him, your wrists are caught in a vice-like grip. “Ah-”

“You.” His words are low, like he carries the fate of a million worlds… and he does. When your eyes meet again, his are just… empty. And they shine like pure gold.

You woke the very thing you swore to prevent.

“No… No, no, no, this wasn't- Chrysos Heir!” You struggle in his grip, desperately trying to get your hands on him, to restart the cycle, to make up for your simple, stupid mistake… but you can't.

He utters your name. Your REAL name, in that awfully gravelly voice, so heavy with burden. And your aloof demeanor crumbles.

“You opened my eyes.” He says, not letting go of your wrists, “I should thank you for your… mercy.”

The word that usually made you feel like you did good things, like you had purpose in this world, suddenly sent a chill down your spine.

“You truly are Amphoreus’ Panacea. The Merciful. Don't feel bad… or sorry. You finally gave it all back to me. All these memories of thirty-three million lifetimes. And while they hurt, and tear me apart from the inside… all these Coreflames inside of me…” He pulls your hands closer towards his chest, “Please, Panacea, do me the favor and let me keep them. Let me keep the pain and the sorrow, and soothe the ache all those cycles put me through. So we can build a new variable. One without the world ending the way it always did.”

You try to fight his pull, try to resist- even with you being an Emenator, your Aeon is a gentle soul, and THEY would never turn a blind eye to the people's suffering… so you relent.

“Forgive me, Merciful Medicus…” You utter under your breath as you let your palms land flat on the Chrysos Heir's chest, letting your powers mend his inner turmoil and calm the pain and sorrow he's been carrying for millions of lifetimes.

Phainon lets out a heavy sigh, like you just lifted a continent off his chest, and he eases up more and more as you mend his battered soul.

Once there's nothing more for you to fix, his grip loosens, and you let your hands fall to your sides, your gaze finding him once again… and he looks content.

“Thank you, mercy.” He mutters and reaches out to touch your face - and it's so gentle. “I remember it all. The moment you entered the cycles. The way you had your eye on us all, intercepted when it got dire. But no one ever recognized it at all. You've been a shadow I couldn't put a finger to, but now… you're here. Again. With me.”

Your face burns at the recognition in his words. It's almost embarrassing for you to think about it, how embarrassingly fast you took a liking to him when you entered this world.

But how could you not? He's always been so bright-eyed, tender, and welcoming. Never once has he doubted you in any of the past cycles- or at least, in the beginning, when you still actively messed with them, anyway.

After a hundred-thousand and some, you stopped trying to meddle. Stuck to the shadows, avoided the Chrysos Heirs, tried to let Phainon handle it himself… but it always ended the same.

He killed them all, but not once during those thirty-three million, five-hundred-thousand something cycles, did he lose the love for his friends.

Not once did he grow cold and apathetic to their deaths. No matter how many times he cut them down and tried to fight the new era.

Until now.

This cycle is different, because this time, despite the others having claimed their coreflames, nobody died.

Sure, Castorice returned to the Nether Realm, but she's still there.

Mydei didn't lose against the Flame Reaver.

Hyacine didn't have to become one with the sky to aid her friends.

Aglaea never had to end her life.

Anaxa's soul had been fixed, his body strengthened.

Trianne never had to face the Flame Reaver's blade, either.

And Cipher? You pulled her back from the brink of death.

And this time, you were the part that brought Phainon's consciousness back all at once.

You, uttering his name, was the end of the endless cycles.

“You are salvation, Panacea.” He says quietly as the two of you crouch between the ruins you were conversing in with Cipher hours ago. “You broke the system, you're the antidote to this wicked program.”

“I- No, this- YOU were supposed to break through on your own! It wasn't my place to-”

He grabs the back of your neck, efficiently shushing you.

“You meddled from the very start… and that was our mercy. YOU are mercy. Our redemption. Without you, this likely wouldn't have ended anytime soon.”

“Phainon…”

He chuckles, then utters your name in return. “You were the very variable Lygus couldn't comprehend. The one thing that shouldn't exist here, and that was our saving grace.”

The look you give him is full of emotions you haven't allowed yourself to feel in centuries. “I just… wanted all of you to be happy. To not have to fear your prophecies bestowed upon you the moment you were born. All I ever wanted to do was to ease the burden, and guide you. Silently.”

“But I'm glad you broke your silence, Panacea.” Phainon smiles, but then it drops. “But you changed… When you first came here, you were so… bright. So expressive and open. And now, for the past- what, three centuries? You closed yourself off. You retreated, more and more. Further into the shadows, less and less in the spotlight, never directly involved. Denied us your guidance, denied ME what we had…”

His words hit like a punch to your gut. Because they're true. When you first arrived, you knew Amphoreus was just… wrong. So you actively took part in their Flamechase journey, wanting to see them succeed and rise.

But you never thought their fates were doomed from the beginning until you encountered the first few cycles. Brutal deaths, world collapse, carnage.

And you couldn't bear it.

“I'm sorry, Phainon…” You whisper, afraid your voice might break should you speak any louder, “But unlike you, I never forgot anything. No reset of the cycles, no less of the pain when the world ended. I died with your companions, and I remember every single death.”

He looks like he's just seen the Aeon of Nihility, so spooked, and so, so hollow all at once.

Then, he looks at you with so much sorrow and whispers your name. “No, please… I- I never knew you died with them… You never acted the part… you never-”

“I never spoke of it, I just pulled back more and more.” You finish his sentence.

“Yeah.” He breathes. “And now that I remember it all… I miss your presence in every past thirty-three million lifetimes. You may have healed the pain and sorrow of having killed my friends over and over, but you couldn't heal my heart - the way it kept longing for you, despite me not remembering. It always felt like some piece of me was missing, like some part of my soul got ripped out of my chest and locked away for me to know it's out there, but never within arms’ reach.”

“Phainon-” You suck in a breath. “If I had known all it took to break your pain was to speak your name, I would've done it ages ago…”

“Please, tell me you're still mine…” His voice is small, his gaze so vulnerable as he hesitantly looks at you and he grabs your golden hands between his. “My anchor, my salvation, my relief- my mercy… please don't shut me out again, I can't bear to be without you for another second…”

You blink away the sudden onslaught of tears in your eyes, and before you even know it, you're giving an almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah, I- I never wanted it to be like this… Phainon… I hope you can forgive me some day-”

He just pulls you closer, one of his hands on the back of your head, and then he's kissing you. Slow, gentle, and heartfelt. All the pain, sorrow, longing, and love pour into it as the world around you both seems to mute and fade into white noise.

The two of you stay like this for a long moment - as if that one kiss would make up for all the time spent apart, all the suffering you went through… but somehow, right now, nothing matters.

Just that he's here, with you. Phainon.

Your Phainon.

Your light in the dark, your new dawn on the horizon, the sun breaking the clouds after a heavy storm as the gentle rays soothe your cold skin.

When you two part, he touches his forehead to yours, and both of you keep your eyes closed, relishing this quiet moment of reunion after literal lifetimes apart.

“You're my reprieve, Phainon… and I deprived myself of you for way too long. It hurt so bad to stay away from you, to observe from afar and play the aloof, alleged antagonist…”

“Come back with me.” He mutters, pulling away just a little to meet your eyes properly, gold clashing silver. “We'll explain it all to the others. No more Era Nova. Just us all, battling the Black tide.”

Your gaze is a mixture of uncertainty and reluctance. “Phainon… What if they don't get it? If they don't agree with our means?”

He says your name, snapping you out of it. “Relax… You know them. Even if it's from past cycles, they never really changed. They're still the people you used to know.”

A shaky sigh slips past your lips before you relent. “...okay.”

The Chrysos Heir grins in response and quickly kisses you again. “We will rebuild our fate, and that of the world.”

“That's… a lot.” Aglaea comments after the two of you had explained everything to the other Chrysos Heirs. From start to finish; the cycles, your presence in Amphoreus, who and what you are. “While I can barely grasp the concept of it all, at the same time, it still oddly makes a lot of sense.”

“I'm sorry we threw you all into the cold water like this… but the second Phainon regained his memories, it was a done deal. No more secrets, no more hiding.” You tell the others. “My Aeon is gentle. THEY could never turn their back on other's suffering, and neither could I.”

Hyacine smiles at you, then steps forward and gently grasps your golden hands. “Miss Panacea, I am truly honored to be able to work alongside such a skilled healer like yourself.”

You smile in response. “You're quite extraordinary yourself, Hyacinthia. But don't fret now, for you no longer have to bear your burdens alone. I will take on those who are too close to Thanatos’ grasp. No more unnecessary deaths caused by the Black tide.”

Mydei stands, arms crossed, and eyes you. No longer with hostility or caution, now that all the facts were laid bare. “I heard that you're a skilled fighter as well. Would you care to indulge me in a spar?”

You lock eyes with the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, and blink. “A duel with the demi-god of Strife himself?”

Phainon chuckles and places a warm hand on your shoulder. “It's his way of being nice. Exchanging blows is how Kremnoans make friends.”

“Huh.” You chuckle, “I accept, then. I already know that you Kremnoans pride yourself in extraordinary stamina and strength. It's been centuries since I've gone blade to blade with one of your people.”

Mydei smirks. “I'll be sure to leave your limbs intact, little healer.”

At his statement, you laugh heartily. “No matter what you do, it won't destroy me. No need to pull your punches.”

A low hum sounds from his throat, and his smirk widens into a grin. “A great opponent at last. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Why don't we head out right away? Phainon can be the judge. I think we should let the others digest all we dumped on them in the meantime.” You say and look at Aglaea, Tribbie, Hyacine, and even Anaxa.

They all nod without hesitation, so Mydei, Phainon, and you all trudge away to the outskirts of Okhema, big enough for a comfortable spar.

“Rules?” You ask the crown prince and summon your greatsword.

“We strike to incapacitate, not decapitate.” Is all he says, before charging at you.

.

.

.

How long you battle? You don't know. Only that Mydei had managed to land hits quite often, but you also managed to score a few here and there.

You're both panting, but not spent, and he's got that feral glint in his eyes. “You're better than I could have imagined!” He almost barks the words as he strikes again, and you block just in time, then swiftly throw him back by slamming the flat of your greatsword's blade against his torso.

The area of effect, added with the momentum, sends him flying back several paces before he lands on his feet with a grunt and digs his hands into the ground to slow himself to a halt.

“Not bad.” He growls and straightens back up. The blunt side of your blade left a broad bruise along his torso, but it's already mending itself. “It's time to announce the final victor!”

Your eyes widen when a sudden onrush of blood-red crystals shoots towards you and ultimately cages you in place - unable to move.

“Ha… Kept your best move for the grand finale, eh?” You chuckle from your little prison. “I accept defeat, Prince Mydeimos. You fought extraordinarily.”

Phainon has been watching the entire exchange with awe - he barely remembers you ever fighting when you first entered Amphoreus, and even when he fought you not too long ago, it was merely the element of surprise that managed to land him the upper hand in combat.

“You're gaping!” Mydei mocks with a loud laugh and destroys your crystal prison, then catches you by your shoulders to prevent you sacking down from the sudden loss of support and plants you firmly back to your feet. “And you, Panacea, fought like a true warrior. It's almost a shame you're a healer instead of a knight, you'd be a force to be reckoned with.”

You chuckle and quietly thank him once you regain your footing, then look up at him. “I only see fighting as a very last resort, you see? I prefer solving conflicts peacefully, without bloodshed, when I can.”

“To be expected of an Emenator of the Abundance. From your explanation, I can see why.” The demi-god of Strife nods. “It never hurts to have another set of healing hands when the Black tide crawls too close to the city, anyway.”

“Well, have I passed your unspoken trial then, Lord Mydeimos?” You grin.

The prince scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Don't call me that… and yes, you did. With flying colors.”

Hours later, you find yourself back at Phainon's place, standing in the entryway as you look around in awe. “This place really has your name written all over it…” You mutter as you smooth a hand across the surface of a dresser. “It's… warm. And cozy. It's so welcoming.. Just like you.”

When your attention returns to the man in front of you, he's smiling softly, his cheeks dusted pink. “You spoil me.”

You laugh and step closer, your cloak long forgotten by the door. With Phainon, you don't need to hide… not anymore.

Without hesitation, like magnets, his hands naturally gravitate to your face to cup gently, and he smooths both thumbs along the peaks of your cheekbones. “How I missed you, my salvation…”

Your own hands find purchase on his stomach, softly bracing. “I won't abandon you ever again. Not when I finally managed to make this all right.”

“Let's just be… normal. Even if just tonight. No duties, no calls to heed, just you and me.” He mutters, his gentle, blue eyes meeting your silver ones - a blade striking the light of the sky. “Just two lovers. Even if just for a little while.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, and you lean into his touch. “Yeah… that sounds lovely, Phainon.”

He smiles a little wider, then slides one hand to your nape and the other tugs you closer by the waist as he kisses you. Gently at first, you reciprocate with equal passion. Your lips move in perfect harmony as he guides you.

“My beautiful sweetheart…” He hums against your lips and slightly pulls back to nuzzle against your neck. “I couldn't wait to have some privacy with you finally… especially after your little spar with Mydei…” Phainon presses a kiss to your neck- and another. “You looked so good holding your own against him out there..”

You huff out a gentle laugh, hands on his shoulders. “Phainon, did that really… turn you on?”

He huffs against your neck and trails his lips along your pulse. “Maybe it did… is that an issue, sweetheart?”

“No.. Not at all..” You hum and bare more of your neck for him, feeling the way he peppers it with not-so-innocent kisses. “I really missed you, too, Phainon..”

Your lover wordlessly hoists you up into his arms, holding you up by your thighs, as he heads for his bedroom. “I remember so much and yet so little at all… we should refresh our memories, no?”

A quiet chuckle escapes you, arms around his shoulders, as you nod in agreement. “How could I ever deny you, my love?”

When he reaches his bed, he gently sets you down on it, still standing between your legs still wrapped loosely around his middle. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” Phainon hums and cups your cheek.

You look up at him, all doe-eyed, and he can't help but sigh.

“You're too pretty for your own good.”

That coaxes a shy chuckle out of you, “So much flattery…”

Phainon hums and pushes you onto your back, hovering above you and kisses you again - a little more urgent this time. His hands are on you, touching, sliding, fumbling with your clothes.

Soon, he's stripped you out of it all, piece by piece, until you're bared fully to him. “So beautiful, my sweetheart..” Phainon mutters and leans in again to trail kisses from your mouth, to your chin, down your neck, and your chest. He pays extra attention to your nipples for a few moments, making you suck in a breath and clutch his shoulders.

“Phainon-” You gasp, cheeks flushing.

“Shh… I got you..” He mutters and presses another kiss to your sternum before he moves lower and lower… until he's on his knees in front of the bed, facing your core - and he groans, low and guttural. “Fuck… so wet for me, aren't you, sweetheart?”

You release an embarrassed huff. “Please, don't be mean..”

He chuckles and leans closer to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then bites down into the soft meat of it. Your leg jerks with a gasp. “Phai-”

“Shh..” He shushes you once again before he grabs your thigh and places it on his shoulder, baring more of you. “Let me spoil you a little, my love..”

You can only whine and throw your head back onto his bed as he leans in closer to your soaked cunt. Your choked out moan is all he needs to really get going as he starts lapping at you like a man starved. Phainon keeps your leg hoisted securely on his shoulder as he sucks and licks at your pussy, indulging himself in your wet heat.

And he's messy. Your slick coats his lips and chin as he shoves his tongue into your weeping hole, then alternating to close his lips around your clit and suckle on it.

You don't know what to do- your body wants to get away, but also closer at the same time as you reach down to bury a hand in his soft, white hair as he drinks you in like he hasn't had anything in weeks. And you can't stay quiet.

Every time you moan, whine, or squeal, he only goes harder with a crude smirk against your pussy.

“Oh- Phainon, I-” You tremble, so close.

“Yes, sweetheart, go ahead. Be good for me and cum.” He groans into your cunt and focuses fully on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue across it- before it throws you right over the edge, and your body locks up.

Your jaw goes slack in a silent scream as he licks you through it, keeping your legs open and pressing your hips down as he doesn't stop his assault on your increasingly sensitive nub. You're panting, chest heaving and teary-eyed from the stimulation. “Phai- Phainon! Fuck!”

He finally pulls back and gently sets your leg back down on the bed and licks his lips. “Did so good for me, baby…”

You look at him as he slowly rises back to his feet and starts to undress as well. “Think you can give me another?”

A sharp gasp sounds from you when he's finally bared, too. “By the Aeons…” You mutter to yourself, the sheer size of him making you nervous.

