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@ch2yo
hello lovelies ! my name is chiyo, pleasure to meet u <3 i use she they pronouns, i'm asian and i'm 19 :D
i mainly use this blog as an archive and for bookmarks. i reblog fics, fanart, and miscellaneous stuff i like !
this is a sideblog, i can't follow or like from here <\3
if you want to know more abt me, here's my byf and dni and my interests ! and if you wanna navigate my blog check out this post ! it's a post of all the tags i use <3 enjoy ur stay here my love ^3^
Charms of Fate Masterlist (Completed)
Pairing: Professor!Remus Lupin x Fem!Professor!Reader
Plot: Amidst the echoes of a bygone era, you return to Hogwarts years after parting ways. What begins as a journey fueled by nostalgia transforms into an unexpected reunion with Remus Lupin, now a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. As the past intertwines with the present, the two former classmates navigate the complexities of grief, the resurgence of friendship, and the unwritten chapters of their shared history in this tale of rediscovery and the magic that binds them together.
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
Epilogue
——————————————
Life at the Cottage (drabbles/one shots):
Rainy Day Chess
The Dating Hypothesis
modern hogwarts AU: remus lupin x reader
synopsis: professor lupin’s applied statistics class should have been easy, but it never was. for their final project, the golden trio tests whether looks affect dating choices, using remus as their secret subject. you, unknowingly drawn into their experiment, end up skewing the data, and his heart too.
wc: 3.1k
warnings: modern au, the golden trio is younger than y/n, romantic experimentation, café/library settings, fluff and crack with zero angst, not proofread.
a/n: this was inspired by a lovely levi fic i read a while ago. credits to the fic plot goes to anxi_aashi on ao3!! <3
“Ron, I know Professor Lupin said we could choose any topic we liked,” Hermione said, voice taut with disbelief, “but surely you don’t mean this.”
Ron looked up from the stack of papers spread across their table in the library, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that immediately made Hermione nervous.
“What?” he whispered—loudly enough to earn a glare from someone two tables away. “It’s a solid idea! Creative and educational.”
“Catastrophic,” she corrected.
Across from them, Harry stifled a laugh, though his grin betrayed him. “You can’t honestly be doing a study about whether people fancy Lupin or not.”
Ron’s brows shot up. “I never said Lupin! You said Lupin!” he hissed, glancing around as if the professor himself might materialize beside them them. “I’m keeping it anonymous. That’s the whole point of research ethics, Hermione. Haven’t you read the guidelines?”
Hermione’s sigh could have curdled the foam on her drink. “You have a list of interview questions that literally describe him to the letter. ‘Mild-mannered, prematurely greying, quiet but—’” she squinted at the parchment, “‘deceptively fit’? Ronald!”
Harry snorted into his coffee mug.
Ron went red but kept his chin high. “Look, it’s a serious question! Lupin’s a decent-looking bloke, right? But he’s not flashy like Lockhart was, and people adored Lockhart. I just want to test whether looks actually matter when it comes to who people fancy. For science.”
“Science,” Hermione repeated flatly. “You’re going to get expelled for science.”
The library was unusually full that evening—students packed into every table, laptops humming and coffee cups balanced precariously beside open textbooks as everyone tried to finish their end-of-term projects before exams swallowed them whole.
Ron’s pile of notes, however, was distinctly more chaotic than most. Empty coffee cups surrounded his laptop like trophies of bad decisions, and someone’s doodle of a wolf stretched across the corner of his summary page.
Applied Statistics was meant to be the easy option. Lupin had a reputation for being gentle, patient, the kind of professor who cared more about understanding than perfection.
It was supposed to be a quiet way to end their academic careers on a calm note. But then he’d assigned a final research project: design your own study, collect real data, and present your conclusions. The only rule was that the topic had to be appropriate for class.
Hermione had immediately started drafting a comparative analysis on probability and study efficiency between morning and night classes.
Harry was working on something about reaction times in competitive sports, using his old Hockey instincts as inspiration.
Ron—after three hours of staring at a blank document and two iced coffees later—had landed on human attraction. Specifically, whether someone’s appearance could statistically predict how likely they were to be asked on a date.
And in what could only be described as divine misfortune, he’d chosen his mild-mannered, unreasonably charming professor as his “model subject.”
“I still can’t believe you roped me into this,” Hermione muttered.
“I didn’t rope you in!” Ron protested. “I just need you to help me make sure my sample size isn’t biased.”
“Your sample size is going to be detention if Lupin finds out,” Harry said, grinning.
Ron shrugged, though the tips of his ears betrayed his nerves. “He’ll never know. I’m not putting his name anywhere, and I’ll make sure no one says it out loud.”
Hermione gave him a long, withering look before scanning his notes again. “You literally describe him as ‘the soft-spoken man with kind eyes, questionable jumpers, and a habit of vanishing for a week every month due to a mysterious illness.’ Who else could that possibly be?”
Ron grinned despite himself. “It’s anonymous if I say it is.”
He sat at a corner table, clutching his notepad like a shield, eyes flicking past rows of students lost in their screens. “All I need is one person to answer a few questions. Someone normal. Someone who won’t laugh in my face.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, looking far too amused for Ron’s liking. “You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes,” he said. “Just pick someone already. It’s not a marriage proposal.”
Ron ignored him, scanning again—and then his eyes stopped.
A few tables over, you sat hunched over your laptop, earbuds in, an empty coffee cup balanced precariously on a stack of notes. You looked tired in the soft, lived-in way of someone who’d been working too long, your screen glaring white against your face.
“That one,” Ron said suddenly, jerking his chin in your direction. “She’s not typing anymore. Perfect.”
Harry followed his gaze, smirking. “Looks like she’s about to call it a day. Go on, mate. Before she escapes.”
Hermione sighed, already closing her laptop. “If they’re busy, they’ll tell you,” she said, voice threaded with resignation.
Ron took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and picked up his notebook. “Alright. Science waits for no man.”
“Especially not for you,” Harry murmured under his breath, earning a sharp kick under the table.
Together, they made their way across the library, Ron clutching his clipboard like a life raft. You noticed them only when the shadow of their approach reached your table.
“Uh—hi,” Ron began, his voice slightly too loud for the setting. You pulled out your earbuds, blinking up at him. “Sorry to bother you. I’m doing a project for my Applied Statistics class, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? It won’t take long, I promise.”
You studied him for a second—the nervous energy, the notebook, the faint red creeping up his neck—and decided you didn’t have the heart to say no.
Your motivation for work had long evaporated anyway. “Sure,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Go ahead.”
Relief flickered across Ron’s face as he clicked his pen. “Brilliant. First question—do you identify as someone who’s romantically attracted to men?”
You frowned, caught off guard. “Uh… yes?”
“Right. And sexually attracted?”
You tilted your head with a grimace. “I think I’m a little old for you.”
His face went crimson. “No, no—bloody hell, not like that!”
Harry coughed behind him to smother a laugh.
You chuckled, amused by his mortification. “Then yes, I am.”
“Great,” Ron said quickly, desperate to move on. “Okay, so I’m going to describe a, uh, theoretical man to you, and you just tell me whether you’d go on a date with him, based on what I say. Alright?”
“Sure.”
He glanced at his notes, cleared his throat, and began reading. “Okay, so… he’s a bit reserved. Dresses like he owns only jumpers and sweaters, all in different shades of brown. Kind smile, good sense of humor, can be awkward when complimented, and occasionally vanishes for a week every month because of—er—some chronic condition. Totally normal. Nothing suspicious about that.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly specific.”
Harry coughed again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘textbook Lupin’.
Ron glared at him before looking back at you. “Out of the following answer choices, what would be your answer if this man asked you on a date: definite no, no, maybe, I guess, yes, or definite yes?” He looked up at you, pencil poised, clearly waiting for an answer.
You pretended to consider it, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “He sounds decent. I’d say yes.”
Ron froze mid-scribble. “Yes as in yes, or yes as in maybe?”
“Yes as in yes.”
He continued to look at you like you’d grown a third head until Hermione cleared her throat, reminding Ron to keep going.
He snapped out of it and took a begrudging breath, reaching for the picture paperclipped to his question sheet.
“Okay, hypothetical follow-up. If this man looked like this—”
You leaned forward, and your breath caught in a laugh. The photo was clearly taken from somewhere it shouldn’t have been: what appeared to be some Professor mid-lecture, smiling faintly, sunlight streaking through the classroom blinds behind him. The image quality was terrible, but somehow, that only made it look better.
“—would your answer to the previous question change?”
You studied the picture again, amused by the sheer audacity of it all. “Well, in that case, I’m changing my answer. That’s a definite yes.”
Ron looked utterly baffled. “You’d actually—why?”
You smiled faintly. “I have a weakness for guys who seem quiet and kind, a little awkward but in a charming way… and he has some really, really pretty eyes.”
Ron blinked at you, clearly trying—and failing—to see the appeal. “Right. Fair enough. Data’s data.”
“Glad to help, researcher,” you teased.
He scribbled something down in his notebook with the seriousness of someone logging a scientific breakthrough. “Thank you for your time.”
As you packed up your things and left the library, you didn’t notice him still watching the door long after you’d gone. Nor could he have known that your name—just one of dozens written on that clipboard—would be the one that refused to fade.
***
Remus could tell almost immediately that the project was about him.
The moment Ron began his presentation, Remus recognized the uncomfortable familiarity in the data, the phrasing, and—Merlin help him—the word choices.
His first instinct was to be mildly horrified, followed closely by the urge to deduct twenty points on principle. But as the presentation went on, his irritation gave way to reluctant curiosity.
The truth was, it wasn’t a bad project. In fact, it was rather well designed—shockingly so, considering it came from Ron Weasley, who once turned in a probability worksheet with “winging it” written in the margin.
And while Remus wanted to be offended that his own students had used him as their unwitting test subject, he wasn’t about to become the sort of professor who graded out of bruised ego. So, he sat there, listening as the class analyzed his mannerisms, his “polite smile,” and the “hot scars all over his body” that apparently made him statistically attractive.
Ron, to his credit, was thorough. He explained his hypothesis, the methodology, the sample groups, and the confidence intervals... Remus even found himself smiling, until he skimmed over one particular detail that made his brows knit together.
When Ron wrapped up, Remus lifted a hand. The room fell quiet. Ron swallowed, clearly expecting to be scolded.
“Mr. Weasley,” Remus said, tone mild, “could you elaborate on the outlier you mentioned?”
Ron blinked. “Oh—right, yeah. There was one participant whose responses didn’t fit the pattern, so I had to exclude them from the analysis. Everyone else rated the subject’s attractiveness after seeing the picture, but this person said they’d go on a date with him before seeing anything. Highest pre-photo score by far.”
Remus tilted his head, feigning scholarly interest, though a faint heat crept up his neck.
He felt a little guilty for being so interested in this outlier, but while he wanted to pretend he was perfectly happy being single, he had to admit, it was kind of nice knowing someone found him attractive on something other than the physical level.
“I see. And… did they say why?”
Ron flipped through his notes. “Um… something about having a thing for people who seem a little awkward but in a charming way… and they specifically wrote, ‘He has really, really pretty eyes.’”
For a long moment, Remus said nothing. The class waited. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he chuckled—low and quiet, the sound carrying a hint of embarrassment and something warmer beneath it.
“Well,” he said, closing his notebook with deliberate calm. “Statistically speaking, Mr. Weasley, I suppose everyone’s bound to be someone’s outlier.”