“Don't look so nervous, sweetheart, you can take it.” Phainon chuckles and slowly crawls on top of you and leans down to kiss you again - giving you a taste of yourself. You whine and wrap your arms and legs around him, feeling the tip of him nudging your still sensitive cunt.

“Y- Yeah…” You breathe out, “Trust you..”

Phainon smiles sweetly and kisses you again, and you feel him shift as he slowly pushes his thick cock into you - bit by bit, not rushing at all and giving you the time you need to adjust.

As soon as he's fully sheathed, he lets out a shaky groan and rests his forehead on yours. “You feel amazing, baby…” He mutters, barely able to stay still.

You're panting again, trying to accommodate the stretch. “Aeons, Phainon… you feel like you're up in my guts-”

“Don't say that.” He almost snaps, and when you look into his eyes again, they're gold. “It's already hard not to pound you senseless, so don't say stuff like that when I'm trying so hard to keep it together.”

Your breath hitches. “Love… Please-”

He slowly pulls back, and then snaps his hips against yours. Hard.

The motion punches a mixture of a yelp and a moan out of you, legs locking tight around his middle and nails clawing at his shoulders. “Phainon!”

He groans and keeps thrusting; pulling out and slamming back in, like he's got a point to prove. “That's right… Scream my name, baby… Gonna make you feel so good…”

A whimper tears through your throat when he momentarily pauses to shift your position - unhooking one of your legs from his middle to instead bend it toward your torso and trapping you under him like that. “So deep-”

“That's right, beautiful. You feel that? I'm gonna make sure your body remembers the shape of me long after we're done.” Phainon almost growls as he resumes his relentless thrusts, hitting you in all the right places, and you can't stay quiet, even if you wanted to. “C'mon baby… give me another… let me feel you squeeze around me..”

“Oh fuck! Phai-” You squeal when you feel his thumb rubbing at your clit, driving you over the edge a second time. You clamp up, squeezing his cock tight, barely giving him room to move as you gush all over him.

“Hah… shit..” He groans and ruts into your tight cunt until he presses impossibly close and spills. The warmth of it has you twitching and whining. “All mine… my beautiful sweetheart…” Phainon mutters and leans in to cover your face in sweet kisses. “We'll never be apart again…”

You catch your breath and tighten your arms around his shoulders to kiss him. “Never again. We broke your cycles, and I'll aid you in every way possible… My new dawn.”

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[tsukimirecs]

levi ackerman // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

you’re drunk and ridiculous (and he can’t trust you with anyone else)

gestures

no funny business

as the spark dies

wild card

dust, diamonds

dirty money

nobody's fault but mine

traditions

time

the wife

crush

percolate

petals inked in red

spite

one million to one

power trip

ghost

silent treatment

love hate me

as the world caves in

two faced

bad romance

garden of tulips

plans

and when i see you smile, the clouds will clear

ghostly greetings

safe haven

panacea

sayonara

“may i?”

his wounded heart beats for one

beneath the pages

respite on black waters

galaxies past

overwhelming

[vampyrsm]

‣‣ COR UNUM MASTERLIST | その時が来た

‣‣ Synopsis: A tale of how the Shogun's daughter ends up in the maw of one of the most fierce curse users to ever exist.

‣‣ Cross-posted on AO3 ‣‣ Final Word Count: 217,624 ‣‣ Status: Completed ‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader ‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Cannibalism, set in Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, mentions of Buddhism/religion in general, sexism, eventual smut, slowburn, dead bodies, descriptions of wounds, era-specific violence & views, dismemberment, female reader, reader is not a pushover, reader is the Shogun's daughter, reader knows how to use a sword, Sukuna is at the start of his reign as King of Curses, cursed spirits, body horror, each chapter will have its own warnings, warnings to be updated/added, not beta-read, no happy ending.

‣‣ Part ONE — Tsukuyomi 月読 ‣‣ Part TWO — Susanoo スサノオ ‣‣ Part THREE — Izanami イザナミ ‣‣ Part FOUR — Izanagi 伊邪那岐命 ‣‣ Part FIVE — Kuraokami 闇龗 ‣‣ Part SIX — Kuebiko 久延毘古 ‣‣ Part SEVEN — Hachiman 八幡神 ‣‣ Part EIGHT — Kagutsuchi カグツチ ‣‣ Part NINE — Kangiten 歓喜天 ‣‣ Part TEN — Shinigami 死神 ‣‣ Part ELEVEN — Tamonten 毘沙門天 ‣‣ Part TWELVE — Daikokuten 大黒天 ‣‣ Part THIRTEEN — Inari Ōkami 稲荷大神 ‣‣ Part FOURTEEN — Yuki Onna 雪女 ‣‣ Part FIFTEEN — Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真 ‣‣ Part SIXTEEN — Suijin 水神 ‣‣ Part SEVENTEEN — Yomi 黄泉 ‣‣ Part EIGHTEEN — Kōjin 三宝荒神 ‣‣ Part NINETEEN — Toyouke 豊岡姫 ‣‣ Part TWENTY — Amanozako 天逆毎 ‣‣ Part TWENTY-ONE — Sarutahiko Ōkami 猿田彦大神 ‣‣ Part TWENTY-TWO — Homusubi 火産霊 ‣‣ Part TWENTY-THREE — Hanami 花見 ‣‣ Part TWENTY-FOUR — Bishamonten 毘沙門 ‣‣ Part TWENTY-FIVE — The Final Chapter ‣‣ Part TWENTY-SIX — The Epilogue

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[redtsundere-writes]

MMA Fighter!Sukuna Ryomen x Coach!Female Reader

summary -

Sukuna Ryomen, the King of the Ring, is a world champion with anger issues. It's believed by many that he is untrainable. Yeah, you can't train him, but you can dominate him. Author's Note: This is a remix of the story from manhwa Jinx written by Mingwa and the characters from the manga Jujutsu Kaisen written by Gege Akutami. The plot of any story will not be copied, but some elements are kept.

status - completed (editing)

word count - 59k

warnings - Sukuna Ryomen is a warning in itself. Sukuna is an egocentric piece of shit. Sport Violence. Ending Career Injuries. Referenced Rape. Misogyny. Sexual Harassment. Messy breakups. Family drama. Angst. Explicit Smut. Alcohol Abuse.

genre/tags - Modern Setting. Jinx AU (the manhwa, not the LoL charcater) Teacher/Student relationship. Work Crush. Idiots In Love. Love Triangle. Sukuna is in human form. Sukuna, Choso and Yuuji are Ryomen siblings.

playlist + AO3 + Wattpad

chapters -

Chapter 1 - The King Of The Ring

Chapter 2 - The New Coach

Chapter 3 - Medusa's Snake

Chapter 4 - Our Fight

Chapter 5 - New & Old

Chapter 6 - In My Hands

Chapter 7 - Help Me To Help You

Chapter 8 - Fight For Me

Chapter 9 - Don't Know

Chapter 10 - Doubt

Chapter 11 - The Other One

Chapter 12 - Between Us

Chapter 13 - Last One Before Leaving

Chapter 14 - Champion

Epilogue

A/N: Hiya! Well, I am up-to-date with Jinx, and even tho it's so fun to read, I just fucking hate Joo Jaekyung so much! So, I decided to kinda write my own version with my favorite toxic man. Hope you like it, folks!

© RedTsundere, do not repost, translate, or modify my work please.

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[tsukimirecs]

olympic team hq!! // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works ⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*

atsumu

neon lights (in a world gray) triple trouble drunk mind sober heart green with envy a commemoration of firsts till one of us caves long black anyways, don't be a stranger

kageyama

fate when one door closes stolen kisses miscommunication him?! haunt me volleyball on the brain you can hear it in the silence

sakusa

soft and wet public transit miscarry it's still love drawing our moments bed this victory is mine, and yours touch starved

oikawa

babygirl pinch two stories settle always perfect pain split here's to the sixth time

ushijima

request trust fall atlas bitter / sweet soft, but for you only in time page 304

bokuto

inferior an accidental heroine as loud as you like lucid swept up in the moment heart attack

[nizhspo]

saltwater secrets.

pairing: tooru oikawa x fem!reader

genre: highschool au, slow burn

status: complete

summary: you’re just trying to survive spring 2007— working at a beachside diner, dodging water like your life depends on it (because it kind of does), and keeping the whole sudden-mermaid thing a secret. then oikawa tooru starts looking at you like he sees something. and that’s where the trouble really starts.

notes: h2o-inspired, beachy, messy, and soft.

chapters:

chapter one: girl overboard

chapter two: mango slush girl

chapter three: break the seal

chapter four: close calls

chapter five: sun bleached secrets

chapter six: waterlines

chapter seven: final set

chapter eight: soft serve

chapter nine: scent memory

chapter ten: postgame aches

chapter eleven: almost

chapter twelve: red lights & recklessness

chapter thirteen: borrowed quiet

chapter fourteen: low tide

chapter fifteen: back to shore

chapter sixteen: undone

chapter seventeen: coastal confessions

chapter eighteen: sea-glass promises

[anextinguishedstarx]

Nobody talk to me. I can't take it anymore.

[aerithsthingss]

Teen suguru is everything… look at that, so charming, so boyish

[gojosbf]

[aerithsthingss]

#ohmygodsuguru #mybaby🥹

[emphistic]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈 ♛

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.

This was bound to happen sooner or later.

Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.

During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.

Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was pleasant like this.

You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.

Today was no different.

With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr #cant wait to read this!

[gojover]

above the time.

before he is a soldier, before you are the princess, and in between the titles that separate you, you think phainon might simply be yours.

— pairing: soldier!phainon x princess!fem!reader — tags & warnings: romance, angst, light smut (unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn. childhood friends to lovers!au, royalty!au, secret romance!au. coming of age, first love, love confessions, mutual pining, etc. profanity, class differences, misogyny. — word count: 23.5k — song rec: above the time by iu.

i). When you are young, they assume you know nothing.

There is a boy inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow, and eyes the colour of the sea just before a storm: blue and wild, darting around the room like a thief caught in the act. There is a wooden sword strapped to his belt, too long for his waist and carved with clumsy symbols he must’ve etched himself. He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy peering out the arched window behind your bed, standing on his toes, breath fogging up the glass.

You sit up, clutching your silk coverlet to your chest. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

He jumps. Spinning around, he stumbles over the corner of the rug and nearly crashes into the gilded leg of your writing desk.

“Oh stars, don’t scream,” he says, voice a frantic whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t know it was your room, I swear.”

You blink at him. He looks about your age—nine, maybe ten—but he’s dressed in the dark training leathers of the palace guards-in-training, the sleeves rolled up unevenly, like he’d tugged them up in a rush. His hair sticks out in damp curls, and there is a smear of dirt on his cheek.

“You’re the soldier boy,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The one who knocked over the archery targets last week.”

His cheeks turn bright red. “That was an accident.”

“You lit one on fire.”

He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”

Silence stretches between you. It’s early in the morning—early enough that the sun hasn’t begun its ascent yet, and the moonlight filters through your gauzy curtains, casting silver stripes across the rug where he stands frozen, as though your room was a stage and he’s forgotten his lines.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he says, straightening a little. “I’m going to be the captain of the royal guard one day.”

“That’s a big dream,” you say, lifting your chin.

“Well, I already made it into the palace, didn’t I?” Phainon says, grinning.

You try to glare at him. You’ve never had someone your age sneak into your room before. You’re always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and stiff-backed tutors, and the only boys you ever see are princes visiting from other kingdoms, always polished and dull.

Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.

You scoot over and pat the empty space beside you on the bed. “If you’re hiding, you might as well sit down. Mistress Calypso wakes early. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not going to tell?”

“Not unless you snore.”

Phainon beams. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, flopping beside you with a sigh loud enough to echo. “I hate sword drills. Master Gnaeus makes us practice stances before breakfast.”

“That sounds dreadful,” you say, wrinkling your nose in sympathy.

“You’re different from what I imagined a princess would be like,” he says, glancing at you sideways with his cheek squished against the pillow.

“You’re not what I imagined a soldier would be like, either.”

“What did you imagine, then?”

“Taller,” you say. “Quieter, maybe. Less… floppy.”

“I am not floppy,” he says, affronted, and attempts to sit up straighter—only to sink back down with a groan. “Maybe a little.”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand. It bursts out anyway, small and silver like a bell. Phainon turns to look at you properly then, eyes sharp despite the pillow flattening his cheek. Up close, he smells like grass and horsehair and smoke.

“I meant it, though,” he says. “You’re different.”

“How so?”

“You didn’t scream. Or ring that little bell by your bed. Or call for a guard. You didn’t even look scared.”

“I am scared,” you say solemnly, then lean closer and whisper, “You’ve got a sword.”

Phainon scoffs, lifting the wooden hilt an inch from his belt. “It’s not even sharp. Watch.”

He draws it with a flourish—too quickly, catching the edge of your coverlet and nearly decapitating one of the embroidery swans. You both freeze. Then you burst into laughter, rolling onto your back as Phainon fumbles the sword back into place, mortified.

“You’re not very good at using it,” you declare between gasps.

“I’m a knight-in-training,” he insists, and you’re not sure whether he’s more annoyed or embarrassed. 

“You’re going to make an excellent captain one day,” you say, and this time you mean it, not as a tease but as something quiet and true. “You’ve already snuck past five guards and a chambermaid to get in here.”

“Six guards,” he corrects proudly. “And the chambermaid was asleep. I left a biscuit on her tray so she wouldn’t be too cross.”

You smile. “That was kind of you.”

Phainon shrugs, but his cheeks are turning pink again. “Is it alright if I hide in here more often? It’s peaceful. Smells nicer than the barracks, too.”

“What do the barracks smell like?”

“Feet. And soap. And Gaius, who eats too many onions and sweats in his sleep.”

“Ugh.” You grimace.

“Exactly.” He yawns, eyes fluttering. The adrenaline is wearing off, you can tell. His limbs are getting heavy. “Your bed’s nice, too. Like a cloud. I bet princesses don’t have to wake up before dawn.”

“I do,” you sigh. “To learn embroidery and dance steps and which fork to use at state dinners.”

The boy—your friend, now, you suppose—shakes his head in solidarity. “We should run away.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. The stables. Or the forest. I’ll bring my sword, and you can bring snacks.”

You glance at him. His lashes are long. One of them has a bit of fuzz caught in it. “What if we get caught?”

“Then I’ll protect you,” he says sleepily.

You decide you quite like the sound of that. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten. The first birds begin to chirp.

You reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it over the both of you, just enough to shield him from the dawn. “Go to sleep, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I’ll wake you before Mistress Calypso comes.”

Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.

(You end up falling asleep, too, and only wake when Mistress Calypso shakes your shoulder with a fond—if exasperated—frown and reprimands you for sleeping in late. The mattress beside you is cold.)

“I won’t fall asleep this time, I swear it!”

You squint at him through the veil of sleep still clinging to your lashes. Phainon is back, dirtier than before, with a fresh scrape on his cheek and leaves in his hair, as though he wrestled a tree on his way in. He crouches by the edge of your bed, grinning like he didn’t vanish without a word the first time.

“You told me you’d wake me up before Mistress Calypso came!” he says. “I nearly got caught. And Master Gnaeus gave me a talking-to for sneaking out of the barracks in the night.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“I had to dive into a laundry basket,” Phainon huffs, flopping onto the carpet. “A laundry basket. Full of damp sheets.”

You try to hold in a laugh. You really do. But it escapes in a small, muffled burst, and once it’s out, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake beneath your blanket, and Phainon turns his head to glare at you from the floor, betrayed.

“It wasn’t funny,” he says. “I smelled like lavender and mildew all day.”

“You smell like moss now,” you say in between giggles, pointing at a leaf stuck behind his ear.

He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.

Still grinning, you lean over and pluck it out for him. Your fingers brush his curls for only a second, but it’s enough to make something fizz strangely in your chest. Phainon must feel it too, because he goes very still, eyes flicking to yours.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You wait. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic. 

“And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend,” he adds, finally. “Or that I was in trouble. Or that I didn’t want to come back.”

Your fingers curl into your blanket. “I didn’t think that.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you want the pillow this time?” you ask, scooting to one side of the bed.

Phainon lights up like a lantern. “Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

You throw a cushion at him. He catches it, and then he clambers in beside you, wriggling under the corner of your blanket. You both lie on your sides, facing each other, noses a breath apart.

Outside, the wind rattles against your window panes. Inside, your shared silence is warm. 

“I really won’t fall asleep this time,” he promises, blinking slowly.

You smile at him, drowsy, and mumble, “Me too.”

(“Stars above,” comes a voice, fond and faintly amused. “Gnaeus, come look.”

You stir. Phainon groans softly and buries his face in your pillow. You open one bleary eye to see Mistress Calypso standing beside your bed, arms folded over her golden skirts, lips pressed together in an almost-smile.