The class laughed. Ron looked like he might faint with relief. And as Remus moved on to the next presentation, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering who, exactly, that particular outlier had been.
As curious as he had been in that instant, by the end of the day, the week, and even the month, Remus had completely forgotten about the random outlier from Ron’s project.
Until he saw you.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon, and the campus café was packed; half students pretending to study, half professors pretending they weren’t exhausted.
Remus had queued for a coffee he didn’t particularly want, clutching his satchel in one hand and trying to ignore the headache forming just behind his eyes.
You stood in front of him in line, scrolling through your phone with the kind of absent concentration that made him smile despite himself.
When you reached the counter, you ordered the exact same drink as him—down to the dash of cinnamon—and turned around at the sound of his quiet laugh.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching in apology. “It’s just—you’ve got impeccable taste.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his Welsh accent yet deep voice. The man before you was tall, soft-looking despite the tired eyes and slightly threadbare jumper.
You blinked. Something about him tugged at your brain. You knew that face. Or at least—you felt like you did.
“Thank you,” you replied, smiling. “It’s my go-to. Can’t survive the day without it.”
He nodded, and before you could pull out your card, the barista had already rung up two drinks.
Remus cleared his throat softly. “I’ll get both,” he said, tone polite but firm in that way professors have when they’ve made up their mind.
“Oh—you don’t have to—”
“Please,” he said, voice calm, a little low. “It’s easier than splitting the bill for identical drinks.”
You huffed a small laugh. “You really didn’t have to, but thank you.”
The two of you stepped aside to wait for your drinks. You glanced at him again, trying not to be obvious about it—but you were sure now.
It felt like it was right at the front of your mind. You knew you knew him, you were sure of it. You just didn’t know how. Which was weird, because you were pretty sure you would’ve remembered meeting someone as handsome as him.
“Sorry,” you said at last, turning toward him. “I know this is weird, but… have we met before?”
He looked mildly startled, brow creasing. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.
You squinted at him. “Were you ever, like… in a commercial? Or maybe a university brochure?”
That earned a soft, weary laugh. “No. I’m a Professor. I’m fairly certain no one wants my face on their advertising.”
Your head tilted. “A Professor?”
He hesitated, clearly wary of where this was going. “Yes. Statistics, actually.”
It hit you like a lightbulb moment. Your eyes went wide, and the realization burst out before you could stop it. “Oh my god. You’re real!”
His brows rose in quiet confusion. “I—pardon?”
You covered your mouth, half laughing, half mortified. “No, sorry, that sounds insane. But there was this student—he came up to me weeks ago asking questions for a statistics project about attraction. He showed me a picture of some guy, and I thought it was, like, a stock photo or something. But it was you, wasn’t it?”
He blinked, then rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh that was equal parts tired and amused. “Red hair, bit of an attitude, usually trolls around with two others?”
“Exactly!” you said, snapping your fingers.
“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head with a wry smile. “That would be Weasley.”
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “That kid didn’t tell me it was an actual person! I said yes both times—before and after the photo—and now this is just—mortifying.”
Remus chuckled, a warm, low sound that made your stomach flip. “Mortifying? I’d say flattering.”
You peeked through your fingers at him. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I am,” he said, his smile soft but teasing. “Statistically speaking, it’s incredibly rare to meet one’s outlier twice.”
The barista called your names, breaking the moment. You both reached for your cups, fingers brushing briefly over the cardboard sleeve. The contact sent a tiny spark of something electric up your arm.
Remus hesitated for a moment, then—almost shyly—added, “Since you were kind enough to answer that study, perhaps you’ll let me ask a follow-up question?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Would you like to get dinner sometime?”
Your heart stumbled in your chest, and a grin slipped out before you could stop it. “Only if I get to pick the café next time.”
“Deal,” he said, eyes crinkling as he extended his hand. “I’m Remus.”
“Y/N,” you replied, shaking his hand and trying not to notice how warm it felt.
“Tuesday?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.
“Tuesday works for me,” you said, smiling.
“Perfect. It’s a date then,” he said softly, a trace of pink coloring his cheeks.
He held the café door open as you stepped outside, and you waved. “I’ll see you,” you said.
“Can’t wait,” he murmured back.
Even with a pile of work waiting for you, you felt unexpectedly giddy, and somehow, not embarrassed at all.
In fact, you already knew exactly which library to go to.
˗ˏˋ ★ ──── 1 TO 100 ‼
「 “ 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘵. ” 」
eventual james potter x fem!reader; inevitable angst and annoyance as james slowly matures over his time at hogwarts. slowburn. total word count: 53.7K
— Read it on Ao3 !!
2.7K | FIRST YEAR.
5.8K | SECOND YEAR.
2.7K | THIRD YEAR.
6.0K | FOURTH YEAR.
6.4K | FIFTH YEAR.
14.0K | SIXTH YEAR.
18.7K | SEVENTH YEAR.
in a week. james potter x reader
james wants to rot inside you. and you let him *. ⋆ 3k words
part of the hozier series i'm writing with my girlies @twovialsofamortentia @mischievousmoony @prettydaisygirl !
cw: smut. fem!reader. established relationship. morning sex. light choking. spit. praise. degradation. tit focused (kinda). dry humping. piv. unprotected sex. thumb sucking. crying. begging. biting. unhinged/religious devotion. posessive!james. feral!james. overstimulation (he comes so many times i don't think it's possible). cursing. a bit of aftercare. lmk if i missed smth!
a/n: james would NOT survive in the same room as me
you wake up to the sound of birds.
the curtains move gently through the open window, the breeze soft against the bare skin of your arms, and there’s warmth at your back, alive, heavy, hard. his breath is slow on your shoulder. his thigh is tucked between yours and his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.
james.
he’s still asleep. his cock is already half-hard, thick and insistent pressing on the curve of your ass. you shift slightly and he grunts, his nose nuzzling into your neck.
it’s not a surprise. he always wakes up like this, reaching for you in sleep like instinct.
as if he’ll stop breathing if he can’t touch you. as if he’ll rot without you in his arms.
you stay like that for a while, with the sweat slick warmth of skin on skin wrapping you like a cocoon.
the birds are chirping outside, awoken by the morning light. you see a few of them fly by, one or two even daring to land on the tree just outside the window.
then he speaks, low and raspy from sleep.
“still here,” he murmurs, tightening his hold. “thought you’d slipped away.”
“I never do.”
he exhales, rubbing and nuzzling deeper into your skin. “dreamt of you again.”
you hum. “yeah? what was I doing?”
“crying. moaning. you were… fuck, you were so wet.”
you feel yourself pulse at the sound of it—at the filth in his voice.
“I was inside you,” he says, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, across your belly, higher. “and I kept thinking… let it kill me.”
his hand finds your chest, and he groans like your body hurts him.
“let me rot here,” he whispers. “right between your tits.”
“james,” you murmur, torn between laughter and a whimper.
“I'm serious,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “gonna build a shrine. right here.” he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “holy ground.”
his thumb flicks lazily over your nipple and he moans like your body is sunrise itself.
“I'm obsessed,” he whispers. “wanna live here. wanna die here.”
you squirm back against him and feel his cock twitch.
“oh, fuck—don’t do that,” he groans. “m’gonna come before we even start.”
“we haven’t started anything,” you tease.
“tell that to my dick,” he mutters. “he’s already giving his last words.”
you giggle, and james finally rolls you onto your back. his eyes are half-lidded, curls messy, and there’s something so beautiful about the lazy way he drapes himself over you, like your body is the only home he’s ever known.
he presses his face into your chest, nose nuzzling your sternum.
“I’m gonna die between your tits,” he murmurs.
“not very romantic,” you say.
“not very negotiable either.”
his lips move lower, tongue dragging over the fabric of your sleep shirt until it soaks through. he sucks gently at your nipple, even through the cotton, and you gasp at the heat.
“take it off,” he mumbles against your skin.
you lift your arms, and he peels the shirt away slowly, eyes trailing down your bare chest with open worship. his lips part. his hands shake.
“fuck me,” he says reverently. “you look carved.”
his mouth finds your nipple again, this time bare, and he groans. he suckles like he needs it to breathe—like this is communion. you whimper, hips shifting under him, and he growls, grinding down just enough for you to feel the thick press of his cock through both your clothes.
his hand slides down your thigh, then back up under the hem of your shorts.
“still have these on?” he asks, voice dark now. “that’s rude. you’re wet, aren’t you?”
you nod.
“words, baby.”
“yes,” you gasp. “I'm wet. for you. always.”
james moans, humping against you harder.
“gonna make you come just like this,” he mutters. “clothes on, tits out, my mouth on you. that’s all I need.”
his hips stutter. he spits directly onto your nipple, then sucks it clean. you cry out. your hands tangle in his curls. he’s rutting now, deliberate, hard, and filthy. the heat of him is overwhelming.
“feel that?” he pants. “that’s what you do to me. every morning. you walk around this house like a fucking dream, and i’m hard from the second i open my eyes. you know how many times I've come just grinding into your ass like this?”
you whine.
“too many,” he says. “and I’d do it a thousand more.”
you can’t think. you can’t breathe. his thigh presses between your legs and your clit rubs against the seam of your panties with every desperate shift of your hips.
you’re so close already.
james is panting against your chest, one hand splayed across your thigh, the other still gripping your breast like he’ll die if he lets go. you’re rutting against each other like animals, still mostly clothed, sweat slicking your skin where it touches.
“you gonna come like this?” he pants. “grinding against my cock like you’re in heat?”
you nod frantically. “i’m close… james, please—”
“yeah? want me to make a mess of you first?” he growls. “want to drip down your thighs before i even fuck you?”
you moan, your body trembling under his, and that’s all it takes—he presses his thigh harder between your legs, your clit catching perfectly against the pressure, and everything shatters.
you come with a gasp, hips jerking, nails digging into his shoulders. your thighs clamp around his leg, riding the wave of it, and james groans like it’s happening to him.
“fucking hell,” he breathes. “you’re so wet. fuck, I’m—shit, I’m—”
he ruts faster, cock twitching in his boxers, and then he’s coming too, his whole body stiffening as he groans into your chest. it’s filthy. raw. a low, desperate sound as he humps through it, grinding his cock against you until he’s trembling.
you lie there for a beat. ruined. his breath stutters against your chest.
“jesus christ,” he says eventually. “that was…”
you tilt your head to look at him. “insane?”
“religious,” he says. “that was sacred.”
you laugh breathlessly.
but james lifts his head, sweat damp at his hairline, eyes dark with something deeper now.
“I’m not done,” he says.
you blink.
“I need to be inside you,” he says, voice hoarse. “like—need it. right now.”
your body pulses at his tone. you nod, breathless.
he peels your shorts and ruined underwear down your thighs and tosses them somewhere behind him. his fingers trail through your folds, and he groans.
“you’re soaked. from just grinding on me. from my thigh and my mouth and my fucking voice.”
he leans down and spits onto your cunt, then rubs it in with his fingers, slow and dirty.
“open up for me,” he says. “let me ruin you properly.”
you reach between you to shove his boxers down. his cock springs free, already hard again, flushed red and leaking.
you whimper. “how the fuck are you—”
“angel,” he says, lining himself up, “I get hard just looking at you. you think coming in my pants could stop me?”
you laugh, barely. because he pushes in, thick and slow, splitting you open inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt.
“oh my—james—”
he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “fuck, you feel like heaven. like the end of me.”
he starts to move, slow at first, deep and measured. you arch into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, mouth open in a silent moan.
“gonna fuck you like it’s the last thing I ever do,” he whispers. “gonna leave bruises where my name belongs.”
one hand wraps around your throat, not tight, just holding you, a claim. the other drags up your ribs, over your chest, squeezing your breast until you cry out.
“you’re all mine,” he says, voice wrecked. “you feel that? my cock in you, my hands on you. you let me spit in your mouth, ride my thigh, come in your sleep clothes like you’re made for me.”
you nod. “I am.”
he groans. “say it.”
“i’m made for you. just you.”
his hips snap harder now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. he spits into your mouth and watches you swallow.
“fuck,” he growls. “that’s it. my good girl. my filthy, perfect girl.”
you whimper beneath him, your second orgasm already building, your body desperate.
“I’m close,” you gasp.
“then come,” he snarls. “come on my cock, baby. show me how wrecked you are.”
you do.
it hits like fire, ripping through you, white-hot and violent. you cry out his name, clawing at his back, and he groans, hips stuttering as you clamp around him.
“shit—gonna come too—fuck—you’re squeezing me like you want to keep me inside.”
“I do,” you pant. “come in me. fill me up.”
he growls, deep and low and possessive. and then he’s gone, emptying himself inside you with a choked, broken moan.
he doesn’t pull out.
instead, he stays there. deep. his chest pressed to yours. both of you heaving.
“let me rot here,” he says again, quieter this time. “right inside you.”
you thread your fingers through his curls and pull him down for a kiss.
“stay,” you whisper.
and he does.
you don’t know how long you lie like that—him still inside you, softening slowly, both of you wrapped around each other like ivy. the room smells like sex. sweat clings to your skin. and james keeps whispering things into your hair that sound more like confessions than dirty talk.
“i’d die like this,” he breathes. “inside you. warm. buried. want my bones to dissolve here.”
“morbid,” you whisper, eyes closed.
“romantic,” he corrects, and presses a kiss to your jaw.
you feel him hardening again.
you open one eye.
“again?”
he shifts slightly, and you moan as his cock thickens inside you.
“course again,” he murmurs. “you think I can stop? after that? after you clenched around me like you were scared I'd leave?”
you whimper. your body’s still trembling. your clit still aches. but he’s kissing down your neck now, gentle, then harder, until his teeth scrape.
“you want to stop?” he asks, breath warm against your collarbone.
you shake your head.
he grins.
“didn’t think so.”
he pulls out slowly, and your body throbs at the loss. but before you can complain, he drags you into his lap, settling you over his thighs so you’re straddling him, your pussy hovering just above his cock.
his hands grab your ass, squeezing once before pulling you down to grind against him.
“you’re gonna ride me,” he says, voice like gravel. “until you can’t see straight.”
your hands grip his shoulders. his cock slides between your folds, not inside yet, just dragging along your slit, teasing your swollen clit.
“look at you,” he whispers. “so fucked out already. you still want more?”
you nod, dazed.
“use your words.”
“I want more.”
“greedy,” he murmurs. “my greedy girl.”
he leans in to suck your tit again, messy and hungry, while his hands guide your hips to grind down on him. it’s torture. wet and hot and not enough.
“beg for it.”
“james—”
“beg.”
you whimper. “please. please let me ride you. i need it. i need to come again. i want your cock so bad it hurts.”
he groans. “fuck—you’re perfect.”
you lift your hips and line him up, then sink down slow. both of you moan, heads falling forward, foreheads touching.
“good girl,” he breathes. “take it. take all of it.”
you start to move, rocking your hips, rolling them in messy circles as his cock presses deep inside you. james is unraveling beneath you, moaning into your skin, biting at your chest.
“god, you feel like sin,” he groans. “warm and tight and mine.”
you start to bounce, each thrust sending sparks through your spine. james loses it—his head falls back, mouth open, chest heaving.
you lean in and bite his neck.
hard.
“fuck—” he chokes. “do that again.”
you do. sinking your teeth into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. he thrusts up into you so hard it punches a moan out of your throat.
he grabs your hips and starts fucking up into you now, using your body like it belongs to him—and it does. you’re both gone. sweaty, loud, feral.
you spit into his mouth this time.
he swallows and groans like it’s air.
“I'm gonna come,” you gasp. “gonna come on your cock, james, oh my god—”
“do it,” he pants. “fucking soak me, baby. make a mess. show me what I do to you.”
you shatter. loud and wet and wild. you don’t even realize you're crying until james is licking tears off your cheeks, moaning praises into your mouth.
and then he comes, biting down on your shoulder, cock pulsing inside you, hips stuttering as he spills deep.
you collapse against his chest, trembling, boneless.
“I’ll never need anyone else,” he whispers. “ever.”
your bodies are tangled and soaked with sweat. the sheets are a mess. you’re not even sure where your shirt ended up, or when exactly james started trembling like he was about to cry.
but you’re still in his lap, his arms wrapped tight around you, cock twitching deep inside your soaked cunt, your heart beating against his chest like a war drum.
and james won’t stop kissing you.
lazy kisses. gentle kisses. desperate, open-mouthed ones that make you dizzy.
“still with me?” he mumbles, eyes glazed but fond. his hands are stroking your hips like he’s grounding himself.
you nod, forehead against his. “are you?”
“no,” he says softly. “i’m fucking gone.”
you laugh, exhausted.
but he shifts beneath you, and suddenly his cock is hard again. still inside you. still pulsing.
“james—”
“i told you,” he breathes, eyes dark and glassy, “i can’t stop.”
your thighs are shaking. your clit is raw. your whole body is too sensitive to move, but the idea of him fucking you again makes your core clench, greedy and ready.
james feels it. “oh, you liked that.”
he grins, devilish and boyish all at once, and then he lifts you up, just a little, until only the tip of his cock remains inside.
then slams you down again.
you scream.
“i know,” he whispers. “sensitive, yeah? but i need it, baby. need to see you come again. need to feel you fluttering around me while i ruin you for the fourth fucking time.”
you moan, overwhelmed and already so far gone that your eyes well with tears.
“aw, don’t cry,” he coos, cupping your cheek. “or do. i like it. you’re pretty when you sob for me.”
his thumb drags over your bottom lip, then shoves into your mouth. you suck on it instinctively.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”
you nod, drooling around his thumb.
“that’s my girl.”
he starts thrusting up into you again, slow but punishing. you can’t even move anymore, so he uses his grip on your hips to bounce you, just enough to send lightning through your nerves. your eyes roll back.
“look at you,” he groans. “fucked dumb and still taking it. my perfect little mess.”
you whimper something unintelligible. he kisses your cheek.
“gonna come again?”
“I—I can’t—”
“yes you can,” he growls. “you’re going to. you’re going to soak me again and scream for it. come on, baby, give it to me.”
his fingers rub your clit, and it’s too much.
your orgasm rips through you, high and shrieking and borderline painful—and james moans like it’s his own.
he follows a second later, biting your collarbone, coming inside you one more time as your cunt flutters around him, pulling every drop from his cock.
this time, you really collapse.
fully limp.
james holds you tighter.
“my girl,” he breathes, over and over. “my girl. my girl. mine.”
you’re not sure when you blacked out. not passed out, just gone. drifting. floating somewhere above your own body, high on orgasm and heat and james’s voice murmuring filth into your neck.
you’re still in his lap. still full of him. the sheets beneath you are a disaster. his curls are damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. and his cock is finally soft again, tucked inside you like it belongs there.
neither of you speak for a long while.
james just breathes. kisses your temple. rubs circles into your back like he’s tracing a map he never wants to lose.
you don’t even realize you’re crying until he wipes the tears away with his thumbs.
“too much?” he whispers. his voice is hoarse. wrecked.
you shake your head. “no. never.”
he lets out a long breath and kisses your cheek.
“didn’t mean to fuck you like I’d never see you again,” he murmurs. “but you… you make me crazy.”
you look up at him. his eyes are blown wide, glassy with something that feels like awe.
“you okay?” you ask, barely a whisper.
he nods, then pauses. “no.”
your heart jumps. “no?”
he cups your face like you’re porcelain.
“no, I'm not okay. I'm in love with you. I want to spend every day like this. every night. I want to wake up hard against your ass and go to sleep with your taste in my mouth.”
your throat tightens.
“I want to build a life around your body,” he whispers. “I want to die between your thighs. I want to come inside you so many times that you forget what empty feels like.”
you blink, tears falling again.
he brushes them away gently.
“I meant what I said,” he adds, voice low. “let me rot here. right inside you. let me be the man who never leaves your bed.”
you nod slowly.
“then stay,” you whisper. “forever.”
james smiles, soft and wrecked and completely in love.
“forever isn’t long enough,” he says. “but I’ll try.”
he kisses you then, slow and deep. and even though your body is raw and trembling and ruined, you know he’d take you again if you asked. he’d give you everything. over and over.
because he’s yours.
and you’re his.
completely.
hopelessly.
forever.
lostrologyy © 2025.
the sickness you foster, your favourite addictions (p.1)
Pairing: Colonel Caleb Xia x Non-MC Reader
Summary: After your brother was killed under the command of newly appointed Colonel Caleb Xia, you swore you'd never forgive the man who returned from the mission when your brother did not. But when you're forcibly reassigned as his second-in-command, you're pulled into a cold war of secrets and bloodstained power plays.
Assigned to spy on the colonel by the same institution that decorated your brother's grave with empty honours, you find yourself caught between two monsters, one who watches from above, and one who stands too close. But there's more to Caleb than perceived cruelty. He’s calculating, obsessive, and far too interested in what lies beneath your controlled fury. The closer you get, the more you begin to wonder: Is this grief? Hatred? Or the start of something far darker?
Warnings: Caleb is lowkey his own warning in this one lol, he's kind of cray cray. Yandere vibes. Angst? Mentions of violence and injury. SLOWBURN. Enemies to lovers.
Word Count: 9k (oops it's long, grab some snacks)
A/N: This one's for my Caleb folks, enjoy! Haven't fully brushed up on my LADS lore, and I'm not entirely sure what a second in command actually does, lmao, so I've just winged a lot of this. Just wanted an intense, hot man in a uniform. Part 2 will be more yandere vibes because it'll be in his pov, but if you squint, it's kinda obvious here too in the end. Also, I don't know if this is angsty enough, might have to up my game in part 2 lol, feel free to leave suggestions. Would love to hear yalls thoughts so please don't be silent readers <3
Big thanks to @dramaticalsachan for the second-in-command idea, I hope I did it justice!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | AO3
You first saw him at the funeral. Not just glimpsed, or acknowledged in passing, but really saw him. Before that, Caleb Xia had been nothing more than just another transmission in the static, a faceless name buried in mission logs and fleet dispatches. You had known of him the way one knew of black holes—far-off anomalies, powerful and impersonal. He was a gravitational constant in the Farspace Fleet, orbiting on the edges of your awareness, never quite intersecting your path.
And yet, that was the moment he entered your orbit. Or rather, collided into it, though it didn't feel like a collision then.
On a day like today, nothing felt like it was supposed to, not with the grief roaring through you like a storm trying to rip through steel. You were too preoccupied with more important things. Like the silence left behind by the only voice you ever truly listened to, and the weight of the small box they placed in your trembling hands, rattling with medals and empty meaning.