A heavier tread follows, and then Master Gnaeus pokes his head into view, all sharp grey stubble and frowns. “If this is what passes for night training nowadays, I’ll eat my scabbard.”

Phainon jerks awake at that, sits bolt upright, and nearly knocks his forehead into yours. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean I was just—”

“Hush, little boy,” Mistress Calypso says, waving a hand with a smile so maternal, it could unmake gods. “No one is turning you into stew.”

“You should be running laps,” Master Gnaeus mutters, squinting at you both. “Instead you’re sneaking into the princess’ chambers like some scruffy raccoon.”

“He didn’t sneak,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “He was invited.”

“Oh, pardon me,” the captain of the royal guard says, mock-offended. “I didn’t realise he needed your permission, little princess.”

Mistress Calypso nudges him with her elbow. “Stop scowling, old wolf. You’re just jealous no one invites you to secret sleepovers.”

Master Gnaeus grunts but doesn’t deny it. He watches the two of you for a long moment—your hair mussed from sleep, Phainon trying to smooth his tunic into something that looks presentable—and then sighs through his nose like it pains him to find this sight charming. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds in ten minutes, mud-boy,” he says, turning away. “No excuses. Not even royal ones.”

Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.

Mistress Calypso’s gaze melts into warm affection as she adjusts the corner of your blanket. “Don’t let him make a habit of it,” she says, voice ripe with mischief, before turning and following Master Gnaeus outside your chambers.

Phainon hovers by the edge of your bed, sheepish. “I’ll come back tonight.”

“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.

He grins.)

Weeks pass, and then months, and years, and before you know it, you have more responsibilities thrust upon your shoulders.

Mistress Calypso teaches you about the bleeding that occurs once every moon, about the blossoming of youth. She speaks gently but frankly, brushing your hair back with fingers that have seen a dozen girls come of age before you. You try not to flinch at how grown-up it all sounds.

Your dresses get longer. Your voice becomes more measured. The halls you once ran through with muddy slippers are now places you walk with your chin held high and your hands folded neatly at your front. Even your laughter has changed—no longer loose and careless, but quiet and reserved, meant to be polite rather than real.

Phainon changes too.

You hear of it more than you see it, through whispers in the halls and idle remarks from the guards. He’s fast, they say, too fast for someone who’s only eighteen. He’s clever with a blade, and quicker with his words; reckless, often, but brilliant. Master Gnaeus’ favourite headache.

The maids speak of him more airily, with giggles and cheeks dusted pink. He’s too pretty for a boy with dirt on his cheeks and calluses on his hands, they say. He smiles as though he’s got more than enough happiness for everyone to share, and walks like the world already belongs to him. Mistress Calypso calls him a menace with more than enough charm to spare, but her eyes always twinkle when she talks about him, as though she remembers the mornings where she would find both of you tucked into your blanket together.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch glimpses of him from the tower windows: a blur of movement on the training grounds, sweat-slick hair clinging to his neck, his tunic darker from exertion. You never call out. It wouldn’t be proper. He never looks up.

It becomes easier, in time, to pretend that’s enough.

But one day, when the afternoon sun glows warm against the stone and the air carries the scent of crushed grass and coming rain, you find yourself standing for longer than usual by the window. Down below, the soldiers run drills in neat lines, their movements sharp and practiced. Phainon is among them. You spot him immediately. His posture is looser than the others’, less rigid, as if the rules don’t apply to him in the same way. His strikes are precise, his footwork quick, and even when he missteps—just once—he recovers with a grin and a flourish that earns him a clipped bark from Master Gnaeus and a smothered laugh from the younger boys.

Your fingers curl against the sill. You turn from the window before he finishes the set, something fluttering too hard in your chest to name. When you find Mistress Calypso in the solar, you surprise even yourself with your question.

“May we walk in the grounds today?”

She blinks at you, embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. “The gardens again?”

“No,” you say, and then, quieter, “Past them.”

Her brows rise but she doesn’t press. “Very well,” she murmurs, “but wear your hood. And don’t dawdle.”

You don’t. Your footsteps are eager, your heart beating a rapid staccato against your ribs. Mistress Calypso nearly trips over the hem of her skirts trying to keep up with you, and only then do you slow your pace.

It’s strange, walking so close to the training fields—stranger still to do it on purpose. The clang of steel and barked commands fills the air, but you keep your chin high and your steps even, even when your gaze shifts.

You spot him across the yard—older, taller, with broader shoulders and a sharpness to his movements that startles you. He’s sparring with someone larger, someone stronger, but Phainon doesn’t falter. He fights with all the wildness he used to bring to your bedtime stories, all the fire you remember from summer nights long past.

And then he stumbles—on purpose, you think, because in the next breath he ducks beneath his opponent’s swing and knocks the wooden blade from their hands. He laughs and shakes his opponent’s hand good-naturedly anyway.

Your chest aches.

Phainon turns, wiping sweat from his brow—and freezes when he lays eyes upon you.

You look away first, heat blooming at the base of your throat, but Mistress Calypso only huffs a quiet breath beside you. “I should speak with Master Gnaeus about the training rota,” she says, already stepping away. “Stay on the path. Don’t let your feet wander where your thoughts do.”

You nod, but she’s already moving, skirts sweeping behind her. You glance down again. Phainon is closer now, walking towards the edge of the field with a slow, lazy gait that you think is deceptive to his swiftness.

“Princess,” Phainon calls, just loud enough for it to reach you. His voice is deeper now, roughened like sandpaper against what you remember he used to sound like. “I thought you forgot how to look at me.”

“I haven’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I just forgot what you looked like.”

He laughs at that, ducking under the fence railing. “Well, I’ve gotten handsomer. Taller, too.”

You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”

“That, too,” he agrees, grinning. “But I can’t be blamed. I’ve been told I’m Master Gnaeus’ worst nightmare and his finest pupil. Possibly in that order.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, folding your hands in front of you and trying to still the ache in your chest.

He studies you now, something softer threading into his expression. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

“Not all of it’s bad,” Phainon says, squinting at you. “You stand straighter now. You don’t stumble over your words when you’re angry.”

“I never did,” you murmur, lifting your chin.

“My mistake. You were always very dignified. Even when you threw a candlestick at my head.”

“That was once.”

“Twice,” he corrects, “but who’s counting?”

You laugh a little, soft, and it eases something in your chest. For a moment, he just looks at you—not in the way the courtiers do, calculating and distant, or the way the maids do, fawning and fearful. Phainon looks at you like someone who’s known you muddy-kneed and sleep-mussed and still thinks the sight of you in silks is something worth staring at.

He rubs the back of his neck. “They’re changing your guards, soon.”

“How do you know that?” you ask.

“I overheard Master Gnaeus talking to your father,” he replies.

You frown. You only ever see your father at mealtimes, because being the king and queen of a kingdom is tough work. Busy as he was, he still used to feed you peas and carrots and tickle your sides until you giggled, when you were much younger. 

The older you get, the less you see of him. Your mother passed away whilst giving birth to you; your father focuses on managing his kingdom. Mistress Calypso, your nurse since birth, is the closest maternal figure you’ve had.

“Is it for a reason?” you ask.

“They’re saying it’s precautionary. Something about tightening security.” His tone stays easy, but his expression flickers. “Gnaeus will choose them himself.”

“And what are you telling me this for?” you say, pressing your fingers together, tight.

Phainon leans in a little—not improper, not indecent, but enough that you catch the scent of leather and sweat. “Because if you asked,” he says, low, “he’d assign me.”

“To stand outside my door?”

He shrugs, mischievous again. “I wouldn’t fall asleep on duty. Other than that, it’ll be just like the old times.”

You arch a brow, schooling your features the way Mistress Calypso taught you, though something bright and treacherous stirs inside your stomach. “The old times didn’t involve you standing guard. They involved you sneaking into my bedroom through the window and pretending not to be the one who knocked over the inkwell.”

“Yes, and I was excellent at both,” Phainon says unabashedly.

“You were terrible at both,” you retort, and though your voice is steady, it lilts in a way it hasn’t in months. “You always got caught.”

“Only because you told on me.”

“Because you blamed it on the cat.”

“That cat had it coming.”

You almost smile, and turn your gaze back to the training grounds, where the other boys are starting up again. Phainon follows your glance, but his eyes are already half on you.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly.

You don’t look at him, but the wind catches your cloak and lifts it slightly. The sun warms your cheek. “Mean what?”

“That I’d take the post. If you asked.”

Your throat works around a sudden lump. “It wouldn’t be your decision.”

“No. But you’ve always had a way of… making things happen.”

You do look at him then. His smile is subdued now, and something in his eyes—not fire, but resolve—burns steadier than it did in the boy who declared he would be captain of the guard as soon as he met you. It would be selfish of you to say yes. It would be reckless to want him near, not as a guard or a shadow by your door, but simply as himself.

“It would be improper,” you say.

He nods, accepting the words. But his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “A lot of the world is. Doesn’t mean we don’t live in it.”

You open your mouth to say something, then close it. The path is still quiet, though you see Mistress Calypso crossing the grounds to come back to you. The scent of rain is stronger now.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

Phainon steps back and bows. “Then I’ll wait.”

You watch him go until he reaches the far end of the field, and his figure blurs again into motion and shouts and sweat and steel. Mistress Calypso joins you and, guiding you by your elbow, ushers you back into the palace walls, fretting about the possibility of rain.

(You think, just maybe, you will ask Master Gnaeus.)

The next morning, the palace is quiet. Mistress Calypso has gone to oversee the linens, and your lady-in-waiting has excused herself to fetch your embroidery kit. You walk alone, steps echoing faintly through the stone corridors. You know where you’re going. You’ve rehearsed the words in your head all night.

The armoury smells of oil and dust and old leather. You spot Master Gnaeus standing beside a weapons rack, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he surveys the group of boys cleaning the rust from old spears. His presence is imposing, but you know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Phainon, after having had to wrangle the both of you away from each other. The memory brings a smile to your lips; Master Gnaeus had once called you and Phainon as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun.

He notices you before you speak.

“Your Highness,” Master Gnaeus says, his gravelled voice breaking through the clatter of metal. He straightens, folding his arms tighter, though something gentle flickers across his expression. “You’ve no business in the armoury unless you plan to spar.”

“I’ll keep my slippers away from the blades,” you say, smiling faintly.

The boys around you fumble into bows or hasty salutes before returning to their tasks, whispering to each other as you pass. Gnaeus jerks his head towards the back, where it’s quieter, away from nosy ears and adolescent posturing. You follow, skirts brushing the dusty floor. Once inside the small side chamber—a storage room that smells like iron and cedar—you turn to him.

“You always did have that look when you were about to ask me something I’d say no to,” he mutters.

You gather your words with care. “I heard you’re changing the guard outside my quarters.”

“You heard correctly. It’s overdue. Your father agrees.”

“I’d like to request someone specific,” you say.

Master Gnaeus smiles, almost knowingly. “Is that so?”

You nod, folding your hands in front of you to keep them from fidgeting. “Phainon.”

“Of course.” Gnaeus lets out an odd sound, a cross between a chuckle and a groan.

“He’s capable,” you say quickly, before he can wave you off. “You trained him yourself. He’s fast, observant, loyal—”

“—and reckless,” the commander cuts in, raising a brow. “Too familiar with you. Too stubborn.”

“But you trust him.”

“You do know what it would mean, having him stationed at your door?”

“I am not a fool,” you say. “I know what it looks like.”

“Looks aren’t the issue. It’s what it stirs up,” Master Gnaeus says. “People in this court and kingdom live for whispers. If they catch even a hint of impropriety—”

“There won’t be any,” you interrupt. “He won’t so much as look at me in the wrong way.”

Gnaeus snorts. “That’s the problem. He already does.”

“Then make him prove otherwise,” you say, holding his gaze even as your heart—that traitorous organ—races inside your rib cage.

Gnaeus studies you—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow. “That boy’s been sniffing around the assignment list all week,” he mutters finally, more to himself than you. “Didn’t say a word to me, of course.”

“He said he’d do it if I asked,” you murmur.

“Of course he would. You could ask him to walk into a fire and he’d do it without blinking,” Master Gnaeus says gruffly. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of his years and the weight of your request are the same. “Fine.”

You blink. “Fine?”

“He starts next week. Trial basis,” Gnaeus grumbles. “And gods help him if I catch him dozing off or sneaking you sweets. One wrong move, and he’s back in the kitchens peeling onions for the stew.”

A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”

“And you,” he adds, pointing a thick finger at you like you’re ten again and have just hidden a training sword up your skirts, “are not to coddle him. Or distract him. Or lure him away from his post by any means whatsoever.”

“I would never.” You give him a solemn nod, fighting a grin. “Thank you, Master Gnaeus.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You two were as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun—”

“You remember!”

“I remember how much trouble the sun got in when the sunflower followed it into the courtyard past curfew,” Master Gnaeus says, low and thoughtful. “He’s not a little boy anymore, and neither are you a little girl. Be careful, Princess.”

(You slip past the boys and their spears, rushing to the stables where Master Gnaeus said Phainon would be. Your feet cannot take you there fast enough, but you lift your skirts up and urge yourself to move faster. You find him brushing down one of the younger horses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has hay in his hair, and he hums under his breath, soft and tuneless. 

“Phainon,” you call, breathless.

He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees you, his smile blooms so fast, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “Princess. You’ve either come to drag me to a duel or to tell me something reckless,” he says, tossing the brush aside.

You come to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed, not from the run but from the way Phainon looks at you: bright and open, like you’ve brought in the sun with you.

“I asked Master Gnaeus,” you say, “and he said yes.”

“You did?”

“He agreed. You’ll start next week, on a trial basis.” You bite your lip, watching his expression shift. “But he warned you not to doze off or sneak me any sweets.”

Phainon grins, wide and boyish and blinding. “Too late for that.”

Before you can say anything more, he steps forward and takes your hand—just briefly, just enough to squeeze your fingers once, quickly, like he might not be allowed to again.

“I won’t let you down,” he says, low and certain.

“I know,” you say.)

There is nothing you can do to quell the rush of excitement that jolts through your body when Phainon arrives for his first night of duty. It bubbles warm beneath your ribs, a spark fanned into flame, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

He stands in the hall outside your chambers, a far cry from the boy who used to steal apples from the kitchens and blame it on the stablehands. Now, he’s clad in the full regalia of the royal guard: black and silver, crisp and ceremonial, the metal of his breastplate catching the flicker of fire. The insignia of your house is etched into the clasp at his shoulder, a small gilded sun. And yet, there are still remnants of him that remain unchanged—the ever-messy hair that no brush can tame, the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and the tilt of his mouth, cocky but never cruel.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice pitched in that deliberate, court-appropriate register, before giving you an exaggerated bow. “Reporting for duty.”

You arch an eyebrow and fold your arms, trying not to laugh. “You’re late.”

“I was ambushed,” he says, straightening up, “by the cook. I barely survived.” Phainon reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parcel, wrapped in linen and still faintly warm. He holds it out with both hands. “She said you’d requested for apricot pastries yesterday.”

“That’s very kind of her,” you say, and then smile, giddy and childish. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Phainon blinks.

You nod, suddenly shy. “A thank-you. And to celebrate your first day on duty. I’d hoped to deliver it myself, but…” You trail off, sheepish. “The kitchens were busy today.”

He looks down at the parcel in his hands as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, slowly, his fingers curl around the edges of the linen wrap, careful and reverent. The torchlight makes his blue eyes look brighter, and when he glances up again, something in his expression softens, his usual wit quieted into something gentler. 

“You always were the generous one,” he says.

“I wasn’t generous when you broke my reading tablet and—as always—tried to blame the cat,” you point out.

Phainon huffs a laugh, then shifts his weight, leaning just slightly closer. “In my defense, that cat hated me.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when you’re wearing a royal crest.”

“We’ll keep it between us,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Then, softer: “Thank you. Truly.”

You let yourself smile at that. You can hear the faint clatter of boots down the corridor, the echo of a servant’s voice, but here, in the little alcove outside your chambers, it feels like the rest of the palace has fallen away.

“You’ll be stationed here every night?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“Until the king changes the rotation,” he confirms. “But Master Gnaeus gave me the impression that won’t be happening any time soon.”

“Good,” you say, trying not to let your relief show too obviously. “I think I’ll sleep better with you outside.”

Phainon smiles at that—an unguarded thing, a little crooked, a little too fond. “I’ll keep the shadows away,” he says.

You nod, then take a slow step back towards your chamber door, fingers brushing against the iron handle. “Don’t let the candle burn out. If you’re cold, there are spare blankets in the antechamber. And if anyone bothers you—”

“I’ll glare at them until they run screaming,” he finishes, mockingly solemn. “Very professional. Very terrifying.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He holds up the pastry bundle. “Fuel for my duties.”