Bravery. Honor. Sacrifice.
All the hollow reverence the Farspace Fleet draped over its fallen like ribbons on a corpse. What meaning did such accolades hold for the dead?
You didn't know, but as you stood there, clutching a lacquered box heavy with medallions your little brother would never pin to his coat with that crooked grin of his, something curdled in your stomach.
He would have scoffed at that word—little.
"You're older by what? Five minutes?" he'd say with a grin. "Doesn't count."
But it did count. Five minutes made you the eldest. Five minutes made you his shield and protector. Five minutes meant you were the one who should have died, because otherwise, how shameful was it to be both the first one in and the last one standing?
Now, you stood in front of an empty grave, accepting hollow honours from an organization that had let him die. Your mouth was pressed into a bloodless line, your eyes dry from failing to cry. The bitterness rising in your throat was corrosive and alive, blooming like acid beneath your skin.
Then you saw him.
At first, he was just another face in the sea of mourners, wearing the polite solemnity that funerals demanded. He stood a few rows back—deliberately, you suspected. Not so far as to seem absent. Not so close as to draw attention.
But once your gaze found his, it caught. Because Caleb Xia did not cry. He did not bow his head in regret or parrot the same condolences the others did. His gaze alternated between you and your brother's placeholder grave as if he couldn't make up his mind which of you was the bigger curiosity. His gaze carved through your skin and down into the marrow, as if searching for some fault line to split you open.
He stood in full Farspace regalia, his uniform pressed with military precision, the cold glint of medals decorating him like ornaments. One might have mistaken him for a war hero, but you knew better.
That shining title—Colonel—was new. Your brother's blood was barely dry, and already Caleb had been paraded for his very first mission as commanding officer, the very same mission that had left your family in ruin.
You couldn't think of anyone less deserving of the title.
So how dare he stand there as if he had the right to mourn? How dare he pretend, when he was the one who led your brother into the stars and brought back barely enough remains to mourn?
Every second his eyes remained on you, you fantasized about tearing the medals from your brother's memorial box and ramming them through the sockets of his skull, engraving the consequences of failure right into his goddamn face.
But no, grief wasn't allowed to be ugly. You had to remain composed, and look tragic in just the right way. It was always a performance, because someone was always watching.
Perhaps what made it worse was the fact that your brother had idolized him. You remembered the way his face used to light up when he said the name. Caleb Xia, the elite pilot with impossible reflexes and a spotless record. Caleb Xia, who had risen through the ranks like a comet. Caleb Xia, who made gravity bend and enemies fold, and young soldiers believe.
Your brother had certainly believed, and he died for it.
You hadn't paid attention then, too busy to care for the ramblings of a fanboy. Different departments, different lives. You'd told your brother that you'd get him a photocard of his beloved Colonel once as a joke, and now those very same words lodged in your throat like thorns.
You had never imagined you were capable of feeling such immense loathing. You loathed Caleb's composure and the way he didn't pretend to grieve, because that meant he didn't even care enough to perform. Not even for show.
You had never wanted to be violent so badly in your life.
Eventually, the crowd thinned, their footsteps fading into the vast silence of the hangar-turned-memorial, leaving behind nothing but the scent of cold metal and the flowers you'd never asked for. But of course, the Colonel remained exactly where he was, but this time, you met his gaze deliberately, letting him see the contempt etched into every line of your face.
Words would only dilute the venom, so you glared at him until something shifted. It was barely perceptible, the slightest tick of his jaw that betrayed his otherwise statuesque stillness. He was not made of stone after all.
You almost walked to him then. Almost let your boots carry you across the short but volatile distance. Almost let the resentment do what it had been aching to since the mission report first found your inbox. But you didn't. You exhaled slowly and stayed where you were.
With luck, this would be the last time you ever saw him—this man with too many accolades and too little soul. Different departments, different lives. The Farspace Fleet was too large for casual run-ins.
Besides, you had a few days off. Enough time to cage the wildfire in your chest and coax your malice into something you could live with. Something you could survive.
Because if not...
You were the head engineer of your team. Most fleet vessels passed under your approval at least once. You had access to every bolt, circuit, and pressure seal. If you wanted, you could rig his next solo flight to fail so discreetly the black box would read it as a tragic malfunction. It wouldn't even be difficult, and you'd thought about it. You'd thought about it more than you liked to admit.
No.
You weren't a killer. You still had some fractured piece of morality you clung to, like wreckage from a shipwrecked past, even if the man standing across from you couldn't say the same.
You were convinced that whatever cruel, indifferent beings sat lounging at the helm of the universe despised you. It was the only reasonable explanation.
The moment you returned from your time off, you found yourself summoned to the office of one of the Fleet's polished brass relics. Admiral Harkins was a man who reeked of privilege and sour cologne, and when he gestured for you to sit in the leather chair across his desk, you did. Optics and self-control were what mattered most in this place.
He began speaking at once, his temperament carefully calibrated for sympathy. "The loss of your brother was felt deeply across the ranks. A promising young pilot. A tragic sacrifice."
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Tragic, indeed. Tragic that no one in this godforsaken institution gave a damn until his body was stardust and his name convenient for morale.
You tuned the rest of his solemn drone out until his next words cleaved through the haze.
"...which is why we felt it would be most fitting to reassign you. Temporarily, of course."
You sat up straighter. "I wasn't aware there were any issues with my current assignment, sir. I've received no complaints from my division, and I'm deeply invested in my team's current project."
Admiral Harkins offered a placating smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course. Your work has been exemplary. This isn't a demotion, I assure you."
"Then where, exactly, am I being reassigned?"
His smile widened, as if he'd been waiting for you to ask. "As I said, it's quite the opportunity. You'll be serving as second-in-command to the Colonel himself."
You very nearly let every ounce of disdain twist your lips into something ferocious, but instead, you folded your hands in your lap and forced yourself to sound professional. "I was under the impression the Colonel already has a second-in-command."
The Admiral gave a sympathetic sigh. "A pity, truly. The same mission that took your brother's life also gravely injured the Colonel's deputy. He's currently in long-term care. His condition is stable, but the doctors insist on complete rest."
"With respect, sir, I fail to see how this is the best use of my skills."
"It's only temporary. A few months at most. It would mean a great deal to the Colonel, I'm sure, to know someone reliable is supporting him. He shouldn't be worrying about work while his former second is recovering, wouldn't you agree?"
Ah. There it was, the guilt trip, delivered with just the right tone of paternal disappointment. It was fucking absurd, and you briefly imagined telling the Admiral that if Caleb wanted support, he was most welcome to jump into a black hole to find it.
"Sir, the project I'm currently leading involves calibrating the new grav-thrusters for the Titan-class vessels. We're already on a tight timeline, and my presence is fairly integral to the process."
Admiral Harkins beamed like he was about to award you a prize. "Yes, I'm very aware. Your teammates speak highly of you, which is exactly why we decided to let you continue your little engineering project as well."
"Sir...?"
"Think of it as wearing two hats!" he declared enthusiastically, as if multitasking two completely incompatible full-time roles was perfectly reasonable. "During the hours Colonel Xia has no direct need of you, you're free to return to your workshop. Split your time accordingly."
Now you really wanted to scream. Two hats? What a nice way to describe a psychological death sentence. They expected you to assist a commanding officer and continue building fleet engines on the side? It was a whole new definition of overtime.
And yet, if it had been any other officer or any other role, you would have taken it without question. Better to drown in work than return to the apartment that had your brother's jacket draped over the back of the couch. Better to never sleep at all than to fall asleep deprived of his stupid jokes.
When you didn't respond, the Admiral took it as agreement, and he leaned forward, his conspiratorial tone making your skin crawl. "You see, you're the only one we can really trust with this assignment."
"Trust with what, exactly? Taking meeting minutes?"
"After the tragedy that befell your brother, some of us on the board have begun to question the Colonel's judgment."
You stiffened.
He continued smoothly. "We just want someone reliable—someone who's already suffered the cost of a command gone wrong—to be our eyes and ears. Nothing formal, of course. Just let us know if our concerns are unfounded. Help us rest easy, you know."
Now it made sense. This wasn't a promotion, but a leash. They wanted you close enough to see if Caleb was cracking under the burden of his new position. You stared at the Admiral, and he gave you a sympathetic nod. But this was not up for discussion. There was no denying him.
"Some believe the Colonel may have been directly responsible for how catastrophically the mission deteriorated. I'm sure, given your brother's unfortunate death, you'd want to see this matter resolved. Properly. The transfer documents have already been dealt with."
The implications hung in the air. They were asking you to spy on him, giving you no choice in the matter. And the worst part? They thought they were doing you a favour.
You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly, because to protest further would be to draw attention. "Understood, sir."
The man in front of you clapped once in approval. "Wonderful! You'll be present for mission briefings and tactical updates. You'll sit in on communications between the Colonel and Central Command. Be available during inspections, ship evaluations, and security sweeps. Assist in delegating tasks. Nothing too demanding. Just ensure things run efficiently. I imagine someone of your capabilities can manage that with ease."
"Yes, sir."
"Though, who knows, perhaps your new role will come to an end sooner than we anticipate."
That drew your attention. "If the Colonel's former second recovers quickly?" you asked carefully.
The Admiral gave a casual chuckle. "I meant if the Colonel no longer requires a second-in-command."
"Are you expecting his workload to drop in the upcoming months, sir?"
"No, you silly girl. Gods above, you really don't use your head for anything besides calculations, do you?"
The words should have slid off you like water off reinforced hull plating. But they didn't. They burrowed deep into old wounds and unhealed bruises. Into that quiet place where rage and memory tangled together like rusted wire.
This wasn't the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.
You forced your expression into something unreadable and your spine into something unbreakable. You knew this game because you'd been playing it all your life. You were no stranger to such phrases.
Silly girl.
Feisty thing.
Overreacting.
Too sensitive.
Too cold.
Too difficult to work with.
Too ambitious.
Too much.
You'd heard it in the academy from overzealous classmates who dismissed your calculations, only to fail the thermodynamics simulation while yours earned top marks. You'd heard it in every group project where you ended up doing the heavy lifting, while the boys talked over you and then took credit for the success. You'd even heard it here in the Fleet, from officers who swaggered into your workspace with broken gear and worse attitudes—who questioned your methods, your protocols, your qualifications—until you fixed what they couldn't and sent them back out with their tails tucked between their legs.
They never thanked you.
You remembered one in particular. Commander Rusk had smirked and said, "Didn't think a girl like you'd know your way around a soldering iron."
You had smiled sweetly and replied, "Didn't think a man like you would need so many tries to plug in a simple cable."
You never saw him again, which you considered a victory.
But the truth was, the constant scrutiny wore you down. Your competence had to be proven every day, while others were simply assumed to be competent by default. Your voice had to be just authoritative enough to be heard without being called aggressive. Your mistakes, when they happened—because they always did, you weren't flawless—were seen as confirmation of your nature, while men's mistakes were dismissed as anomalies.
"The Colonel might no longer require a second-in-command, because dead men don't need someone to keep their schedule, do they?" Admiral Harkins continued with exaggerated slowness, as if speaking to a child. Then he laughed, like the punchline of a joke he'd told himself a thousand times, and all your initial hostility bled out of you because this was far worse.
Surely not. Surely, even in an institution as corrupt as the Farspace Fleet, he couldn't be suggesting...
But he was.
"Of course, no one would blame you. No one would even need to know. This isn't part of your duties, naturally. Just something to consider." He winked. "You've suffered a terrible loss. In grief, people do things. Understandable things. And the DeepSpace Tunnels, well, accidents happen in there all the time. It's a miracle half the fleet doesn't get swallowed whole."
It was as if he'd reached inside your skull and pulled out every shameful thought you'd tried to bury since the funeral. Of course, the idea had crossed your mind when you'd caught sight of your brother's favourite mug sitting unwashed in the sink.
But thinking it was one thing, and hearing it spoken aloud by this sleazy man was another. It made you want to claw your way out of this room and this goddamned uniform.
Instead, you stood and saluted. "Understood, sir. Eyes and ears. Got it."
The killing wasn't a part of your job description, and for once, you would try not to go above and beyond expectation. Although if Caleb so much as breathed the wrong way in your direction...
You weren't a saint, but you weren't a murderer either.
"If that's all, I'll be taking my leave, sir."
"Good. You may report immediately."
The Colonel's office was on the upper deck of the command wing, lined with star maps and strategic charts that flickered faintly under harsh lighting. No personal artifacts or clutter, just polished steel and silence.
When you arrived, Caleb was standing with his back to you, seemingly engrossed in a terminal screen. You watched his sharp outline, and nearly grimaced. He was practically carved from discipline. His uniform was flawless, with not a thread out of place, and you were supposed to find a crack in this man's armour? You had the worst luck.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps. Up close, he was exactly what you'd imagined, and his unreadable stare met yours with the precision of an unsheathed blade.
"Colonel Xia." You gave him a crisp salute that he didn't deserve. "Reporting as ordered."
The man did not speak, and you found your patience wearing thin.
"I've reviewed the mission logs and communication protocols. I expect I'll be briefed on the remaining duties shortly...sir." You tacked on the honorific belatedly, like an afterthought, and judging by the twitch in his cheek, he noticed.
Caleb took a deliberate step forward, his long legs eating up the distance between the two of you. "We'll go over those after the inspection tour. You'll shadow me for the next several days."
"Of course."
His gaze lingered on your face, and you saw the awareness in it. He knew why you were really here, or at least he suspected. He looked at you the way a predator studies traps, wondering what lethal thing might be waiting just beneath the surface.
You let your eyes narrow a fraction. Maybe a part of you wanted him to know. Maybe you wanted him to feel as uneasy in your presence as you did in his.
"If you have any reservations about this arrangement," he said impassively, "I trust you'll speak to Command." The words were polite enough, but the challenge beneath them was unmistakable.
"No reservations, sir. I always follow orders."
"Do you now."
"Always...sir."
A lie, and you both knew it. You were two storms circling each other, measuring windspeed and calculating damage.
Caleb nodded curtly, thrusting a datapad in your direction and walking out the door without waiting to see if you followed. "I expect these to be completed before 1800 hours. If you have questions, don't waste my time."
You hurried after him, scanning the device with a frown. There were a lot of tasks, spread across several departments, including two that were, technically, not under your jurisdiction. It had to be deliberate. He was testing you.
"Busy day," you remarked casually, flipping through the assignments. "Planning to see how quickly I crack?"
He looked over his shoulder. "I have the right to assess the competence of my new assistant, don't I?"
You hated the way he implied he owned the role as if you hadn't been placed there purposefully, like a scalpel beneath his ribs.
"And if I fail the assessment?"
"Then I report that Command made a mistake assigning you here. And I have you removed."
The corner of your mouth twitched in contempt. "How efficient of you."
"I value efficiency. You should, too. Unless you're going to disappoint me before the first cycle ends."
"You'll have to work harder than that if you want to rattle me, Colonel."
You understood his game now. He wanted you to fail. To explode and prove the story he'd already started writing about you. But you weren't going to make it easy for him.
"After you finish the fighter log discrepancies," he said, clearly moving on, "you'll oversee the diagnostic sweep of Deck Nine."
"That wasn't listed on my assignments."
"Consider it a late addition."
"How convenient."
The rest of the day unfolded like a carefully staged performance, except both lead actors wanted to murder each other.
You completed Caleb's damn checklist. You reviewed the logs, flagged anomalies, and corrected three manual override entries that looked suspiciously like sabotage masked as human error. You even oversaw the hangar bay logistics with brutal efficiency.
No one could say you weren't doing your job, not even him, and in your delusion, you imagined that if every day passed by as uneventfully as your first, perhaps you'd be able to get through this assignment without losing your mind.
That was until your last meeting of the day.
The briefing hall was already full when you entered, the air saturated with recycled oxygen and idle chatter. Officers clustered in tidy rows, muttering among themselves while they waited for the Colonel.
Caleb himself had stopped to speak to another officer just outside the door, so you entered the room alone, and it was like the air changed the moment you did. It was so subtle that you might've missed it if you weren't already expecting it.
Heads turned, and conversations stuttered, paused mid-sentence. Several pairs of eyes tracked your path to the front. Most of them didn't know your name, and even fewer could connect it to your face. That was the nature of your usual role. The head of the engineering division was rarely seen outside hangars and repair bays, and certainly not parading through the corridors like she belonged at the Colonel's right hand.
Yet here you were, so it didn't take long for them to leap to the easiest conclusion. You could feel it in the amused smirks and the hushed whispers.
So that's what the Colonel's into. New assistant, or new personal toy?
Then came the voice, low enough to pretend it hadn't meant to be heard, but too clear to be accidental. "Didn't know the Colonel liked his secretaries broody. Do you think she'll last longer than poor Liam?"
The speaker—Ensign Kallan, by the look of his badge—grinned to himself, clearly proud of the comment, even when the men around him shuffled awkwardly. You saw one look away, and another smirk, but no one corrected him.
The Colonel stood in the doorway now, and although most had registered his presence by now, the idiot who had commented hadn't. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Caleb's fingers twitch, but he didn't say a word in your defence, or so much as look in Kallan's direction. He only tilted his head at you, waiting for a reaction.
You could have stayed silent. You should have stayed silent. But silence, you had learned long ago, was a language best wielded on your own terms.
"Ensign Kallan, was it?" You offered a faint, polished smile that didn't reach your eyes.
He straightened slightly, surprised to be addressed. Of course, he expected you to ignore his jibe. "Yes, ma'am?" The last syllable dripped with sarcasm.
"I understand your confusion. It's easy to mistake capability for ornament when you've never been on the receiving end of either." The room went quiet, but you didn't stop. "But allow me to correct the record. I am not a secretary or a communications officer. I'm the engineer who overhauled the shielding calibration protocol that kept half this fleet from imploding during last cycle's solar breach. My clearance exceeds yours by three levels, so unless you're volunteering to scrub machine shop floors for the next two months, I suggest you remember that."
Kallan paled. "Yes, ma'am." The honorific was uttered with a lot more reverence this time, but you didn't acknowledge it.
Caleb had finally decided to walk over and stand beside you now, his expression neutral as if nothing had happened at all. But you felt the smallest shift in his posture. Was the subtle inclination of his head approval or amusement? You couldn't tell, and you didn't care.
For the rest of the briefing, no one dared to mistake you for anything less than what you were.
You dedicated the rest of the meeting to inspecting Caleb, and it only proved what you'd already learned earlier in the day. He was damnably good at what he did, issuing instructions with absolute clarity. No wasted words or repetition. It made you even angrier. For a man so incapable of making mistakes, how had he screwed up chatastrophically enough to end your brother's life.
You were here to prove his incompetence, and yet he was giving you nothing to work with. You hated how nothing about him ever seemed frayed. He handled crises with the same composure he used to sip his morning coffee, and you tried your best to catalogue every detail.
Mental Note One: He never fidgeted. Not with his gloves, or his cuffs, or even his comm. Either he was truly calm, or he had mastered stillness so thoroughly it masqueraded as peace.
Mental Note Two: He didn't praise. Not even when a weapons officer reported a 36% efficiency increase.
Mental Note Three: He listened with a predator's patience. He never interrupted, but only because he didn't need to. The moment he so much as opened his mouth, the person speaking would fall silent, and all eyes would be on him.
You loathed how your mind kept tracking him this way. It was like studying the schematics of an engine you'd sworn to dismantle, and knowing a system inside and out just so you could find where best to break it.
He was watching you as well, and you let him. Let him wonder if you were the knife in his ribs or the hand that would stop someone else from twisting it deeper. You had been assigned to him after his previous second-in-command nearly died. He knew the game as well as you did.
When the meeting finally ended, and the officers began to file out, Caleb handed you his datapad dismissively.
"You kept up," he observed.
You smiled tightly. "And you didn't collapse from the weight of your own ego. We're both full of surprises."
Shit.
You didn't mean to let that slip on your first day, but the hours had been long, and you still had a second job to attend to while your pompous superior was probably going to go home and sleep off his tyranny.
There was a long pause, and Caleb gave you an odd look, like he wasn't sure whether to reprimand you or laugh.
"You'll compile today's summary logs and deliver them to me by tomorrow morning."
"Understood, sir." Though your tone was polite, you looked at the datapad like it might explode in your hands.
But orders were orders, and you had every intention of doing this so perfectly that not even he could find fault. Maybe you should have messed up on purpose, just so he'd take you off the job, but your ego wouldn't let you do that. If anyone would lose this game, it'd be him.
"0600, tomorrow. Outer docking ring. Don't be late."
You inclined your head. "Wouldn't dream of it, Colonel."
You departed before he could say anything else, the cold burn of his stare following you down the corridor. Tomorrow would be worse, you already knew, but so would you.
After that briefing incident, Caleb's assignments took a noticeable turn, and suddenly, your duties as second-in-command bore an uncanny resemblance to administrative drudgery.
He never mocked you overtly, but you could see it in the slight raise of his brow when he handed you your daily task list. The almost-smirk that tugged at his mouth, never quite reaching a full expression, just a faint twitch, like he knew.
The list included vital responsibilities as:
- Sorting and reformatting decades-old combat logs "for archival purposes"
- Fetching and organizing requisition orders for ships you didn't even work on
- Coordinating meal rotations for his squadron as if you were a glorified cafeteria assistant
- Printing, binding, and physically delivering daily mission transcripts to his office, even though all data was stored digitally
- Scheduling appointments with officers you had no business interacting with
- And, on one especially insulting afternoon, compiling a list of docking bay lightbulbs that needed replacing
Lightbulbs.
You were an aerospace engineer, not a glorified secretary, yet here you were, jotting down broken corridor lights and organizing dinner times for grown men.
And the Colonel? He was taking some sort of sick pleasure out of all this. Sometimes he'd ask you with that irritating calm, "I trust that your new role is treating you well?"
You weren't sure what burned more, your indignation or your pride. He wasn't just being petty. No, it was too calculated for that. You began to wonder if this was his way of pushing you out. Of stacking enough insults that you'd give up and storm off. Little did he know, you had no choice but to stick around.
But the pettier his orders became, the less guilty you felt about your weekly check-ins with Admiral Harkins. You always had something for him, even if it was nothing damning or meaningful. You told him about Caleb's routines—the strange consistency of his hours, the precise loops he walked during patrol shifts, and the way he reviewed the reports no one else bothered with. You even told him how the man kept his office locked behind triple authentication when he wasn't in it.