You open the door, pausing one last time to glance over your shoulder. He’s already stepping into position beside the frame, posture straight and expression composed—but his eyes, when they meet yours, are still bright with warmth and mirth.

“Goodnight, Phainon.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

(When you finally lie in bed, heart hammering and cheeks warm, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to sleep with him just outside.)

Three nights after, sleep evades you wholly. No matter how many times you shift, how tightly you tug the covers over your shoulders, how deeply you breathe, rest dances just out of reach. The candle on your bedside table has long since burned out, and the coals in the hearth pulse faintly. The air is neither warm nor cold, yet you feel restless.

Eventually, you give up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders and knotting it loosely at the front. Phainon will still be awake, won’t he? You smile a little.

The palace is quiet when you open your door, quieter still when you step into the corridor. The flickering torches lining the hallway cast gentle amber light, and the stained-glass windows above them scatter moonlight into fractured gems across the floor. Your bare feet make no sound as you walk.

Phainon stands just as he has every night since he took up the post: beside your chamber door, one shoulder leaned against the wall. He’s not in full regalia tonight, only his black tunic with silver edging and a loose cloak fastened at his collarbone. His hair is, as always, a wild thing—too stubborn to stay neat, despite his best efforts. He straightens at the sound of your approach, though he doesn’t seem surprised.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says softly.

“I tried,” you say, hugging your shawl tighter and crossing your arms over your chest. “The bed refused to cooperate.”

“A shame.” His gaze drifts towards the other end of the corridor, scanning it briefly, then returns to you. “Is this a formal inspection, or am I being graced with your company?”

“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take my chances.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and take a few slow steps closer, until you’re standing just across to him, back to the opposite wall. The stone is cool even through the layers of your shawl. His eyes follow you, not in the way of a soldier watching for danger, but something fonder. Master Gnaeus’ words echo through your head, but you squash it. It is nighttime now, and no one else is there.

You slide down the wall, careful, until you’re seated across from him on the cold stone floor. The hem of your nightgown brushes your ankles, and your shawl slips slightly from your shoulders as you settle your arms around your knees. You don’t fix it. It feels too gentle a moment to disturb with fussing.

“I thought I might find you awake,” you murmur.

Phainon sits down as well, crossing his legs. He watches you without speaking for a long while, his head tilted slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t sleep on duty,” he says.

“Master Gnaeus would be proud,” you agree solemnly. He cracks a smile at that, and shifts slightly so his knee brushes yours. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Are your favourite things still the same?” you ask.

He leans back against the wall and thinks on it. “Some. Not all. I used to think the best sound in the world was the call to market in the city square at first light, before the crowds set in. Now I think it might be the way the torches crackle in the hallway when it’s too quiet to hear anything else.”

You glance at one of those torches now. It pops, like punctuation to his words.

“I still hate wearing the ceremonial gloves,” Phainon adds, tugging at the fingers of one hand, though he’s not wearing them now. “They make my hands sweat and I can’t hold my sword right.”

“You always said they felt like trying to write with wool tied around your fingers.”

“They still do,” he says, grinning. “I still think the kitchens make the best bread before sunrise, when no one’s had the chance to ruin it yet. And I still don’t like pears.”

You press your cheek to your knees, watching him through your lashes. “You used to say pears were fruit pretending to be water.” 

“They are. Pick a side, I say.”

You laugh again, louder this time, and then fall quiet. “And… is Lyra still your favourite constellation?”

“Yes,” he says. “That won’t change anytime soon.”

You nod, something warm and fluttery settling inside your rib cage. When you don’t speak, he adds, “Your turn.”

“I still dip my bread in tea when no one’s watching. I still hate wearing slippers—too stiff. I prefer walking barefoot, even when I’m not supposed to.”

“I noticed,” he says, with a wry glance to your feet.

“I still sleep facing the window,” you continue, “even though it gives me the worst light. I still read by the hearth until my eyes ache. And I still braid my hair when I’m anxious, even if I undo it right after.”

He watches you closely, eyes roving over your features like you’re a scripture he’s memorising. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, and say, “I still love marigolds. Even if they do smell like dust.”

“Because they look like little suns,” Phainon finishes for you, so easily that it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Your eyes meet his. Neither of you looks away. He leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s something cruel about time,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t wait for us to grow into the people we need to be. It just expects us to be them anyway.”

“I missed you,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I missed you, too, Princess. Every single day.”

You shift your hand and your fingers brush against his. “I should get some sleep,” you whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t move. “Will you be able to?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll stay until you do.”

You push yourself to your feet slowly, and he rises with you, less like a friend now, and more like the soldier he has grown into being. “Goodnight, Phainon,” you say.

He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

(What is this aching, this yearning, that settles itself behind the bones of your chest and nestles itself deep into your heart? It pulses with every beat, quiet but insistent, like a secret knocking at the inside of your ribs. You press your palm there as if you could smooth it away, but the warmth of Phainon’s voice still rings in your ears, and the ghost of his hand brushing yours won’t leave you be. 

You return to bed, but the sheets are colder now, lonelier somehow, and your thoughts spin in endless, silent circles. You don’t get a wink of sleep, not like this, and Mistress Calypso tuts over the abysmal state of you come the next morning.

When you describe this strange ache to her, her motherly eyes soften in understanding, and her lips curve upwards in a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear child,” she sighs, and says nothing more of it.)

ii). When you’re older, you think you know it all.

Years pass. You are older now, not prone to childish whims and fancies anymore, or perhaps you are, but you’re forced to keep it hidden. Your father deems it necessary that you sit by his side during court meetings. You are to pay attention and make note of stately affairs, but you are not meant to speak, your father had told you sternly. It had stung, just a little, but Mistress Calypso comforted you by saying that your father was merely afraid you would surpass him in wit and knowledge.

Thus, you spend less time with your needlework and more time in the palace halls, and so, Master Gnaeus had only deemed it fit that Phainon gets a promotion. He is now your personal guard, and the distinction is not a small one. It means he is no longer posted just outside your door at night but follows you throughout the day—into the great hall, the colonnades, the gardens, and even the stifling court meetings where noblemen drone on about wheat prices and border tensions. 

He stands a step behind and to your right, hands clasped at his back, eyes ever watchful. He rarely speaks, save for short exchanges or quiet jests whispered under his breath when no one else can hear. You’ve learned to school your expression well, to stifle your laughter behind the pretense of a cough or a delicate touch to your lips.

Today, the sun slants through the high windows in angled beams, catching dust motes in its golden light. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your posture is impeccable and your gaze is fixed on the speaker, though your mind drifts.

Phainon shifts behind you, just slightly, and the movement pulls your attention like a tide. Even without looking, you can sense him—solid, steady, unchanged in most ways. Yet, two years has carved something finer into him, like a sword honed again and again on the whetstone. His face is sharper now, his presence heavier, though never suffocating. You wonder if he notices the changes in you, too.

As the meeting finally draws to a close and the courtiers begin their ritual of shuffling and bowing, your father rises. You do, too, bowing your head as expected. He doesn’t spare you a glance, his attention already swept towards his advisors.

Phainon steps forward, a half-measure closer. “Boring as ever,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to catch.

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “I’ll add that to my notes.”

He smiles, but only faintly. “You’re doing well.”

The simple words settle in you more deeply than they ought to. You nod, grateful, and start walking, the long train of your gown whispering over the marble. Phainon falls into step beside you, just far enough to be proper. You don’t speak as you make your way down the corridor. You don’t have to; the silence between you both is companionable now, a familiar quiet like the hush before dawn.

But you’re aware, more than ever, of how much space he takes up in your world—and how little room you’re allowed to show it.

So you walk, head high, voice quiet, fingers itching by your sides for something you cannot name. When he opens the door for you and you pass through first, you pretend your heart doesn’t falter.

You are older now. You are wiser. But still—still—he is the softest thought you carry.

“Do you think we can visit Marmoreal Market today, Princess?” he asks.

“Why? So you may see your precious baker girl once more?” you say, allowing a sly smile to play at your lips.

Phainon exhales a laugh, low and amused, as he follows a pace behind you down the corridor. “She has a generous hand with the honey glaze, that’s all,” he says innocently.

“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with too much earnestness to be sincere.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.

“Terrible at many things, Your Highness. Lying is simply the least dangerous of them.”

You shake your head. He’s always been like this: clever in a way that toes the line between impish and careful. He knows just how far he can go, how much he can tease without overstepping. You, for your part, never quite want him to stop.

You reach the landing where the hallway forks—one way leads to the royal chambers, the other to the open terraces that overlook the city. The late spring breeze filters through the carved stone arches, warm with the scent of wisteria.

You pause, turning your face towards it. “Let’s go,” you say, already veering off the expected path.

“To the market?” Phainon asks, ever the guard, ever the rule-follower—but he follows anyway.

“To the terraces,” you amend. “The market can wait until you’ve made your peace with the fact that your baker girl does not, in fact, love you.”

“She doesn’t have to love me,” Phainon says breezily. “She only has to give me free pastries.”

You laugh, startled at the honesty of it, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick towards you at the sound, like he’s collecting it to keep. The two of you walk in step now, no longer master and guard, but friend and companion. There are things you do not say: how his presence is a balm; how his nearness steadies you in ways even your lessons cannot; how in a court full of power plays that treats you as nothing more than a precious accessory, he is one of the only people who speaks to you like you’re simply a person.

When you reach the terrace, you rest your hands on the balustrade, staring out at the sea of rooftops and chimney smoke below. He stands beside you, just close enough to share the view. The wind lifts your hair gently, teasing strands loose from their pins, and you make no move to smooth them back. Phainon leans his forearms against the stone railing beside you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“You’ll get in trouble for slouching like that,” you say.

“I’ll get in trouble for far worse one day,” he says, not looking at you.

The words land between you, light as falling ash and just as hard to ignore. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look out again, watching how the light glimmers off the glass domes and copper roofs of the kingdom. It’s beautiful in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening and the air warming with the promise of summer.

“Would you ever leave?” you ask.

“Yes,” Phainon says, after a moment. “If it was the right reason. If it meant protecting something, or someone, I care about.”

When you breathe, the air catches in your chest and stays there, unmoving. “And would you come back?”

Phainon tilts his head towards you. “That depends. Would you want me to?”

You finally turn to look at him, the wind catching the hem of his cloak and the light catching in his eyes. He’s not smiling now.

“I don’t think I’d like the palace very much without you,” you admit. The words are too small for what you mean, too fragile—but they’re what you can give, and he seems to understand that. His gaze softens. Something in his expression shifts, like the drawing of a curtain.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay,” he says, and you think you can see the trace of a smile return, though it’s smaller than usual.

You lower your gaze before you can say something foolish. Before you reach for his hand, or let your shoulder brush his, or ask him if he ever thinks about things he shouldn’t.

“Phainon,” you say lightly, chasing the heavy quiet away, “when you go to the market, you ought to bring back something for me. Pastries, or maybe dried figs.” 

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a playful bow of his head. “Though if I bring the wrong kind of figs, like I did last time, will I be banished to the dungeons?”

“Only if they’re sour. Like last time.”

“Then I’ll make sure to taste all of them first.”

You smile to yourself, turning your face back towards the sun. It’s easier this way—to pretend, to flirt with jest and hide everything you mean in the spaces between the words. You don’t know if he feels the same, or if this is all just duty and loyalty gilded in affection for his childhood friend. But for now, it’s enough. It has to be.

(You wonder what happens when a princess and her guard cannot stop looking at each other with fondness.)

“There are reports of the Northern Kingdom rallying for war, Your Highness,” says Master Gnaeus, voice grave as it cuts cleanly through the silence of the chamber.

The candlelight flickers against the polished marble floors, throwing golden shadows against the walls. At the centre of the great hall, the court is gathered—noblemen in their brocades and ribbons, advisors with scrolls and ink-stained fingers, the occasional general in muted armour trimmed with the kingdom’s colours. All eyes are on the man standing near the raised dais.

A hush falls in the wake of Gnaeus’ words. Tension coils in the room like smoke. You feel it settle in your bones, even as you sit perfectly still, hands folded in your lap like you were taught. You do not speak. You are not meant to.

Beside you, your father—the king—does not react at first. His face remains unreadable, cast in part shadow from the sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. He is a man who does not betray emotion easily, whose command is forged from control.

“And the severity?” he asks.

“More than rumours this time,” Master Gnaeus answers. “Our border outposts have reported movements. Small skirmishes, targeting mainly the farmland on the border. They haven’t attacked anyone outright, yet.”

Your father drums his fingers once against his armrest. “What of the Southern provinces?”

“They remain neutral,” the commander of the royal guard says, “but neutrality seldom lasts when coin and blood are promised. The North is testing us. They are measuring how far they can reach before we push back.”

Lady Caenis, ever eager, ever cunning, rises from her seat near the front. Her ceremonial rings clink softly against one another as she clasps her hands behind her back. “If I may, Your Majesty.”

The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”

“We may yet avoid full war. The prince of Castrum Kremnos is expected to arrive at our court in three months’ time. His father has long sought favour with our kingdom.”

Several heads turn at this. The name holds weight—Castrum Kremnos is a mountain city-state fortified by steep walls and a fearsome army, known for surviving three major invasions without surrendering an inch of land. 

“They are not without ambition,” Lady Caenis goes on, “but they are strategic. If we were to offer an alliance, formal and binding, before the North makes its move—before they choose a side—we could secure a military partner unlike any we’ve had before.”

“An alliance of what nature?” your father asks, though you’re certain he already knows the answer.

Caenis smiles with well-practiced diplomacy. “A royal one.”

You are acutely aware of your surroundings: the rustle of a silk sleeve to your left, the distant creak of a high window shifting in the wind, the flicker of torchlight behind the throne. But louder than all of that is the silence that follows. Your name is not spoken—but it doesn’t need to be.

A royal match. A marriage.

You remain unmoving, as you have been trained. But your breath catches ever-so slightly at the back of your throat. You don’t let it show. You focus on the cold edge of your seat beneath you, the feel of your gown’s embroidery beneath your fingertips. 

“A marriage,” your father echoes.

Caenis inclines her head. “The prince is said to be capable and respected by his men. It would be a… strategic match. Kremnos’ military strength paired with our control of the trade routes would ensure no northern force dares to strike. We have a strong enough army to hold off their advances until the prince arrives.”

The weight of the room shifts, as if the very air bends towards your father. Everyone is watching him—but he is not watching them. He is watching you. His gaze turns slowly and fixes on you in full for the first time that day. You meet it, though your heart is thundering somewhere behind your ribs. You have always obeyed. You have always listened. Still, some part of you—that foolish, tender part—had hoped you would be more than a pawn on a royal chessboard.

There is no cruelty in the king’s eyes, but neither is there softness. There is only that strange, piercing contemplativeness, like he is studying you through smoke, measuring something that can’t be weighed with scales or numbers.

Behind you, Phainon is still as stone. The distance between him and you that has always been proper now feels unbearable.

(“Princess,” Phainon starts, later, when he accompanies you back to your chambers. “You’re to meet with the seamstress after the meeting.”

“Tell her I am unwell,” you say, hurrying down the corridor as fast as you can. It isn’t a lie; you do feel ill, your stomach roiling and roiling uncomfortably.

“Princess,” Phainon says again, keeping pace with you. “I understand this is sudden, but—”

“You don’t understand anything!” you snap, harsher than intended. Your words echo in the corridor, clipped and cold.

He falters just slightly, enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightens, though he says nothing. Loyal as ever. Silent as ever. You regret it instantly. Your footsteps slow; the tightness in your chest presses deeper now, regret curling alongside the sickness in your stomach. 

You stop a few paces ahead and close your eyes for a breath. “I’m sorry.”

He approaches again, careful. “You’re not well,” he says, as though offering you permission to feel as overwhelmed as you do.

“No. I’m not,” you say.

He nods once, gently, and then says, “I’ll tell the seamstress you need rest.)

The throne room is overwhelmingly vast when it is just you and your father standing inside it. Your footsteps echo against the marble as you approach the dais, the train of your gown trailing behind you. The light through the stained glass paints the floor in fractured colours—crimson, gold, deep sapphire—but it does little to warm the air between you. Your father watches you with cool detachment from the foot of the throne, hands clasped behind his back. His crown sits slightly askew on the crown of his head.

“I would like to leave the palace,” you say, the words coming faster than you’d meant. You swallow and lift your chin. “Just until the prince of Castrum Kremnos arrives.”

Your father arches a brow. “Leave? And where, exactly, would you go?”

“To the coast,” you say. “To the summer manor. I won’t be idle—I’ll continue my studies with Mistress Calypso—”

“Your nursemaid?” he interjects, a faint sneer in the word.

“She is my governess as well,” you say. “I’m not asking for leisure, Father. I… I feel ill here. I haven’t been sleeping. I find it difficult to breathe within these walls.”

There is a long pause. A crow calls somewhere beyond the windows. Your father regards you a moment more; then, he exhales once, short and dismissive. “You may go,” he says. “There is no use for you here until the prince arrives anyway.”

You flinch, just slightly, but you nod. He doesn’t notice, or perhaps, he doesn’t care.

“You may take your guard and Mistress Calypso,” he says, already dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not have the court talking of you dragging half the palace to the shore for your whims.”

“It is not a whim,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“Is that so? Very well, then. See to it that you leave tomorrow before dawn.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmur, dipping your head even though he no longer faces you. You remain where you are until he disappears into the adjoining corridor, footsteps echoing until they vanish entirely. Only then do you lift your gaze again and let your shoulders sag.

The next morning dawns muted and grey, the sky still heavy with the last clinging fingers of spring. Your trunks are packed by the time the sun crests the horizon, and Mistress Calypso waits patiently near the carriage. Phainon stands beside it, already in travel leathers, a pale grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a sword belted at his hip. He helps you into the carriage without a word, though his eyes linger on you longer than usual—not as a guard, but as someone who has quietly noticed how tired you’ve become.

The journey to the coast takes most of the day, winding down through green hills and old roads, past vineyards not yet in bloom and sleepy villages with bright rose bushes. The sea appears at last like a sliver of melted silver along the horizon, widening with each turn of the road until it swells fully into view—vast and blue and endless, the waves curling like ink upon the shore.

The coastal town lies nestled in the curve of a shallow bay, its rooftops the colour of worn terracotta and its buildings pale from salt and sun. It smells of brine and fish and rosemary, and the narrow streets are paved in rounded cobblestones that shift slightly beneath the wheels of the carriage. 

The manor sits just beyond the town proper, high on the cliffside and overlooking the water. Pale limestone walls rise from wild green, sea-thistle and tall grass climbing up the stones. Ivy winds around the old balconies and shutters. The air here is sharp with the scent of salt and the sea, but it is clean. For the first time in days, you inhale without feeling caged.

Phainon and manor’s maids begin unpacking the trunks, while Mistress Calypso busies herself with inspecting the interior for dust and damp. You slip away quietly, sandals crunching over gravel, until you find the narrow path that winds down to the town below.

You aren’t alone for long. Phainon catches up with you, as he always does. “Princess,” he chides, “don’t walk away like that.” But you smile at him widely and he softens, shaking his head.

The coastal folk are not the court. They do not bow or stare. Few even seem to recognise you.

You pass through the open-air market with your hood pulled loosely over your shoulders, but it’s more habit than disguise. The baker merely offers a polite nod as he stokes his oven; the fishmonger continues haggling with a hunched old woman, and the children dart barefoot through the plaza fountains, trailing laughter. Here, they do not see a princess and her guard. They only see a boy and a girl, walking through streets unfamiliar to them.

Phainon walks half a step behind you at first, out of instinct more than instruction, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. But as the crowd thickens and the scent of roasted almonds and sea-brine swells in the air, the stiffness in his shoulders begins to loosen. A boy juggles apples near the fountain and nearly drops one at your feet. You catch it before it rolls away and toss it back with a grin.

“You should be careful,” Phainon says, though the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “If anyone did recognise you—”

“They haven’t,” you say, tugging him towards a stall where seashell necklaces hang in neat rows. “And they won’t.”

You buy one with a pale pink conch strung between two tiny ivory beads, trading a copper coin from the hem of your sleeve. The merchant gives no second glance; he simply pockets the coin and moves to the next customer. Phainon watches you quietly.

“You’ve changed,” he says after a while, once you’ve wandered beyond the edge of the market, towards a low stone wall that overlooks the bay.

“Have I?” you ask, settling on the wall with your arms around your knees.

“You’re… lighter,” he says, and then immediately flushes, like the word has embarrassed him. “I just mean, you seem more at ease. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

“I suppose my father trading me off to some prince I’ve never met from some kingdom I’ve never seen will do that to a person,” you say. You lower your gaze to the water. The tide has begun to turn, waves curling in slow arcs towards the shore.

“I think,” Phainon says, “you could ask your father to let you stay for longer.”

“He might prefer it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you say. “But it’s still true.”

A gull cries overhead. A boat rocks gently in the harbour, its sails furled tight. The air is cooler now, and the stars begin to prick through the veil of twilight, soft and faraway. You reach into your pocket and pull out the seashell necklace, the pink conch warm from where it’s rested against your skin. Without a word, you hold it out to him.

Phainon blinks. “For me?”

“For the boy who’s always chasing after me,” you say. “Consider it a reward.”

He takes it gingerly, like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. Though he doesn’t say thank-you, he loops it around his wrist. 

(When you return to the manor that evening, Mistress Calypso eyes your wind-tangled hair with something like fond disapproval, but she says nothing—only sets a cup of chamomile tea on the table and reminds you to take your tonic before bed. That night, the waves sing you to sleep, and for the first time in many weeks, you rest.)

“Isn’t it cruel, Phainon?” you say, walking through the market once again, the next week. “I always thought parents were supposed to love their children no matter what. My father did love me, when I was very young, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember.”

Phainon walks beside you in silence, his eyes scanning the street as if the right words might be hiding between the bread stalls and spice carts. The market is livelier today—someone is playing a tin whistle near the fountain, and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the warm air. You pass a stall draped in bright fabrics dyed indigo blue and pomegranate red. Children dart around your legs, laughing, their feet kicking up dust. But all you can think about is how far away the palace feels now—how far away you feel from it.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I only think he loved me because that’s what children are meant to believe,” you continue. “But the older I got, the quieter it became, as though his love faded with time, the way stars disappear at dawn.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “It’s not meant to be that way,” he says. “But it happens.”

“Did it happen to you?”

He shrugs. “My parents were bakers. They had too many mouths to feed to waste time on affection. But they gave me bread when I was hungry and kept me warm. Maybe that was love in their own way.”

“I think I would have rathered bread and warmth, too.”

A wind stirs, carrying with it the faint tang of approaching rain. You tip your head back towards the sky. The clouds are heavy, charcoal grey and swollen, rolling in fast from the sea.

Phainon notices it too. “We should—”

His warning comes too late. A single drop of rain lands on your cheek, followed swiftly by another on your brow. Then the sky breaks open all at once, a sudden, sharp curtain of rain that scatters the marketplace into bursts of movement. Children squeal and dart into open doors. Merchants scramble to cover their wares with linen and oilcloth. You laugh, startled, as the rain soaks through your sleeves in an instant, the hem of your dress sticking to your ankles.

“Come on,” Phainon says, reaching for your hand without hesitation, and you let him, your fingers slipping into his with a familiarity you don’t allow yourself to think about. He tugs you under the cover of a narrow alcove just beside a shuttered pottery stall. It’s cramped, the two of you standing close with your shoulders brushing, the sound of rain pounding the roof overhead.

The rain comes heavier now—thick sheets of it, washing the colour from the sky and smearing the edges of the market into pale, trembling silhouettes. It’s as if the sea itself has leapt into the clouds and poured down onto the town, soaking everything in its path. The cobblestones are already slick, puddles forming in the dips between them. Water rushes in rivulets along the gutter, swirling with petals from the overturned flower cart you passed by just minutes ago.

You shiver, rainwater dripping down your temples. Phainon’s cloak is coarse and rain-damp, but warm. It smells faintly of him: sun-dried linen and leather polish, salt and steel. He undoes it; and wraps it over your shoulders as he fastens it clumsily at your throat, his fingers brushing the hollow of your collarbone, and you don’t move. You barely breathe.

His touch lingers, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he wants to do more. Then, he draws back, expression shuttered.

The alcove is carved into the curve of an old wall, likely once part of the town’s inner ramparts. Its stone is damp and moss-slick behind your back, but you don’t dare shift. If you move, if you speak, you’re afraid everything will spill out—and it’s not the kind of truth you can shove back once spoken. 

You stare at the market, though it’s empty now, save for the most stubborn vendors crouching beneath makeshift coverings. A woman pulls a basket of apples under an awning with an exasperated grunt. A dog scampers down the alley, drenched and wild-eyed. You try to speak—to untangle the knot growing steadily tighter inside your throat—but your voice fails you.

“Phainon…” you say, soft and shaking, eyes still fixed on the grey blur beyond the archway. You cannot look at him.

He doesn’t respond, though you feel him shift slightly beside you. Waiting. Listening. The words are right there: You make me feel safe. I don’t know how to exist in the palace without you. I think I’ve fallen—

“I—” you try again, but your mouth closes around the rest. Nothing comes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak where it bunches at your chest.

It’s too much. Everything is too much. The chill from your soaked gown clinging to your skin, the ache in your chest that’s grown bigger every day you’ve been at the coast, the quiet way Phainon looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—it all unravels you from the inside.

You press your back harder against the stone wall and slide down just enough that your shoulders slump and your knees bend, curling in on yourself like the fragile thing you’ve spent years pretending you’re not. Phainon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch you, either, but his presence is steady and unwavering, as it always is. 

Your breath fogs in the cool air, heart racing and thoughts tangled. You wonder if he knows—if he’s always known—and you’re simply the last to understand what you’ve become, what you’ve come to need.

The rain hammers down around you both. The marketplace stays empty. The skies remain grey. Still, he stands beside you, silent and stolid, as if he, too, cannot speak the thing that lies heavy between you.

(It’s as if you are children again, scolded for playing too long by the fountains in the courtyard. Mistress Calypso clucks her tongue as she pulls the soaked cloak from your shoulders and ushers you through the manor’s side entrance, both you and Phainon dripping water onto the tiled floor. You don’t resist when she pulls your hands into hers and frowns deeply at your cold fingertips.

“Idiots,” she admonishes. “Running around like storm-chasers. Look at you both: half-drowned and already flushed.”

You’re too cold to argue. The fever came on fast—maybe it had been waiting for the first excuse to bloom. Your limbs ache; your skin is too warm and too tight. Phainon’s face is pale, lips tinged with grey, but his hand steadies you at the elbow as you waver on your feet. You don’t make it to your own chambers.

Mistress Calypso directs you both to the same guest room at the end of the east wing: closer, easier, warm. The fire is already lit. One of the maids must have stoked it while you were gone, and the flames crackle gently in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the stone walls.

She has you both strip out of your damp clothing behind a screen, averting her eyes though she’s seen you in worse states since infancy. Fresh linens are brought, and the manor’s softest night things, smelling of cedar and rose. You pull the wool shift over your head with trembling arms, and when Mistress Calypso guides you to the wide feather bed, you don’t protest.

You don’t even realise Phainon has followed until the mattress dips under his weight. “You’ll share,” Calypso says briskly, tucking blankets around you both. “You’ll warm faster that way. Don’t argue; I’ve had enough of your foolishness for one day.”

Phainon shifts beside you, awkward and uncertain, but says nothing. It’s the first time you’ve shared a bed since you were children who knew nothing better. You’re both too exhausted to protest her orders, and truthfully, neither of you want to be anywhere else.

She lays a damp cloth on your forehead, then Phainon’s. Her touch is gentle now, brushing hair from your temples, fingers cool and firm. “Try to sleep,” she says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You nod faintly. When she leaves, the room settles into silence, punctuated only by the pop of firewood and the wind outside whispering through the shutters. Phainon lies on his back beside you, stiff as stone. You, curled slightly on your side, are close enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath the blankets, though not quite touching.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Phainon mutters eventually.

You smile weakly. “They’ve a mind of their own.”

Feverish and trembling and tucked beneath thick quilts like unruly children, you finally sleep, pressed into the silence you cannot name and the warmth you cannot speak of yet.)

“The prince of Castrum Kremnos will treat you well, Princess,” Phainon says one afternoon, as the two of you walk a winding trail that cuts through the windswept cliffside. The sun is veiled by thin clouds, casting a soft, silvery sheen over the sea. “I’ve never met him, but I know a soldier who has, and—”

You stop walking. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you turn towards the edge of the overlook. Below, the sea churns, restless and dark, rolling and breaking against the jagged rocks far beneath. The air is sharp with salt and cold with the promise of another rain. 

“Princess?” Phainon turns to look at you. His voice falters into silence.

“Please don’t call me that,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond, but he waits. Always, he waits.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the breeze tugging at the hem of your light wool cloak. The wind toys with your hair, and curls it at your temples. You can’t bear to look at him, so you look at the horizon instead—where the sky meets the sea, blurred in shades of pewter and indigo.

“I don’t want him to treat me well,” you say. “I don’t want to be treated like anything. That ship will arrive soon, and when it does, I’ll meet a stranger. I’ll smile at him, and I’ll dine with him. I’ll be paraded beside him in silks and jewellery, while the court whispers about how well the match turned out. And in time, I’ll be expected to love him—or at least tolerate him—and bind myself to him before the gods and bear his children in a kingdom I have never seen.

“And none of it will have anything to do with me. Not with what I want, or what I fear. There are other ways to secure alliances, Phainon, but they do not care.”

Phainon stands with his arm at his sides, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. He knows better. Instead, he listens.

You glance at him, then, catching his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound like a sentence to you?”

“It sounds like a prison,” he says, voice soft.

You search his face, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If I did not bear the title of a royal,” you say, barely more than a whisper, “would you treat me differently, Phainon?”

He draws a slow breath, and when he exhales, something in him loosens. His gaze drops to the earth for a moment, and then returns to you. “Yes,” he says. “I would.”

Your throat tightens.

“If you weren’t a princess,” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something that aches, “I’d steal your hand in the street. I’d kiss you when you looked at me like that—when you see something you want to show me, too. I’d braid wildflowers into your hair just to make you laugh, and I’d call you by your name, your real name, until you were sick of hearing it and asked me to never say it again.”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest. His words are simple, but each one is a tether pulling you further into the confines of your rib cage.

“I’d take you dancing at the summer festival,” he says, stepping closer. “Not in a hall with stuffy walls and bowing nobles, but barefoot in the town square, beneath paper lanterns, with music spilling out of open windows. And I’d hold you so close, no one would doubt what you meant to me.

“I would have written poems about your smile, even if I was no good at it. I’d have carved our names into the old fig tree by the palace gates. I’d bring you honey cakes when you were cross at me. I would have walked beside you—everywhere—not as your guard, but as the boy who accidentally climbed through your window and the man who loved you.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t look away.

You take a step towards him, lips parting, the confession trembling just behind your teeth. “Phainon, I—”

The words falter. Your voice breaks and nothing comes. You clench your jaw against it, but the surge of feeling is stronger than pride, stronger than caution. So instead of speaking, you slump down to the ground, sitting down with all the grace of a weary heart. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill.

Phainon is beside you in seconds. He crouches low, but doesn’t touch you—doesn’t press. He simply sits there, knees drawn up, watching the wind rake through the tall grass and whip the water below.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can’t say it. I don’t know how.”

There is no one here, in this secluded spot, and even if there was, the coastal folk don’t know you. It’s this logic, you’re sure, that compels Phainon to wrap his arms around you, tentatively, and draw you to him. You fold into him as though you’ve done it a thousand times before, as though your body knows something your tongue is still afraid to say. His chest is warm, the fabric of his tunic soft, and when you press your cheek against it, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath your skin.

The sea below crashes against the rocks in a rhythm older than names. Overhead, gulls wheel and call out across the sky, and the clouds—those heavy, brooding things—have begun to break apart, letting through faint bands of light. The wind is calmer now. The storm has passed, but something in you still trembles like a girl lost in it.

Phainon’s hand shifts to the back of your head. He cradles you against his body.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says into your hair. “There’s no need to be sorry.”

You stay like that, wrapped in him, while the wind combs gently to the grass and the scent of the sea clings to your skin. Your dress is muddy, and your shoulders ache, but here, in the quiet hollow between cliffs and sky, you are allowed—for the first time in what feels like forever—to simply be.

You don’t speak again for a long while. You let the silence hold you both. When at last you lift your head, his hand falls away, but he doesn’t move far. He watches you with that same unreadable expression—half-guard, half-man—eyes the colour of deep sapphire skies.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know.”

“If I asked you to take me away from all of it, would you?”

He doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to the earth once again, and he holds you close and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

(“I would want to,” he says finally, lips warm against your skin. “More than anything.”)

The halls of the manor are dark by the time you return. The oil lamps have been extinguished, and the shutters latched against the rising wind. The others sleep in the opposite wing—Mistress Calypso, the maids, the steward—and only the distant hum of cicadas and the gentle creak of wood frame the silence as you walk side by side, like children sneaking back in from mischief.