It wasn't enough, and you knew it, because the Admiral was growing impatient. But a part of you relished that. Men like the Harkins and Caleb had made your entire life unbearable, so you deserved to enjoy their discomfort a little too. It was only fair.
Caleb's next order came while you weren't even in his office. You had assumed he was done for the day, and you were in your own lab by now, your mind busy with orbital mechanics.
A junior officer approached you sheepishly, his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for impact. "Colonel Xia requests that his usual coffee be brought to his office. He said...you'd know how he takes it."
You blinked. "Excuse me? You want me...to fetch the Colonel's coffee?"
"Yes, ma'am. Those were his words."
It took a full second for the words to land, and then you almost laughed. "It's almost midnight. I'm off the clock," you snapped impatiently.
The junior officer looked pained. "I...he insisted it be you."
You turned on your heel and stalked to the breakroom so fast you nearly knocked the poor bastard flat. Then you made the damn drink, the coffee machine hissing too cheerfully for your mood. You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you.
Your pride was stacked like dynamite behind your ribs, and the bitter scent of roasted beans filled the sterile room. You stared at the steaming cup in your hand and considered dumping engine oil in it. You were making coffee for a man who'd once stood three feet away from your brother's sealed casket without a single word of remorse.
Then another petty thought slithered into your mind, inspired by the elementary school version of you who held grudges like oaths. You could spit in his coffee and he'd be none the wiser. But no, you were not a child.
When you arrived at his office, Caleb looked up from his desk suspiciously.
You set his drink down with more force than necessary, just shy of a slam. "Orders up."
He didn't thank you, staring down with an intensity that could've peeled paint from steel.
"What? You think I poisoned it?" You raised a brow. "Maybe you shouldn't ask people you don't trust to handle your beverages."
His gaze narrowed. "If it's harmless, you wouldn't mind taking the first sip."
The audacity. First, a glorified errand girl, and now his personal food tester?
"If I wanted to kill you, Colonel, I wouldn't use something so juvenile as poison."
You considered throwing the cup in his face, but you had never been one for theatrical displays. When he pushed it toward you, you lifted it to your lips, letting the vile liquid scald your tongue.
You grimaced. "You really drink this sludge willingly? What are you, part engine?"
Without responding, he stood to take the cup back, his fingers brushing the spot your lips had touched. Then, without breaking eye contact, he drank from the same place you had.
He met your glare without flinching, as if saying, I see your anger, and I will raise you discomfort until you shatter.
"Good to know I can trust your judgment, even with coffee."
Your next words were out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. "Sir, I'm beginning to wonder whether I was assigned as your second-in-command or your executive assistant."
Caleb's lips twitched. "Is there a problem?"
"I just want to be certain I'm fulfilling the expectations of the role."
"You are. Perfectly."
You searched his face for anything—malice or mockery—but his expression was impassive.
After the coffee incident, something in you fractured. You didn't start out trying to be petty, but you were tired, and tired people did reckless things. Especially tired people with full access to every system Caleb Xia touched. In hindsight, that was an unrealistic level of trust for someone he clearly suspected.
You'd been pulling double shifts for weeks now, spending your days enduring the Colonel's smug orders and your nights half-conscious in the reactor lab, trying to keep your side project alive.
So when you stared down at the endless stack of reports he expected you to sift through—personnel evaluations, damage assessments, duty rosters—all of it something he could've reviewed digitally in half the time, you decided to stop being a doormat.
You slipped one file into the wrong pile, marking a requisition form from two months ago with a red tag that made it look urgent. It was completely unrelated to anything happening now, but enough to waste twenty minutes of Caleb's precious time and make him bark at the wrong officer.
Next, when his weekly mission report got sent to the wrong printer, accidentally of course, you didn't correct it. You just let it sit five floors away, and when he messaged asking where the hell it went, you took your sweet time replying.
"Must've been a routing glitch, sir. Maybe the system's lagging. You could always walk down and retrieve it. Stretch your legs."
Then came the real fun.
You started adjusting his calendar. Three-minute overlaps. Swapping meeting rooms and forcing him to sprint across two floors to make it on time. He started arriving early to everything just in case.
It was easy to feign ignorance, but you noticed the way he would glare at you in those moments, like he was waiting for you to confess.
He was a man of precision, so during every mission briefing, you made sure his mic's calibration was just slightly off. The feedback was a little too sharp, and it was enough to draw a few startled glances. He fixed it within seconds, of course, but you caught the tick in his jaw.
By the third month, the bags under your eyes had gone from subtle shadows to outright bruises. Caleb had stopped trying to hide the way he studied you, half calculation, half curiosity, like he was trying to crack a cipher and was starting to hate the code.
Because you still got the work done. You still filed your reports, showed up at every meeting and every duty rotation, even if your eyelids fluttered and your voice was growing thinner with each passing day.
The more tired you got, the pettier you became.
You started rerouting his door sensors so they opened half a second late. Not enough to trigger a repair report, but enough to annoy him. You delayed his comm signal one cycle, so his input always came in a fraction after someone else had already spoken, and his alerts pinged five seconds later than usual, long enough to miss the first call. You subtly changed the temperature setting in his office by a few degrees. One day slightly too cold, the next barely too warm. You even programmed the hallway lights outside the room to flicker, but only when he walked past.
They were all childishly insignificant rebellions, but they were immensely satisfying.
Maybe you wanted to see him feel something for once, even if it was frustration. Maybe you just wanted proof that he was human, because right now, you hated him too much for him to be anything else.
Caleb, on the other hand, never directly confronted you, but he started giving you longer, unnecessarily complicated errands that took you through the most inconvenient routes. Then there was the coffee, of course. You thought you'd made your point after that humiliating performance, but the man was incorrigible. He'd request it again every few days. Never directly. Always through another officer, and always with an air of plausible deniability.
You made it every time, and when you delivered it to his desk, he'd watch you with those goddamn eyes and make you take the first sip. Then, like a ritual, he'd drink from the exact same place your lips had touched.
He was enjoying this too.
It was well past midnight, and you sat hunched over a circuit board, the smell of solder and melting alloy thick in your nostrils, your fingers trembling from a cocktail of caffeine, overexertion, and sleeplessness. The light above your workstation flickered faintly, casting dull gold across the edges of your tools.
In the background, looping through the static-clogged speaker of the overhead system, your brother's favourite song played again. It had been on repeat for several hours now, and you both loathed and needed it in equal measure.
It was like picking at a wound every time it would scab over, but the silence was worse. You couldn't bear it, especially in this place that he used to linger in after hours, where he teased you for being too much of a perfectionist.
His hours as a junior officer were more humane than yours, but he always stuck around waiting for you. In fact, the only reason he had even been here was because it was your dream to work for one of the nation's most prestigious organizations. It was your dream that killed him.
You sniffled, hastily brushing your wrist over your cheek. You had no time for this. You were rushing to finish your team's prototype before sunrise, knowing you'd miss the presentation tomorrow. The final unveiling of something you'd worked so hard to build. And why? Because you had to attend some mind-numbing strategy meeting as Colonel Xia's fucking secretary.
The thought made your soldering hand twitch too hard, nearly frying a wire and burning your fingers in the process. You let out a string of expletives.
When the door slid open, you didn't even look up. You knew the cadence of that stride too well by now, and you were halfway to biting your own tongue off before the fury spilled out of you.
"Of course," you muttered, "why wouldn't the Colonel show up to ruin what little peace I have left?"
Caleb didn't reply right away, stopping just inside the threshold to survey the space. "Enjoying yourself, are you?" His frigid tone made the temperature in the room drop by several degrees.
"Oh, immensely," you drawled, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Who doesn't love getting metal fumes in their eyes at two in the morning?"
You set your soldering iron down and blinked rapidly. The burning sting reminded you—too late—that you had forgotten to put on your safety goggles again. Your watering eyes betrayed you, and you blinked harder, pretending to inspect a nearby tool so he wouldn't see the redness or the sheen gathering in the corners of your lashes.
Caleb took a step closer. "You've been busy lately."
"Yes. My workload has doubled thanks to you."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then enlighten me, sir."
"The scheduling errors. The misrouted transmissions. The false alarm in Bay Six."
"Sounds like a lot of administrative chaos. You might want to speak to your secretary about that. Your actual secretary."
"I am," he returned coolly. "And I'm observing a pattern. You tampered with the launch logs today."
"I fixed a misfiled routing loop. You're welcome."
His tone sharpened. "You don't have that kind of clearance as my—"
"But I do have that sort of clearance!" Your eyes were really burning now, and you weren't sure if it was the soldering fumes, the lack of sleep, or that awful tendency from childhood to cry whenever you were frustrated. "You keep on forgetting that I'm not just here to fetch your coffee and arrange your calendar. I was running propulsion schematics while you were still..."
Caleb's lips twitched with amusement. "Is this where you say, while I was still learning how to walk?"
"Judging by your competence, that was probably last year, so yes. Yes, I was."
"Perhaps you should've stayed in your workshop if you wanted to avoid responsibility."
As if you had a choice.
"You've got some fucking nerve," you snapped. "Coming into my space at this hour to scold me like I'm one of your little soldiers."
Caleb shrugged. "I came because I expected professionalism. Forgive me for assuming we could have a mature discussion about your antics."
That was the last straw, and you stood so suddenly your stool screeched against the floor. "Professionalism? You mean the professionalism I show when I make your drinks? Or the reports you make me deliver in person, because God forbid you send an email like a normal person? Or do you mean the professionalism I've shown while letting you humiliate me in front of every officer in this fleet? You let them call me every name in the book and say nothing at all, and mind you, I do not need you to defend me, but everyone knows they'll only stop if a man tells them to!"
Caleb's face remained stoic, but his silence was telling. You were getting to him.
Good.
"I have one place where I can breathe freely," you continued. "One place where I still feel like I'm doing the job I worked so hard for. So you can't just come in here and defile it, simply because you feel like it."
When he took a step forward, you matched it, refusing to be cornered.
"You think this is a game?" he inquired softly.
"No, I think this is a job. In fact, I'm doing two of them, and I'm doing a hell of a better job than you are. All you do is get people killed and pretend it's leadership."
Caleb's expression darkened with the kind of danger that only existed in the seconds after a gun misfired.
There was no other warning before the very air collapsed inward, as though a singularity had bloomed in the center of the room. Your ears popped, and the pressure struck you from every direction at once.
When your legs buckled beneath the impossible weight, you reached out instinctively to catch yourself, your hand fumbling against the cluttered edge of your workstation. A solder scraper tore a gash into your palm, and you slipped anyway, the blood-slicked metal clattering to the ground as your knees slammed hard against the floor. The gravity was unbearable, like the air itself wanted to crush you.
When you looked up at Caleb, trembling under the invisible force he commanded, he was serene.
“Say that again,” he ordered. “Go on. Tell me more about what I do. About who I kill.”
You bared your teeth, but then he tilted his head in contemplation.
“You know, it’s funny. The way you talk, anyone would think you weren’t the one who pushed your brother into joining the Fleet.”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
He stepped closer, and you could feel your joints ache beneath the force of his will. “What, you think I haven't read your files. You were the golden one, weren’t you? He just wanted to keep up. Wanted to impress you. Look where that got him.”
“Shut up.”
Caleb smiled faintly. “Maybe the guilt you’re so desperate to dump on me belongs to you. Not the first time I've been made a scapegoat for someone else's inadequacy.”
Your vision went white. “Don’t you dare pretend you know anything about me.”
“Oh, but I think I do. You talk like I held the gun, but really, he died chasing your shadow.”
“You were his hero," you snarled. "He followed you into that mission with stars in his goddamn eyes, and you let him die like he was nothing.”
Caleb flinched. The gravity around you warped tighter than before, pinning your arms to your sides. "No, you made him want to be a hero. I simply let him try. Too bad he didn't have it in him.”
Your stomach turned. The air kept pressing down, and your vision blurred from the pain in your hand and the shame clawing its way up your gullet.
“He died under your command,” you hissed. “And the only reason you’re still standing is because I haven’t put you in the ground yet.”
For a moment, neither of you moved, and the only sound was your brother’s music, still looping behind you, soft and sweet and impossibly cruel.
You barely had time to flinch before Caleb was right above you. His presence pressed against your skin like violence waiting to be unleashed, and his hands hovered near your head, twitching with hesitation. He looked like he didn’t know what he wanted: to cradle your face like something precious, or to grab a fistful of your hair and wrench your head back until your neck snapped to attention.
What he ended up doing was something halfway. His fingers threaded into your hair with an unexpected intimacy, tightening just enough to sting. “Oh? Is that your grand plan now? Kill me? Put me in the ground right next to your brother and call it justice?”
You didn’t answer, but the flicker in your expression must’ve betrayed something, because his smirk widened, venomous and knowing.
He leaned closer, and his breath grazed your cheek. “I know all about you. Your late-night meetings with the Admiral. The hours you spend in his office, talking about me.”
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
His grip tightened, and when he spoke again, it was darker. If it had been anyone else but him, you might have thought that was...jealousy in his tone? But it couldn't possibly be.
“You get cozy in his office, feeding him reports about how I'm unfit and dangerous. What does he do in return, hmm?” Caleb's lip curled maliciously. “Does he stroke your ego? Or does he stroke something else?”
Disgust flared in your throat. “What the fuck did you just say—”
“Come now, don’t act innocent. You play all the parts so well. Loyal soldier, mourning sister, reluctant assistant. But let’s not forget how you got this position in the first place.” He crouched, eyes locked to yours. “You nearly killed Liam.”
The accusation struck like a slap, and you scowled. “What? I didn’t even know him. Why the hell would I—”
The moment the denial left your lips, the density around you became overwhelming. Your bones protested against the strain, achingly close to crumbling to dust. Caleb's hand slid lower, almost digging into the soft flesh of your jaw. Your face was tilted up, forced to meet his eyes.
“Do. Not. Lie to me.” He had lost all pretense of calm. “I don’t appreciate liars. And I despise traitors.”
A strangled sound left your throat, but you could do little else.
“You think you're the first person who’s tried to kill me?” he whispered. “You’re not. Do you want to know what happened to the last few?”
You didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait.
“Do you know what it feels like to have every bone in your body pulverized at once?”
Your blood ran cold.
“Most people assume it to be quick. Merciful and instant.” A quiet chuckle vibrated against your cheek. “It’s not. The ribs go first. You can actually hear them crack. Then your lungs collapse. Can’t scream without lungs, can you?”
You couldn't help the shudder that went through you.
“Next come the limbs. They don’t shatter all at once. Your own skeleton turns against you, and the skull…it doesn't explode, like in the movies. It implodes. Like a delicate egg in a fist.”
"You—"
“I’ve done it before,” he added lazily. “So, tell me, Engineer, which method would you prefer?”
His gloved fingers brushed over the bloodied lower lip you'd been chewing on, prying it from between your teeth. Then they trailed higher, up your cheekbone, and over the ridge beneath your eye.
“Or shall I come up with something new, just for you?”
A single tear slipped free and trailed down your cheek. You didn't even know it had fallen until Caleb caught it with his thumb.
“Ah,” he murmured, studying your mouth like it was something he could read, “so there is something left inside you after all.”
Without a word, he took your hand. You didn’t give it to him. You couldn’t have, but he took it anyway. The same hand you’d sliced open rested in his palm now, dwarfed and vulnerable, like a broken wing.
"Still bleeding," Caleb noted to himself.
You tried to snatch it back, but the gravity around you pulsed tighter, slamming you back into stillness.
“Don’t. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”
Then he pressed his thumb directly into the cut.
A gasp tore from your throat, and if you had been allowed any movement, your spine would have arched in pain. The kind of pain that hijacked your pulse and burned through your veins. Your vision blurred again, not from rage this time, but from the fresh tears threatening to spill over.
Caleb's expression didn’t change, eagerly studying the way your lashes fluttered with the effort not to give him the satisfaction. His thumb dragged lazily through the torn flesh of your palm, where the blood had pooled, half-dried and tacky. The sting was unbearable, but you refused to cry out, swallowing the sound, which seemed to annoy him greatly.
"Didn't expect you to bleed so easily," he muttered. "Didn't think traitors could...feel."
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted iron. “Get your hands off me.”
He ignored you, pressing the wound again, just hard enough to be cruel. When he raised his hand to examine his fingertips, he almost looked revenant. Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought it to his own mouth.
His thumb dragged across the curve of his lower lip with a gentleness that made your stomach churn. Now, his mouth was stained red too—not quite a kiss, not quite a cut—but something blasphemous between the two.
“Now we match,” he hummed.
And you did. No one else had ever been this close. No one had dared, and maybe he knew it. Maybe he was staking his claim before anyone else could. Before anyone else could trace their mouth with your wound and make your pain feel so horribly personal.
He was your grotesque mirror of sorts, until he licked his lips, and the blood dispersed.
Your eyes widened in alarm, but Caleb's burned with an unexpected hunger, like something inside him had finally stirred.
"I wonder what you'll tell the Admiral during your meeting tomorrow," he mused. "If you wanted me dead, you should’ve tried a little harder. I expected better from our resident overachiever."
Then, the pressure vanished, and his hand dropped from your face, as if he’d never touched you at all. When he stood, composure wrapped around him like a second uniform once more.
You collapsed forward, catching yourself with trembling hands, gasping in shallow breaths. Blood from your sliced hand smeared across the metal flooring, the scent of it mixing with solder and machine oil.
You resisted the urge to retch, and when you looked up again, he was already halfway to the door. He paused there momentarily, like he, too, was trying to remember how to breathe.
"I didn't come here to fight you," he stated in place of a farewell, and you nearly flung a wrench at his head.
"Then maybe next time, stay the fuck out of my workshop," you grunted hoarsely.
He was gone before you had a chance to say anything else, leaving you on your knees in the ruin of what used to be your safe haven, the imprint of his hand burning on your skin, and your lungs rattling in your chest.
Eventually, your shaky breaths turned to gasps. Then sobs. Then something far worse.
You clutched your wounded hand close, wishing it could anchor you and stop the shaking in your ribs. But it couldn’t. The sting of torn flesh now burned with something fouler, as if Caleb's touch had left an infection behind. Not of the body, but the soul.
Your brother’s favourite song still played in the background, sounding so heartbreakingly bright against the wreck that you’d become.
You hadn’t cried when the message had first come, or when they handed you his medals and buried what was left of him with the wrong flowers. You'd held it all in for months, but now you were unravelling, unable to stop the ugly sobs that tore out of you. You collapsed onto your forearms, forehead against the cold floor where your blood was smeared in a shameful halo, and wept.
Everything hurt. Your body, your bones, and your pride. Your chest felt like it had caved in, and something enormous and invisible was sitting on it, refusing to move. You didn’t even know what you were crying for anymore. The pain? The humiliation? The fear? Or your little brother, whom you were supposed to protect?
Maybe Caleb was right, and he had died chasing after you. Maybe he just wanted to make you proud, and instead, you let him run toward his death.
This was all your fault.
You should have just taken that other offer after graduation—the miserable, low-paying tech repair job. You’d have been bored out of your mind, but alive. Your brother would have been alive.
If only you’d had the courage to say no to Admiral Harkins and his smug conspiracies. This stupid spy game of his would kill you one way or another, you were sure of it. Either he would make good on his threats when your updates remained empty and useless, or Caleb would finish what he started today.
But maybe you deserved to die.
You had nothing. No family. No safety. No one in your corner.
Just the memory of the Colonel's fingers in your wounds, and the Admiral’s leash around your throat. You were made entirely of memory.
The song overhead reset again, a backdrop to your weeping as you rotted away in the shadow of the one person you couldn't save.
Taglist: @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @mi-yaw @userjunhuii @yahumankdj @twismare @missybabes @elielielira @kazbrkker @sylusgirlie7 @velvtcherie
(lemme know if you want to be added to the general LADS fic taglist or just updates for this particular fic, cuz I don't wanna bother ppl with tags but I also don't want yall to miss out ❤️)
echoes of the forgotten | masterlist
synopsis. bound by a soul-tie to someone who will never truly be his, rafayel hides behind charm and pretense while drowning in unrequited love. but when a collector’s lemurian artifacts awaken a tune he knows too well, he’s forced to face the voice of the one he always left behind — you, the friend and constant through every lifetime, whose heart he betrayed for another.
pairing. rafayel qi x lemurian! non-mc! reader
content. fem!reader, non-mc!reader, lemurian!reader, captive!reader, injured!reader reincarnation!au, unrequited love (both rafayel and reader), two soul-marks, a ton of angst, VERY SLOW slowburn (reader will appear later), a dash of FLUFF, a bit suggestive, hurt/(no) comfort (FOUR ENDINGS), maybe ooc!rafayel, manipulative!emcee, emcee knows about the bond but doesn’t care, implied zayne x emcee, rafayel x non-mc!reader bond, canon divergent, TW: SUICIDE (side and main characters), TW: DEATH and MURDER, TW: implied SA, TW: DETACHED BODY PARTS, ever, emcee is a bitch, we hate the ocean, rafayel cries a lot, GRIEF, trauma, pain, all the lis make an appearance.
word count. 52k -> complete.
one.
in the glow of a ruined painting, whispers of lemuria stir, and rafayel’s mark burns with a truth he refuses to name.
two.
behind masks and velvet light, a painted shell sings — it's not beauty, but a voice that should not exist.
three.
alone with drowning canvases, rafayel recalls it all: the haunting voice of a friend he abandoned across lifetimes.
four.
in the fog of a bloodied lab, chains and fury collide — voices rise, bullets freeze, and a long-lost soul finally appears before rafayel.
five.
between the ache of fate and the pull of something forbidden, rafayel chooses to guard the one who should never have mattered.
six.
when love begins to bloom beneath bloodied sheets, a visitor’s cruel truth threatens to shatter everything they’ve started to heal.
seven.
amid moonlight and shattered truths, love and madness blur as two souls finally recognize — and nearly destroy — the bond that was always meant to burn.
endings.
what is your fate, little siren?
good ending
bad ending
worse ending
worst ending
tags: @yuunileb, @animegamerfox, @booksandblushes003, @flora98, @bingusbonguss, @loreleis-world, @brailsthesmolgurl, @beaconsxd, @sassy-snassy, @nm4565natty, @nellieisamonkey, @glitterykingdomangel, @portrait-ninja, @namelesswanderingspirit, @paper--angel, @celestialzdiviner, @kitty-yaps, @avalordream, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @thekingswin, @potania, @cathedralofaudra, @aurorab-0-realis, @hanaluxx, @rgnvndr, @mononlogue, @girlwith-kalei-do-scope-eyes, @unknown-ends, @oh-miniso, @someonestopsoren, @maryy237, @treeteaofversailles, @prettypeachprincesz, @ilovevictoria, @anothergojostan, @xthefuckerysquaredx, @blueesmiski, @ujjjjkjkkkkkooo, @anatherone, @rosevelt632, @blueberrygeniejam, @yuhhh03, @honey-and-sweetdreams, @whosthought, @lh1a, @diejager, @nommingonfood, @batgirliee, @shinreireads, @ssetsuka
masterlist.
fluff = ♡ | angst = ⚡︎ | suggestive = ☆
fics.