You reach your chamber door, and Phainon stops as he always does. He lingers just a pace behind, like a shadow unsure of its shape. A week ago, he might’ve bowed and stood outside your threshold with the discipline of a man sworn to service. But tonight—tonight, something hangs unfinished between you. Unspoken. Unburied.

You turn the key in the lock and open the door. He begins to step back—but your hand reaches for his.

He stills immediately, and the look in his eyes is not confusion. It’s caution, hope barely daring to surface. You don’t speak. You simply tug, gently, and he follows. You shut the door behind him, lock it, and turn to find him watching you. Your heart hammers, thunderous in your chest.

Phainon gives you that lopsided grin, the one that used to irritate you for how easily it made your guard drop. “My, Princess,” he says. “How very forward of you.”

You arch an eyebrow, walk past him to the chaise without a word, and throw one of the embroidered pillows directly at his chest. He catches it with one hand, chuckling.

“Do all royal invitations come with threats of smothering?” he says.

“Only for the most insufferable guests.”

“So violent,” Phainon teases. “Should I be worried?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” you reply. “That depends on how much more teasing I’ll have to deal with tonight.”

“More, probably.”

You watch him, waiting—for a joke, a quip, another deflection—but he simply stands there, silent, watching you in return. He sets the pillow down carefully. The candlelight plays against his jawline, his collarbone, the faint line of a scar along his knuckle you weren’t witness to him earning. He’s right in front of you. You ache.

Toeing your sandals off, you sit down on your bed, patting the spot next to you. Phainon obliges, unlacing his boots and unclasping his cloak.

“Will you indulge me once more?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course, I will.”

“If I wasn’t a princess, and you weren’t my guard, and we were just two people alone in this room,” you say, unwavering despite the nervousness that flits inside your chest, “what would you do with me?”

Phainon stills, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on your face for a long, measured beat, as though he’s trying to decide if you really want the answer. If he is allowed to say it out loud.

But he leans in slightly, voice low and steady. “I’d start with your hair,” he says, and your breath hitches.

“I’d take it down,” he murmurs, fingers moving slowly, carefully, to the pins holding it in place. One by one, he slides them free, until the last piece falls and your hair tumbles down around your shoulders. He doesn’t touch it, yet; he watches it fall like silk over your collarbones.

“I’d run my hands through it,” he continues, “because I’ve spent months wondering how it feels. If it’s as soft as I imagine. If it would slip through my fingers, or tangle there and stay.”

He lifts one hand, and brushes a lock behind your ear. Your skin burns beneath his touch. “And then?” you whisper.

His gaze drops, and a quiet smile plays at his lips—something almost shy. “Then I’d trace your face, slowly, with just my fingertips. Your cheekbones, your jaw. I’ve watched you turn away when you’re not trying to laugh. I’ve watched your mouth tighten when you’re fighting not to speak your mind. And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you let all of that go.”

“I’d kiss the space between your brows first,” he says, brushing his knuckle there, “because you furrow them when you’re reading. When you’re worried. Then your nose—because you scrunch it when you’re annoyed, and it drives me mad.”

You let out a quiet breath of laughter, and he grins. “Your lips,” he says, voice dipping, “I’d take my time with. You always speak so carefully. I’ve always wanted to see what you’d say when your mouth is only mine to kiss.”

“Your neck,” he goes on, and his voice is like velvet now. “I’d kiss the hollow of your throat, and the curve where your shoulder begins. You hold tension there when you’re trying not to show you’re tired, and I’d kiss you to make you feel better.

“Your hands—they’re so small compared to mine. But they’re strong. I’d hold them open, palm to palm, and kiss each finger, because I want to know what touches the world before it touches me. Your chest, because that’s where your heartbeat lives. I’d rest my head there and listen.

“I’d trace the line of your waist. Hold your hips steady beneath my hands. Kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else dares to be tender. I’d go slow,” he whispers. “Learn the map of your body like a pilgrim, not a thief. And if you asked me to stop, I would. But if you let me…”

“Phainon,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, like your voice is something holy.

“And then?” you ask, again.

“I’d kiss you,” he says, and his eyes flutter open, “until your lips were red, until you forgot how to speak. I’d find every place on your body that makes you shiver, and claim them all.”

Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. You pull him closer. “Do it, then.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t tease. He merely leans in and kisses you. It begins soft, a brush of lips. But the second time, it’s deeper—warmer. It’s as if you’re making up for every time you looked at each other and turned away; every secret glance; every second you stood too close and did nothing.

His hands rise to your face, cradling your cheeks as your mouth parts beneath his, and your fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, dragging his shirt with them. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and you marvel at the heat of his skin, at the strength of it. Every inch of him is sun-browned and scarred, hard-earned.

Your hands find the hem of your dress, and slowly, you lift it over your head. You sit bare-chested before him, skin kissed by firelight, heart beating so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it. Your arms twitch to cover yourself, but you don’t.

Phainon’s gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger, but with awe.

“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so beautiful.”

You duck your head, bashful, but Phainon will have none of it. He closes the space between you again, kissing you like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. His hands tremble slightly when they touch your skin, moving carefully across your ribs, your waist, as though he’s still not sure he’s allowed. You guide him. You teach him.

You lie back against the pillows, and he follows, bracing himself above you. You undress each other slowly, fumbling at times, laughing once when his belt catches on itself and breaks the moment. 

You touch, explore, learn. You whisper when something feels good. He listens. He mirrors your movements, unsure at first, and then with more confidence, brushing kisses over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach, like you’re a language he’s finally been permitted to speak.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow and careful. You clutch at his shoulders, eyes locked to his, you breath stuttering in your chest at the stretch and burn and fullness of it. He goes still, watching your expression, concerned and cautious. You nod.

He presses his forehead to yours, and the movement begins—gentle, uneven, his hands cradling your hips. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. The ache turns to pleasure, a pulse in your core that builds and builds, and the sounds you make only encourage him: little gasps and whimpers, your name on his lips, his on yours.

There are no titles here. No barriers. Only two bodies moving together under candlelight, tangled in silk sheets and first loves.

You cry out as pleasure crashes through you, seizing your limbs, your breath, your thoughts. He follows soon after, gasping into your neck, trembling above you; he is, you think, a man who’s finally been allowed to feel everything he’s been denied.

(“Is it strange that I don’t want the sun to rise?” you whisper into Phainon’s throat. He’s tucked your head under his chin, while his fingers trace patterns onto your spine.

“Not strange,” he whispers back. “Cruel, maybe. But not strange.”

You shift slightly, enough to press your cheek against the warmth of his collarbone. His skin smells like salt and cedar, and something softer—like the sheets between you, like sleep.

“If morning comes,” you murmur, “it all goes back to how it was.”

“I know,” he says. You feel the breath he lets out, the way it lifts his chest just slightly; then, he adds, “But it’s not morning yet.”)

Dawn comes cruel.

The pale light bleeds in through the gaps in between the drapes, casting the room in watery gold. You blink slowly from where you lie tangled in the sheets, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Phainon is already awake beside you—half-dressed, back half-turned, one hand dragging down his face in exhaustion or disbelief, or something in between.

You sit up, letting the silk slip from your bare skin, and watch him for a moment. There’s a softness to his posture, something almost boyish in the slope of his shoulders and the way the morning light outlines the curve of his neck. A purpling mark blooms at the base of his throat—your mark—and something about that fact knots your stomach with heat and something else you dare not name.

“We should’ve slept,” you say, voice rough with sleep.

“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.

“For an hour.”

“Better than none.”

You rise and cross the room. Your fingers brush the back of his hand as he laces up his bracers—not for armour, just for show. “You should go,” you whisper. “Mistress Calypso always wakes early, and if she finds you here, no explanation will suffice.”

He smiles faintly at that. “I know. I dived into a laundry basket because of her, remember?”

You laugh softly, but the sombre thought of him leaving wedges in your mind like a splinter. Phainon seems to realise it, too, because he simply nods once with no protest or drawn-out goodbye; just the quiet acknowledgement of what the world expects. He leans down, presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the inside of your wrist, and finally the corner of your mouth: a promise and a farewell folded into one.

When he slips out, the door closes with a soft click. You exhale.

You move through the rest of your morning on instinct—pulling on a light gown, brushing the knots from your hair, fastening a necklace you don’t even remember choosing. You find Mistress Calypso in the parlour, seated in an armchair with her book on her lap and her cup of chicory in her hand.

“I wish to visit the marketplace today,” you say. “The sea air is good for me, and I want to walk before the sun climbs high.”

“As you wish, Princess,” she says. “I’ll send one of the girls with you.”

You smile. “I’d rather go alone, if I may. I’ve grown tired of fussing.”

“You always were a stubborn little thing,” she sighs.

“Would you have liked me soft-spoken and obedient?”

“Stars, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She waves you off, and you leave before you can change your mind.

Outside, the market stirs to life with colour and noise. The scent of salt and fruit and spice fills the air as fishermen arrange their catch and fabric merchants unfurl bolts of dyed silk to flutter in the breeze. Shopkeepers shout over one another, offering baskets of ripe pomegranates, jars of preserved lemons, bundles of thyme and bay leaf, and combs cut from metal. You walk slowly past the stalls. A younger girl thrusts a petal-stained hand at you, offering a bundle of dried flowers with uncertain eyes. You buy it immediately.

Phainon appears eventually, as he always does. You find him standing just beyond a barrel of olives, his arms folded, posture loose. He wears no armour today, and there is no sword tucked into his belt. He only wears his simple shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a sardonic little smile on his lips.

“Is it dangerous to let the princess wander alone?” you ask when you reach him.

“More dangerous not to,” he quips.

You grin and link your arms together, pulling him with you. You share grapes and honey-coated figs. He dares you to out-bargain a spice merchant, and you do, though the old man throws in an extra pouch just for your smile. Phainon nearly gets pickpocketed by a boy no older than ten, and ends up giving him a coin anyway.

When you walk past the stalls selling sweet loaves of bread, some of the older women smile knowingly in your direction. One offers you a braided loaf of bread with lavender baked into the crust. Phainon insists on paying for it, and the baker swats his hand away.

“Let a soldier buy a gift for his princess,” Phainon says, exaggeratedly courtly.

“Buy it for your wife, then,” the old woman retorts, winking.

You leave with warm bread, a small jar of honey, and cheeks that refuse to cool.

Later, with the heat rising and the stalls beginning to close, you and Phainon slip away from the crowded square and walk down to the narrow, pebbled shoreline. The beach is quieter here, tucked behind a rise of sand and sea-worn grass. Pebbles clack underfoot as you both step closer to the water’s edge. You kick off your sandals, letting the cold saltwater lick at your ankles.

Phainon sits first, knees bent, arms draped across them. You lower yourself beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted back towards the endless stretch of sky. Your fingers graze his over the sand.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The wind plays with the hem of your skirt. A gull shrieks in the distance. Phainon says something, low and teasing, about kidnapping you onto a fishing boat and vanishing into a life of anonymity. You laugh. You tell him you’d hate the smell of fish guts, but your hand doesn’t leave his.

“I could stay like this forever,” you say eventually.

“I know.”

You look at him. “But I won’t, will I?”

“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”

It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.

“Princess!”

You both jolt at the voice—breathless, hurried, and too close. A maid stumbles over the rise behind you, skirts bunched in her hands, cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. When she spots you, her face nearly crumples with relief. “I’ve been looking everywhere,” she pants. “Please forgive me—there’s news. A messenger has come from the capital.”

You straighten at once. “From the king?”

She nods, still catching her breath. “He carries your father’s seal. He’s waiting at the manor.”

Behind you, Phainon has already risen. He’s gone silent again, every part of him falling back into his role: the guard, the shadow. You brush the sand from your dress, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The sea wind picks up, and suddenly, the morning is no longer yours. The world has come to collect you.

You trudge back to the manor, not bothering to fix your appearance. Let the messenger see you wild-eyed and wind-snared. Why should you care? Phainon’s offer of running away suddenly seems ironic, and you bite back the sudden laugh that bubbles up your throat. The maid rushes ahead, her slippers slapping unevenly against the stones, but you walk slower. Your feet drag through the fine grit that clings to your soles, and the humidity makes sweat bead at your temples.

Phainon doesn’t speak. He walks beside you at a careful distance, eyes forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You want to reach out, just once more, and say something small. But you don’t; if you do, you might not stop.

The manor gates loom up ahead, black iron wrapped in ivy, and beyond them, the sun-splashed courtyard where the roses are still in bloom. A shadow waits at the threshold. The messenger is tall and narrow-shouldered, dressed in the king’s colours—deep blue and silver—and he carries a leather satchel with the royal seal. His eyes flick over to you with the barest hint of surprise. You wonder if it’s the sand on your calves or the flush on your cheeks he notices first.

He bows. “Your Highness.”

“You’ve come a long way,” you say, dipping your chin, just slightly.

“I bring a letter from the king,” he says. He extends the sealed parchment, and you take it with hands you hope don’t shake. The wax glints blood-red in the afternoon sunlight, imprinted with the crest you’ve seen since childhood, familiar and final all at once.

You break the seal with the nail of your thumb. The parchment unfolds stiffly, the script inside unmistakable. Your father’s hand: ornate, precise, and devoid of warmth. 

The prince of Castrum Kremnos is to arrive at the capital in two weeks’ time. His arrival must be met with the dignity and preparation befitting our kingdom and future alliance. You are to return immediately and make the necessary arrangements. 

You are not to delay. Your presence is required.

— By Order Of The Crown.

(You glance at Phainon, stricken, wanting nothing more than his arms to wrap around you and soothe away the tension in your shoulders like he’d told you he would last night.)

iii). If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

The prince of Castrum Kremnos looks rather like a brute: long, messy hair, bright golden eyes that rake over your face, robes the colour of red rubies, and strong arms that look like they could crush a boulder. Yet, when he takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your knuckles, his fingers are gentle.

“Princess,” he says, after he straightens up. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

You tilt your head to the side in greeting. “Welcome to our kingdom, Prince Mydeimos. I trust your journey here was pleasant.”

He smiles, and his eyes gleam like coins freshly struck. “Long,” he replies, “but not unpleasant. I do hope it will have been worth the ride.”

You withdraw your hand with care, suppressing the urge to wipe it against your skirts. Behind you, the courtiers shift in interest. Somewhere near the dais, your father watches with thinly veiled satisfaction, his expression the mirror of a man who has already counted his gain.

“Mydeimos,” he says, voice echoing throughout the hall. “We are pleased to host you. You must be tired. I’m sure my daughter will be happy to show you the gardens after you’ve had a moment to rest.”

“If it pleases you, I’d be glad to give the prince a tour,” you say, schooling your expression.

“Excellent,” the king says. “Then it’s settled.”

Mydeimos’ golden gaze flicks to you again, appraising. “I would be honoured.”

The moment the two of you step past the threshold of the great hall, into the quieter, sun-warmed corridor beyond it, it feels like slipping out of a costume. The marble walls hush the sounds of courtly interest behind you, and the breeze filtering in from the open arches smells faintly of lemon blossoms.

You lead him in silence for a while. Mydeimos falls into step beside you without complaint. His presence is large, but not overbearing, his footsteps heavy but measured. The sword strapped to his back shifts slightly with every step, a quiet reminder of who—and what—he is.

When the garden gate swings open with a soft creak, you both step into a world of colour and calm: roses spilling over trellises, white hydrangea blooming in the shade, and the soft burble of the fountain in the centre where ducks often gather in the early morning.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, gaze trailing over the grounds. “Your kingdom is fond of beauty.”

You glance at him. “Is yours not?”

“We don’t have the same luxury of fertile grounds,” he says simply. “But we do what we can.”

You walk slowly towards the edge of the reflecting pool. Mydeimos stops beside a small cluster of marigolds, crouching to inspect one without plucking it. His fingers are rough, but he touches the petals with unexpected care.

“You know why I’m here,” he says after a moment. His voice is low but not unkind. “There is no sense pretending otherwise.”

“The alliance was finalised only weeks ago,” you say quietly. “My father moves fast.”

“He’s trying to protect what he can,” says Mydeimos. “And he thinks a marriage will keep the borders from collapsing.”

“He is probably right.”

He looks up at you. “That doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy it.”

“I have no interest in being your wife,” you say.

“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.

“My heart belongs to someone else,” you say, softer now, “though no one else knows. It’s… complicated.” If you are to be wed to this prince, he must, at least, know the truth.

To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff or sneer. He only nods once, slowly. “Then I won’t insult you by asking if it’s returned. But I will promise this: if we are forced into this arrangement, I will treat you with respect. I won’t make a mockery of you.”

There is something sincere in his voice, you think. Something lonely, too. “Thank you,” you say. “That’s more than I expected.”

He straightens up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I’d prefer to have a friend in this, if nothing else.”

You consider him—messy hair, calloused hands, and eyes like summer lightning—and nod. “I would like that very much.”

He smiles at you, this time less like a prince and more like a boy your age who has also had to grow up too fast. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “At least between us.”

“I suppose it is,” you agree, giving him a smile of your own. “Tell me about Castrum Kremnos, my new friend. I have never visited, though I’ve heard many things about it.”

Mydeimos turns towards the hedge-lined path, and you follow his lead, walking in slow, companionable silence for a few steps. “Many things,” he echoes with a dry laugh. “Let me guess—bleak stone cliffs, soldiers with no tongues, and children raised to fight?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the truth?”

“It’s not the whole truth,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “We do have cliffs, yes. Our mountains overlook the ocean, and the citadel sits high above the sea. It’s built into the rock itself. The wind there howls in the winter and makes you feel like you might be swept into the sea if you step too close to the edge. But in the spring… the fog rolls down like a veil, and everything smells of salt and wild herbs.”

You imagine it: the sound of crashing waves below stone towers, boys training with swords in the mist, women weaving thick wool in candlelit halls. You ask, “And the people?”

“Stubborn,” he replies. “Proud and practical. Not particularly good at small talk.”

You laugh at that. “I can’t imagine how you survived court, then.”

“Barely,” he admits, glancing at you sideways, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m adaptable, even if I’d rather be sparring or riding.”

You reach out to brush your hand against the soft lavender lining the path. The breeze stirs the petals and sends their fragrances trailing through the air. “I don’t think I expected you to have a sense of humour.”

“I’ve been told that a lot.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you laugh again, and this time it feels freer, lighter than it has in days. You almost forget that you had worried yourself sick over this man, feeling so ill at the prospect of marriage that you’d put yourself through a self-imposed exile. But it was worth it, you remind yourself, because you now know that Phainon is yours and you are his.

“I think we’ll get along just fine, Prince Mydeimos,” you say honestly.

He gives you a short, mock bow. “Then I’ve accomplished something today. Although… I have told you about my kingdom, boring as it may be. It is only fair that you tell me something about yourself, Princess.”

The path begins to curve back to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells begin to chime the hour.

“I am madly in love with my soldier,” you say, surprising even yourself with your candour. 

He straightens, clearly startled—but not offended. If anything, he looks intrigued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, the tilt of his head more thoughtful than disapproving. “That,” he says slowly, “is quite the answer.”

You don’t flinch, though your cheeks warm. You lift your chin and meet his gaze squarely. “I assumed you wanted honesty.”

“I did,” he admits. “Though I expected a more… diplomatically evasive kind of honesty.”

“I’ve had enough of diplomacy for today,” you say. “You asked who I am. That is who I am.”

Mydeimos studies you for a long moment. “Does he know?”

“Yes,” you say. “But it changes nothing.”

You expect a sigh, a frown, some bitter commentary on alliances and duty. Instead, he hums, low and contemplative. “Then he must be brave. Or foolish. Or both.”

“He’s many things.” You smile faintly. “Brave among them.”

“I won’t ask who he is,” Mydeimos says. “It doesn’t matter to me, and I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for either of us to say more than we already have.”

You nod in agreement. He offers you his arm, and you place your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“For what?”

“For not being angry.”

“Ah.” His mouth quirks. “I might be. Later. In private. When I’m alone and wondering what sort of fool I’ve been made into. But right now, I think I quite like you.”

You don’t suppress your grin as you walk in silence back through the hedge gate. It is a tentative friendship, not created out of roses and vows, but made out of something oddly sturdier—honesty in the face of expectation, and the quiet understanding between two people playing parts in a story neither of them wrote.

(“Well, Princess,” Phainon says later, when you make your way back to your chambers. “What do you think about the prince of Castrum Kremnos?”

“Must we talk about this here?” you ask, rolling your eyes with fond exasperation.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”

“He is perfectly agreeable, Phainon, but he is not you.”)

The corridors of the palace are quieter in the late evening, steeped in amber torchlight and the sounds of the servants returning to their quarters. You move swiftly, the hem of your gown caught up in your hands to keep it from dragging on the stone. Phainon walks a pace behind you, silent but solid, a shadow at your back that warms rather than frightens.

You slip through an archway that leads into the west wing—a part of the palace few use, half-forgotten in the shuffle of royal life. It’s not entirely abandoned, but it’s private enough. The corridor ends in a small vestibule with high, narrow windows and an alcove half-swallowed by trailing ivy from the outside garden wall. It is, in essence, a hidden corner of stone and moonlight.

You turn to face Phainon as soon as you’re sure you’re alone, chest rising with the breath you’ve been holding in all day. “We only have a few minutes.”

He doesn’t ask if it’s a good idea. He doesn’t ask if you should be here. He simply steps forward, steady and certain, and brings his hand to your cheek.

“I hated seeing you walk beside him,” Phainon murmurs.

“I know.” You lean into his touch. “But I had no choice. My father expects—”

“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”

There is nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant chatter of wind through the ivy. His forehead rests gently against yours. His fingers graze your wrist, and even that is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your chin up, and he kisses you, soft at first, slow and sure. Your hands twist in the fabric of his tunic, and—

You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon. 

You jolt back as if burned, heart leaping to your throat. Phainon instinctively moves in front of you, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade out of habit, until he realises who stands at the edge of the corridor.

Prince Mydeimos leans against the archway, arms folded across his broad chest. His golden eyes gleam in the dim light—far more amused than angry. “Well,” he says lightly, “I was looking for the stables. Imagine my surprise.”

Neither of you speaks. Phainon tenses like a drawn bow, and you feel your shame blooming hot across your cheeks.

But Mydeimos raises one hand, palm outward. “Relax. If I was going to cry treason, I’d have done it already.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, soldier, you’re either very bold or very stupid.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you want to soothe his skin with your thumb.

“Mydeimos,” you begin, voice low, “please—”

“Don’t worry,” the prince interrupts. “I’m not here to tattle like a child. I told you before—I like honesty.” He looks between the two of you. “And this… this is honest, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly.

Mydeimos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. It complicates things, but I suppose it makes my position easier to refuse when the council starts pushing for wedding dates.”

You blink. “You’re not going to—?”

“No,” he says, smiling a little. “I may be considered one of the best warriors around, and not very well-versed in matters of the heart, but I know enough, Princess.”

Phainon finally speaks. “You won’t tell?”

Mydeimos shrugs. “It’s not my secret to tell. But if you value her, soldier, you’d better be careful. The king may be blind, but the court is not.”

The prince disappears with a rustle of his cloak and a low whistle trailing behind him, as though he really means what he said—that he won’t tell. The corridor grows quiet again; the lack of his presence leaves behind a vacuum. You don’t move. Phainon does. He steps away from you, the warmth of his body vanishing as if a door has slammed shut between you both. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and when he finally speaks, it’s not the softness you’re used to—it’s something harsher, brittle and breaking.

“You can’t let him do that.”

“What?” you say, disoriented.

“You should’ve stopped him.” He turns to face you fully now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You should’ve told him the truth—that you’ll marry him. That it was just a mistake. That this—” he gestures between you, his voice rising—“whatever this is, it ends now.”

The words knock the breath out of your lungs. “Phainon—what are you saying?”

“You can’t let him call off the engagement because of us,” he says.

“He said he doesn’t want to marry me if I don’t want to,” you argue, stepping towards him. “He said he understood—”

“He’s being kind!” Phainon shouts. “Because he’s honourable! Because he’s giving us a chance to walk away before this escalates any further!”

“You want to walk away?”

“I want you safe,” he says. “This is not safety. This is selfishness. We are selfish. Do you think I don’t want you? Gods, I want you more than I want to breathe. But if it means your father sees your reputation torn apart in court, if it means Castrum Kremnos turns its fleets away and innocent people die on the borders, then yes. I want to walk away.”

“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.

“I’m not!” he bites back. “I’m as guilty as you are. But you’re the princess. You’re the one they’ll parade down the aisle and pin like a jewel to someone’s throne. Not me. I’m just the stupid son of some village baker with a sword. I was never supposed to climb through your window all those years ago.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” You push past him, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like this is just a lapse in judgement. You don’t get to—to kiss me and hold me and touch me, and—and then just run the moment something happens!”

“I’m trying to protect you!” he yells.

“Then stop pretending it’s about me,” you say. “Stop lying and admit it. You’re scared.”

Phainon freezes. “Of course I’m scared,” he says, low and bitter. “You think I want to watch you marry another man? You think I want to hear the bells ring and know you’re standing at an altar I’ll never be allowed near? I want to kill every man who’s ever looked at you the way I do. But I don’t, because I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m nothing. I’m a sword in your father’s army. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

You’re shaking now, rage and grief tangled together so tightly you can barely breathe. “Then why did you ever touch me?” Your voice breaks. “Why did you let me fall in love with you?”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper of war-torn resolve. “Because I thought—just once, I thought—that maybe the gods had made a mistake.”

“Then fall out of love with me,” you whisper, venomous and hurt. “Go ahead. If it’s for the kingdom, if it’s for the people—fall out of love with me, Phainon. And I’ll fall in love with Mydeimos like I’m supposed to. I’ll do my duty.”

Phainon’s face crumples. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Princess.”

You square your shoulders. You don’t cry. You won’t give him that. “I mean every word.”

(You cry and cry and cry yourself to sleep that night, streaks of saltwater running down your cheeks and your nose. The next morning, there is a different guard standing outside your doors.)

“Do you find this banquet particularly riveting, Princess?” Mydeimos nudges your shoulder, with the same ease he has shown you since your friendship.

You blink, pulled from your thoughts by the touch of his shoulder against yours. The ballroom is a blur of warm candlelight, colourful gowns, and laughter that sounds too bright to match your current state of mind. You haven’t tasted a single bite of the feast. You haven’t truly slept since that night with Phainon. Your eyes flick towards the far end of the hall—towards the empty space near the guards’ post, where he should be. But he’s not there.

He hasn’t been anywhere.

“Sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” says Mydeimos, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been singing a ballad to you for the last five minutes. You didn’t even flinch when I rhymed ‘goblet’ with ‘sorbet’.”

That earns the faintest laugh from you. Mydeimos doesn’t push more than that. Instead, he reclines back slightly in his chair and surveys the grand room as if it’s a chessboard. “I have been thinking lately,” he says.

“A wonderful feat, Prince,” you tease him, and he smiles, just once, quickly.

“Indeed. But I have been thinking about how strange it is… how much power we let titles have.”

“You’re a prince,” you say, glancing at him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Precisely. And yet, I didn’t choose it. I didn’t earn it. I was born with a crown on my name and a sword in my hand and told the world would make way for me.” He takes a sip from his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood amidst gold. “Meanwhile, I’ve seen men sharper than any general be dismissed because they didn’t speak with the right accent. I’ve seen women with more grace than any noble be cast out because their blood wasn’t ‘clean’ enough for court.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell the council about me and Phainon?” you ask.

Mydeimos doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, eyes glinting with something far more serious than his usual jesting nature. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t tell them because I don’t believe love should be a privilege reserved for the highborn. And because… I don’t think either of you deserves to be punished for wanting something honest in a world this rotten.”

You drop your gaze to the still-full plate in front of you, food long gone cold, because your appetite has vanished. “You really think it’s honest? Even when it hurts so much?”

“I think,” Mydeimos says, “that anything worth wanting is bound to hurt. But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

The music swells again, a string quartet weaving a lively melody as men and women line up to dance.

“Come, Princess,” Mydeimos says, offering you a hand. “We must salvage what little enjoyment is left in this banquet, don’t you think?”

You look down at his extended palm, hesitant, and then place your hand in his. His grip is warm. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom, where nobles glide like swans across the marble. The music swells into a sweeping waltz, ornate and majestic, like everything else in this place: grand and golden and only beautiful if you don’t observe too closely. You don’t look for Phainon this time. It already hurts too much.

Mydeimos settles one hand against the curve of your back, the other clasping yours. He moves with a grace that belies his broad demeanour, not stiff like the courtiers who danced only to be noticed, but smooth, fluid, as though music lives in his bones. You let yourself be led, each step a distraction from the turbulence in your head.

“My mother used to dance like this,” Mydeimos murmurs. “Always a bit too fast. My father used to say she was trying to outrun the court.”

You glance up at him. He’s watching the crowd, not you. “She sounds wonderful,” you say.

“There are few things court life respects less than a woman who defied expectation,” he says, eyes flicking to the high dais where the elder lords sit. “Fewer still who remembered her for more than the silks she wore.”

“Your mother was… Gorgo, wasn’t she? Didn’t they call her the Sapphire Princess?”

“Yes. For her eyes. Never for the fact that she broke a treaty engagement and nearly started a civil war because she refused to be sold off like cattle.”

“She was supposed to marry the northern lord, wasn’t she?” you ask.

Mydeimos nods, spinning you gently in between phrases of the music before returning you to him. “She was betrothed to the very man whose army threatens your borders now. But then came my father—Eurypon, the commander of the Castrum Kremnos army. He was a war hero, but he was common-born, and entirely unacceptable for that fact.”

You smile softly. “But she chose him.”

“She did,” he says, gaze finding yours, “and nearly lost everything for it. Her father threatened exile. The court was scandalised. Yet… they married. Their stations were close enough—barely—that it could be spun as political, not romantic. She reminded the court that without Eurypon’s army, her home kingdom of Argyros would have fallen to siege three winters earlier.”

You’re quiet, absorbing this. “She married for strength?”

“She married for conviction,” he says. “And she gambled her kingdom on it. My father was no noble, but he was necessary, and sometimes, that’s all the crown cares about.”

You close your eyes, your mind reeling with ideas now, after Mydeimos told you about his parents. “Phainon, he—he told me he was going to be the commander of the royal guard one day. It was his dream. Master Gnaeus is fond of him, certainly, but he cannot let favouritism come in the way of electing the new captain.”

Mydeimos’ eyes twinkle. “How convenient that you have one of the most skilled warriors of the nation visiting your court, then, Princess.”

(The banquet is not over yet, but you excused yourself early and now, you search for Phainon. You walk fast at first, then break into a near-run, your slippers skidding slightly on the polished stone floors as you hurry down the palace corridors. Your heart thunders louder than the orchestra ever could. You don’t entirely know where you’re going—but your feet do.

Phainon is not on duty tonight, but there are places he goes when he wants to be alone. Places even the guards forget; places he showed you when you were young and guileless. You remember them all.

You find him behind the old watchtower in the eastern wing, where the wall juts out just enough to be missed unless you know to look. The alcove is dim, lit only by moonlight slanting through the high windows. He stands there with his back to you, armour unbuckled and resting on the stone bench beside him. He’s in a plain shirt now, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed.

For a moment, you simply look at him, relief and frustration warring inside you. “Phainon,” you call.

He stiffens, and doesn’t turn. “Go back, Your Highness.”

You ignore the sting in his voice, the distance in it. “I will,” you say, “after you listen to me.”

“I have nothing left to say.” Phainon moves to reach for his armour, but you step forward, blocking his path. 

“Then you’ll listen out of duty,” you snap. “If not to me, then to the princess of your kingdom, who is issuing you a command.”

Slowly, Phainon lifts his eyes to yours. The anger in them is subdued, like embers glowing between ash, but it is there. “Is that what we are now?” he says bitterly. “Orders and rank?”

“You told me, once,” you say, “that you were going to become the captain of the royal guard.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” you say. “Everyone knows you are the top candidate for the next position, but Master Gnaeus cannot let his affection for you and me affect his decision-making. If you were to become the captain of the royal guard, then we—” You stop yourself there. “You have a chance now, Phainon. Mydeimos is here, and the court is already restless with the border skirmishes from the north. If war comes, they will need strength. They will need leadership.”

He shakes his head, turning away again. “They’ll never choose me. I’m no one.”

“Then make them choose you. Challenge Mydeimos to a duel.”

“Are you insane?” he says.

“I’m serious,” you say. “He’s a prince, yes, but he respects strength. And the court does, too. If you defeat him—or even come close—they’ll have no choice but to remember you. There are other ways we can secure this alliance, Phainon. And if you become the captain of the royal guard, they cannot say anything about us staying together, because our ranks will be nearly equal.”

Phainon ducks his head and curses under his breath. Then, he looks up at you, and his anger cracks. “You think I can survive fighting a prince and the court?”

“If there is anyone who can, it is you.”)

Dawn has barely begun to stretch across the horizon, but the court is already assembled around the patch of training grounds used as a sparring ring. Nobles in rich brocades and glinting jewels watch from the colonnades, expressions schooled into polite interest or thinly veiled dread. The dew has not yet dried from the stone, and a thin mist curls around the edges of the courtyard, ghostlike.

There is no music, no fanfare; there is only the rustle of silk and the occasional murmur of speculation passed behind a gloved hand. The duel is not public in the usual sense—no civilians, no celebration—but it is undeniably a performance. Every glance, every breath, every footfall will be judged.

On the eastern platform, the king watches from his elevated seat, robed in black and silver, his crown slipping down his forehead. His expression is as if it is carved from stone. You stand just beneath him, close enough to hear the way his ringed fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, right next to Master Gnaeus. You force your spine straight, your expression passive, but your nails leave crescent-shaped indents on your palms. You are not allowed to show favour here: not for Mydeimos, the foreign prince and your suitor; and certainly not for Phainon, your oldest friend, your hidden heart, and your last defiance.

The rules were made clear the moment Phainon approached the council chambers and issued the challenge. If Mydeimos wins, the alliance will be sealed by marriage between him and you. Phainon will be exiled for insubordination and interference in royal affairs.

If Phainon wins, the alliance will be negotiated through trade and defense treaties instead of marriage. He will be named the next captain of the royal guard, by merit and recognition.

At the far end of the ring, Phainon steps forward first.

He is silent, face unreadable beneath the steady press of expectation. His silver-white hair is tied back, his armour plain but fitted with care—worn in places, the leather softened from use. He carries no insignia. The hilt of his sword glints at his back, catching the early sun in flashes as he moves with calm, deliberate steps to the centre of the ring. He does not look at you.

On the opposite end, Prince Mydeimos arrives with significantly more fanfare. His entrance is flanked by two of his personal guards, though they peel away before he enters the sparring ground alone. He is dressed in deep crimson, edged in gold, and his armour is polished to an almost absurd shine. His twin swords rest easily at his hips, curved slightly and sheathed in scabbards inlaid with foreign script.

Phainon does not extend a hand. Mydeimos doesn’t seem surprised. They say nothing, but they bow their heads as the king rises. The hush that falls over the courtyard is instantaneous. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort.

“Let the court bear witness to this sanctioned duel—its terms already set, and its consequences clear. Combatants, you will fight until surrender or  incapacitation. Death is forbidden.”

He motions for Master Gnaeus to step forward, and that old man, with his father-like fondness towards you and Phainon, calls out: “Begin.”

Just like that, the world narrows down to two figures moving swiftly across stone.

Phainon moves first—not charging, but closing the distance quickly, decisively, blade angled low. Mydeimos watches him, lips curling into a faint grin, before drawing one sword and blocking the first strike with a clean, practiced motion.

Steel meets steel, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard.

The duel begins as a dance of testing: quick jabs, dodges, parries. Mydeimos is faster, his footwork more fluid, spinning lightly on the balls of his feet with the ease of someone trained since birth for pageantry and power. But Phainon is relentless. He fights like a soldier, not a showman, waiting for Mydeimos to overextend.

They are matched blow for blow, sword ringing against sword, the courtyard captivated by the clash of wills. Dust rises around them in golden clouds, sun now creeping past the pillars and spilling onto the marble arches.

Mydeimos breaks the rhythm first. He feints left, then spins behind Phainon and lands a glancing strike across his shoulder. Phainon stumbles but does not fall. He turns, grits his teeth, and retaliates with a blow that Mydeimos barely manages to deflect. Sweat beads on their brows. Blood blooms through Phainon’s tunic where the blade cut—but he doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He ducks low, aiming a swipe at Mydeimos’ legs, but the prince leaps back, laughing under his breath.

“You’re better than I expected,” Mydeimos says through panted breaths. “But is it enough?”

Phainon does not answer. Instead, he drops his centre of gravity, shifts his stance, and surges forward.

There is a moment—barely more than a blink—when everything shifts. Mydeimos lifts both swords in a cross-guard, but Phainon’s strike doesn’t aim for the swords. It aims just past them—forcing Mydeimos to twist, exposing his side—and Phainon slams his elbow into the prince’s ribs, making him grunt in surprise and pain. Mydeimos staggers. One of the blades flies from his hands.

Phainon doesn’t let up. He drives forward, his movements tighter now, every swing more urgent. Mydeimos parries one more strike, two—but his footing is off. He is sweating hard, slower than he was.

Phainon knocks the last sword from Mydeimos’ hand. Then, he levels his blade at the prince’s throat.

You realise you’re holding your breath when Master Gnaeus steps forward again and announces, “The duel is complete. The victor: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a member of the royal guard.”

Cheers do not erupt. The court is too stunned for that. But murmurs rise, and heads turn. Even the king’s eyebrows raise fractionally.

Mydeimos stares at the sword pointed at his neck, then raises his hands in surrender. Surprisingly, he laughs—just once, rich but tired. He steps back, out of reach, and bows. “Well played,” he says. “I hope you make a fine captain, soldier.”

Phainon lowers his blade. 

You do not move. You can’t—not when every gaze is trained on him. Not when the weight of the court settles like lead on your shoulders, pressing into your chest until your lungs feel tight. Phainon looks up, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes find yours. There is a flicker there—just a flicker—of something that is soft, meant for you and you alone. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s a promise. A plea.

But he does not reach for you. Not with the king mere steps above. Not with nobles whispering into goblets and adjusting their gem-encrusted jewellery. Master Gnaeus is already striding forward to escort him from the ring, murmuring something low that you cannot hear.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You imagine what it would feel like to run to him, to place your hand against the scrape on his cheek and whisper, “You did it,” over and over again into the space between his breaths. But you cannot.

So instead, you force your hands into stillness and let your eyes speak in the language you’ve both learnt too well: restraint; longing.

Phainon holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than wise. Then two. Then, with the barest incline of his head—a bow meant for the crown, but perhaps tilted just slightly in your direction—he turns and follows Gnaeus from the ring.

You remain in place. Behind you, the king speaks, announcing the revised terms of the alliance. There is clapping. The courtiers resume their performance of diplomacy. You follow Mydeimos back into the palace.

(“Tell me the truth, Prince Mydeimos,” you say. “Did you lose to Phainon on purpose?”

Mydeimos blinks, then lets out a soft, almost wounded laugh. You’re alone now, or close enough. The colonnade is empty but for the afternoon sun hanging high above your heads and the low hum of distant music echoing from the feast halls. Mydeimos leans against a stone pillar, arms folded, his tunic stained from the duel and a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.

“Do you really think I would do that?” he asks, looking at you not with offense, but with something quieter. “Throw a duel in front of the entire court? Humiliate myself in front of your father, the king, and the council, when I am a guest in your kingdom?”

You don’t answer.

He sighs, pushing himself off the pillar and taking a few steps short steps closer. “Your soldier bested me. That is the truth of it. I didn’t expect him to fight like that.”

“Mydeimos—” you start, but words fail you. What can you even say, that would be kind to this mighty prince from a mighty kingdom, but also your gentle friend, who promised he would treat you well even if the marriage were to go through? 

“I didn’t lose on purpose,” he says again, gentler this time. “But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” He tilts his head, golden eyes studying yours. “No, I do not, Princess. It was an honour to fight against such a skilled warrior. I meant what I said—he will make a fine captain of your guard.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you, Mydeimos.”

“Hush, now,” Mydeimos says with a chuckle. “Friends do not thank each other for such trivial things.”)

Your father summons you to the throne room before the court meets the next morning. Mistress Calypso untangles your hair and pats your cheek, and tells you to not keep him waiting. 

The throne room is nearly empty at this hour—quiet, hollow, the banners of the kingdom fluttering faintly in the stale wind. Light from the high windows spills across the polished floor, catching on the familiar stained glass windows. You walk with steps too loud and a heart beating even louder.

The king sits alone on the throne. There are no courtiers, no scribes, and no guards, save for two flanking the doors behind you. There is only your father, his crown placed on his lap and his shoulders wrapped in a robe, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The moment you bow, he speaks—not with rage, but with something closer to weariness.

“I would’ve rather heard the truth from your mouth than have to pry it from a sword fight,” he says.

You keep your head bowed. “I did not think it would change anything.”

“You’re my daughter,” he says. “You’re the heir to a kingdom and the last piece of a woman I loved more than life itself. Of course it would’ve changed something.”

Silence stretches like a shadow between you. Then, in a voice that surprises you with how small it sounds, he adds, “Do you think me such a tyrant that I would barter your happiness away without care?”

You glance up at him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were a season ago. “I only wished to protect the kingdom,” he continues. “You are smarter than I am, daughter, for you have done better than I in securing an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.”

“Father…” you trail off, unsure.

“I have not spoken of your mother to you,” he says, “and it is a great folly on my end. I have not been a good father to you, and she would despise me for it. She was wittier than any noblewoman who has ever graced this court, and ten times as beautiful. She was a commoner, yes, the daughter of a tailor, but she had fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.

“She used to say that fate is only a thing to curse when it doesn’t give you what you already knew you wanted. She would’ve liked Phainon. Gods help me, I think she would’ve told me to step aside and let you choose him.”

“But it was not in vain, father,” you interject. “Phainon was given the chance to prove himself and to the court that there is a reason why Master Gnaeus always favoured him.”

“Do you know,” he says, “the first thing your mother said to me? I was in disguise, wandering the markets, trying to discover the commonfolk’s woes in my kingdom. I had not been prince for long. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You walk like a farmer, but your boots are too clean. Who are you fooling, really?’ She never let me pretend to be anything less than I was.”

You allow yourself the tiniest smile. “She sounds like she would’ve terrified the court.”

“She did. And me, most of all.”

He looks down at the crown in his lap then—polished, heavy, too bright for the early hour. “I have worn this longer than I should’ve. My father died too soon. And I… I have tried not to repeat his mistakes, but I see now that I made different ones. I thought to guard you by turning you into a symbol. I forgot to see the girl who craved a parent’s love and had to learn how to stand taller than every man in this court, alone.”

“Father,” you begin, “I was never alone. I am everything I am now thanks to the people around me: Mistress Calypso’s motherly gentleness; Master Gnaeus’ fondness for me; Phainon’s steadfast, unwavering presence; and now, Mydeimos’ kind friendship. You have not been very kind to me, father, but I have more than sufficed with what I have.”

“I am sorry,” he says at last, swallowing hard. “For nearly binding your fate to someone your heart did not choose.”

“But I have chosen,” you say. “And Phainon has chosen me.”

He studies your face then. Not as a king studies an heir, but as a father studies a daughter grown too quickly—half pride, half sorrow. “Then may the gods bless what I nearly ruined,” he says, and rises from the throne with more effort than he shows. He places the crown back on his head, the gold glinting in the pale morning light.

“Let it be known,” he declares, “that the match was the Princess’ will, not mine. May the court know her judgement surpasses even my own.”

The throne room is full by the time the sun reaches its highest point, with courtiers and nobles lining the marble aisles in their finest dress. You stand beside the dais, dressed in formal regalia, but your hands are warm—not from nerves, but from where Phainon’s fingers briefly brushed yours beneath the folds of your robe when no one was looking. At the foot of the dais stands Master Gnaeus, his weathered face solemn but proud. Beside him, Phainon kneels, one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed.

“Rise, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” your father says, voice ringing clearly through the chamber.

Phainon stands. Sunlight cuts through the windows, catching on the dull bronze of his breastplate at the clean line of the sword at his hip.

“By the authority vested in me as sovereign,” the king continues, “and with the recommendation of Master Gnaeus himself, I name you Captain of the Royal Guard. May your sword be the shield of this kingdom, and your loyalty its unbreakable spine.”

Master Gnaeus steps forward. In his hands, he carries his old sword—notched from years of use, the hilt worn by time. “I have served three kings, and fought more battles than I care to count,” he says, placing the sword flat between his palms. “But I have never met a soldier with a truer heart than this one.” He turns to Phainon and holds the sword out. “I was a younger man when I carried this into battle. Now I give it to one younger still, but stronger, steadier, and far more stubborn.”

Phainon takes the blade, kneeling once more—not to the court, not even to the king, but to Master Gnaeus himself. You catch the gleam in his eyes as he rises. He meets your gaze across the floor, and the faintest smile passes between you like a shared secret. 

Mydeimos steps forward next. Dressed in his ruby-red ceremonial garb, he bows to your father, then to you. “It is with honour that Castrum Kremnos finalises its alliance with your realm. But I would be remiss if I did not also speak personally.” 

He glances at you, his gaze kind, if bittersweet. “Your Highness, thank you—for your companionship and your presence. You were never obligated to give me either. I have learned more than I expected, and I carry no bitterness at how things have turned out. In truth—” he turns his gaze to Phainon—“I look forward to fighting beside a warrior like you in the campaign against northern raiders. Your reputation, it seems, is well-earned.”

Phainon nods. “I look forward to having you at my side, Prince.”

The moment settles—a rare, rare peace shared between kingdoms and warriors and people who have each made their choices. Your father raises a hand.

“Let this court bear witness to the dawn of a new alliance,” he says, “and the beginning of a reign led not by fear or ambition, but by strength, and by choice.”

Cheers rise like a tide, and the stained glass above scatters the light like jewels across the floor. Phainon sidles over to your side, no longer covert, but open and proud. He leans ever so slightly closer.

(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.

You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)

iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.

There is a man inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.

“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”

You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.

Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”

“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”

“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”

You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”

“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”

“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”

“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”

You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache. 

“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”

He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.

a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.

[aerithsthingss]

Loooove this!!

[sylusonychinus]

✨ NEW STORY ANNOUNCEMENT! ✨

(A Slow Burn, Second Chance, Pilot x Ground Controller Romance)

Summary: Y/N and Caleb once sat in the same classroom, dreaming of the skies. She was the quiet, shy girl with a crush on the golden boy of aviation school—the one who made flying look effortless. Years later, she’s a dedicated ground controller, guiding planes from the safety of the tower, while Caleb is soaring through the clouds as a commercial pilot.

Their paths were never meant to cross again… until their meddling mothers set them up on the same blind date.

But there’s a catch—Caleb doesn’t recognize her.

What starts as an awkward, mismatched date soon turns into something else when fate keeps pulling them back together. Between late-night flights, stolen conversations, and the quiet longing of two people who were always meant to meet again, will Caleb finally realize the girl he overlooked might be the one who was always waiting for him?

Masterlist

💫 Episode One: A Date Written in the Stars

💫 Episode Two: The Past Comes Full Circle

💫Episode Three: A Question Left Hanging

💫Episode Four: A Place to Land

💫Side-Story: A Marriage of Convenience

💫Episode Five: A Love That Lands

💫Episode Six: A Storm Brewing

💫Episode Seven: Under Pressure

💫Episode Eight: Close Encounters

💫Episode Nine: A Night of Realizations

💫Episode Ten: The Ring and the Accusation

💫Episode Eleven: The Great Bedroom Debacle

💫Episode 12 – The One That Got Away

💫Episode 13 – A Taste of Jealousy

💫Episode 14 – The Real Thing

💫Episode 15 – The Trap

💫Episode 16 – Cracks in the Foundation

💫Episode 17 – The Breaking Point

💫Episode 18 – Fractured Pieces

💫Episode 19 – Shattered Confessions

💫Episode 20 – The Weight of Truth (Caleb’s POV)

💫Episode 21 – The Ending

🛫 Tropes & Vibes: ✔️ Slow Burn & Second Chances ✔️ Grounded x Skybound Dynamic ✔️ Oblivious Male Lead™ ✔️ Late-night conversations & longing looks ✔️ Fate keeps throwing them together

Taglist: Closed!! (series has ended)

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr

[madamechrissy]

Take me Home Tonight Masterlist

❤️Chapter 1 ❤️Chapter 2 ❤️Chapter 3 ❤️ Chapter 4 ❤️ Chapter 5 ❤️Chapter 6 ❤️ Chapter 7 ❤️ Chapter 8 ❤️Chapter 9 ❤️ Chapter 10 ❤️ Chapter 11 ❤️ Chapter 12 ❤️ Chapter 13 ❤️ Chapter 14 ❤️ Chapter 15 (Final) ❤️

♡ ♡ Pairing ♡ ♡ Satoru Gojo x Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Content/warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is 28-29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/student forbidden type love. Explicit sexual content, lots and LOTS of smut lol, warnings in each chap. FUN, witty, law cases and law school. Longg chapters.

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ 136k- Finished

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name.

Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right?

That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right?

Playlist for this story:

Moodboard for the reader!

Ao3https://archiveofourown.org/works/56895382/chapters/144669811

Buy me a Coffee ☕️ - Masterlist

[aerithsthingss]

#tbr #aftermyfinals

[fayfaygoes]

Turn on the Volume 🔊 zayne sneeze

WHAT IF I YEET MAHSELF FROM A CLIFF😭😭😭

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA BYE-

[aerithsthingss]

WAAAAA TOOOOO CUTEE MY BABY😭🥰😍