⚡︎♡ childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else: one
♡⚡︎ colonel caleb and assistant!nonMC!reader, who he's desperately in love with: one, two
⚡︎♡ caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her: one
⚡︎☆ caleb in a situationship with nonMC!reader to cope with his unrequited feelings: one
drabbles.
♡ nonMC!reader who’s crushing on caleb and in a fake relationship with rafayel: one
⚡︎ ways caleb loves you when he can't say it outloud: one
⚡︎ caleb who’s never dated anyone since he first tried in high school: one
LMFAAAOOO AINT NO WAY MY ACTIVE STATUS WAS ON THE WHOLE TIME 💔💔💔
˖ ◜ antise(x)ptic !
യ (p. jackson ) 𓂃 you hate the look of blood on demigods; every drop of the reddish liquid only serves as a bleak reminder of all the grueling work you have to do as a healer. however, an unassuming tuesday makes you realize that sometimes, blood looks oh so good on a certain son of poseidon. alternatively, where you realize you want percy after he shows up to the infirmary bloodied and gashed.
cws. nsfw / smut under the cut , 18+ only ; minors dni ! fem apollo reader. fingering (f! receiving) . oral (m! receiving) . unprotected piv & he cums inside . . . reader is referred to as “pretty girl”, “my girl”. percy and reader are adults. percy is cocky. implied post-hoo. porn with some plot . lmk if i missed any other warnings !
wc. 4054 words. requested by @myrapottah
sol ‘s note : though this was requested (like MONTHS ago . . . i'm sorry myra babes) , i’d like to dedicate this fic to a special recent achievement of mine: passing nursing school in one of the best schools in my state ! :’) the fic’s quite long, but i had so so so much fun writing her. i hope u all enjoy reading !
tuesdays were always training days.
every tuesday of the week, campers would flock towards the training ground, celestial bronze weapons in hand, picking fights with straw dummies in bronze armor. oftentimes, campers who grew bored of the non-moving, stationary strawmen flocked together and decided to use themselves as their own training dummies. this became a new, innovative method of melee fight teaching, and has carried on to the present day.
this demigod versus demigod training brawls always happen on tuesdays.
it was an unspoken tradition, written in the minds of these orange-clad campers like it was law. tuesdays were always training days. for the rest of camp, it was a day to hone and develop new skills, to have a better chance at defending themselves against monsters that were prevalent outsidecamp half blood’s borders. it was because of this reasoning that the campers got far too carried away with their training.
for the apollo cabin, it’s the worst day of the week.
with the influx of injured campers—all with injuries ranging from pin-sized papercuts to almost amputations—the infirmary was almost always full. more often than not, training days meant that the apollo cabin had to be spread thinner to accommodate the number of people who needed medical attention.
the apollo cabin holds a mild dislike for tuesdays. you do, especially.
you often regretted saying yes. after leaving camp half blood years ago, you thought it’d be a nice few years in the mortal world—pursuing your education and bettering your skills away from the world of deadly prophecies and gods and goddesses. it would have been a nice break, until chiron reached out to you privately, asking for a small favor.
according to him, before you left and for a while after, the tuesdays system was never this bad. apollo could manage it enough; they didn’t need to spread themselves out so thin to treat injured campers.
the system worsened after chiron asked percy jackson to train the campers in swordfighting. this led to a staggering increase in injured demigods.
you thought it was a false cause—post hoc ergo propter hoc, or whatever. but, after you said yes to chiron’s plea to come back to camp and help apollo manage injuries, you saw with your own eyes that chiron wasn't just incorrectly assuming that because one event followed another, the first event caused the second.
you saw how the poor campers were tripping over themselves and nearly getting mauled because of their efforts in swordfighting. and—upon asking a patient with a finger that almost fell off—it wasn’t because of his methods of teaching. no, it was because the kids wanted to be like him so bad, they went to extremes just to get better, to be like their hero, percy jackson.
the apollo cabin held a mild dislike for tuesdays. you? you loathed them.
this tuesday, however, is an exception.
“jackson…” you pause. you have to chastise yourself. healers aren’t supposed to sound this horrified upon seeing their patients, no matter how battered, bloody, or bruised they are. they aren’t supposed to sound horrified at all. you try to mask it with a cough. “what…happened to you?”
threre’s a gash. no, not even that—to call it a gash would be an insult to the mere magnitude of it. it was an ugly, jagged line, the origin at the dead center of his chest. it curls around his pectorals, and you can see it end on a point between his armpit and his bicep. from a blunt weapon, most likely. blood is splattered on his chest like a bad watercolor painting, but thankfully, the wound isn’t gushing out any blood at all.
he’s led to the bed—thank you, you tell his companion—and when he’s sat down, the muscles of his abdomen flex ever so noticeably.
my gods, was his body always this defined?
a traitorous, unserious voice in your head points that fact out, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.
he straightens at your gaze.
“you should see the other guy,” he tells you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
your eyebrows furrow, your mouth curls into a wince just thinking of all the healing you’ll have to do to this poor other camper. “i hope i don't get to see the other guy at all.”
you glance at the pitcher of lukewarm water used to clean wounds.
percy is the son of poseidon. the pitcher would be an easy way to heal him—you wouldn’t need to spend so much cleaning his large wound and sewing it up. you probably wouldn’t even need to consume the entire pitcher to make the wound disappear.
it’s convenient, the voice in your head says, but it comes at the cost of you not seeing or touching percy’s muscles.
it’s a moral and ethical dilemma.
you shake your head and turn to the cabinet above you. from there, you pull out sterile gloves, cotton balls, antiseptic, a needle and thread, and some nectar. in the end, the traitorous voice prevails.
after you put the gloves on, you tell him, “i’ll start by cleaning your wound.” you douse the cotton ball in antiseptic. “your wound’s quite big, it might sting.”
he purses his lips and nods, as if steeling himself.
you circle the edges of his wound with antiseptic. once clean, you take a nectar-doused cotton ball and dab it gently against the open wound.
his stomach flexes at the contact. his arms brace against the bed frame, and you can almost see the same arms wrapped around you, same bare torso pressed against your bare back—
“did a kid beat you up this much?” you ask to rid yourself of those thoughts. and oh, how you prayed he couldn’t hear the small tremors in your voice.
his head snaps around, and he throws a small glare at you. “i’ll have you know, i wasn’t beaten up by a kid.”
“i don’t know who you’re fooling,” you say. “the nymphs, satyrs, and chiron are the only things in camp older than us.”
percy shuts his mouth after, giving you the perfect opportunity to sew the wound closed.
you trace a line around the wound's perimeter.
“i’ll sew around here,” you say. at the look on percy’s face, you reassure him: “there’ll be nectar in the thread, don’t worry. it won’t hurt.”
after you’d sewn the wound closed, you dab over it with nectar for good measure.
“alright, that’s all you’ll need from me.” you hand him a spare camp shirt that—you assume—is his size. “the wound’s all closed up, and i made sure the thread’s fortified enough that the wound won’t open with strenuous activity. you can continue training; just don’t let any kids cut you up that bad, yeah?”
you turn your back to him. you dispose of the antiseptic and nectar cotton balls you used to clean his wound, wrap the needle in tissue and throw it, shelve the bottle of nectar and antiseptic, then tidy up your area.
when you turn back, percy jackson is still sitting on the infirmary bed.
he didn’t even put the shirt on.
“why aren’t you leaving—?”
“you want me,” he says, blunt as the blade that slashed through his—defined, toned, muscled—chest.
“what?”
shit.
your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, loud enough that you can hear it roaring in your ears.
“i do not,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to lower your heart rate. it doesn't slow.
“do too,” he replies. “weren't you checking me out a while ago?”
this was new.
“i was assessing you. what’s gotten into you?”
“was it the blood, doc?” he smirks. he didn’t even answer your question. “you're into that?”
you hate how much he sounds like he’s mocking you.
and you hate how much he's right.
“no. i’m not. i treat a lot of bloody demigods. every day of the week. there's no way i get aroused by blood.”
i’m into how the blood looks on you, the traitorous (and truthful) voice in your head says.
then, you huff. “you lost a lot of blood back there,” you say. “you're delirious, jackson. delusional, even.”
“y’sure, doc?” and you can see the shadow of a smile that stretches across his face when he says, “why don't we test that theory out, huh?”
suddenly, your lower back meets the wooden table. in one long stride, percy had crossed the distance between the two of you.
there’s a soft smack as his hands land on the table, just right beside you, caging you in between his arms. he leans in enough that the low timbre of his voice reverberates through your bones and stirs the butterflies lying low.
“you're soaked, pretty girl.”
fuck. of course the son of the water god would know that.
and, from the look on his face, the same son of the water god knew that you’d never be able to deny it.
percy was hot—objectively, truthfully speaking. you knew this. especially now that you’ve seen his fine, god-esque figure accentuated by the sheen of blood. you doubt it was even the blood. it was just him.
you won't deny, too, what you’ve been feeling—the warmth in your entire body and the unmistakable dampness in your panties—the moment he entered the infirmary.
was it so wrong to give in to what you want, just this once?
when you look back up at him, his sea green eyes are boring into your very soul.
“have you made up your mind yet, doc?” he asks.
and fuck it, you have.
you lean in first, smashing your lips against his.
and, to your surprise, percy kisses you back with as much vigor—if not more.
the two of you waste no time in being careful. percy shoves his tongue in your mouth, you run your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands that get caught between your fingers.
you only register hands on you, then the loss of ground, before you’re lifted onto the wooden table.
he leans in, his kisses sloppy, desperate, and downright greedy as he sucks on your bottom lip.
he leaves your lips tingling for more as he kisses down, down, down, right at your carotid. he licks that very point, then hollows his cheeks and sucks.
you let out a sound. it teeters embarrassingly on the edge of a yelp and a drawn-out groan.
immediately, your hand flies to your mouth.
“don't do that, pretty girl,” he says, peeling your hands away from your mouth. he intertwines them, then presses another kiss there, mumbling against the soft skin: “wanna hear everything.”
“but they'll hear us, jackson,” you whisper.
the both of you are silent for a moment, until:
“wanna come over to mine?” he asks. “cabin’s soundproof. no one’s gonna hear a thing.”
the moments to cabin three pass in the blink of an eye.
when you cross the threshold of the seasalt-scented cabin, none of you linger.
with a sudden bout of newfound confidence, you pull him in by the hand, the kiss open-mouthed, wet—leagues away from your initial composure at the infirmary. there’s none now; you think you’ve lost it all.
percy leads you to the bed. he makes himself comfortable, and the hand entwined with yours pulls you onto his lap.
his one hand is everywhere. it cradles your face and deepens the kiss, it squeezes and grips at your waist, and, the next moment, latches on to it like a vice and pulls you impossibly closer to him.
your limbs are wrapped perfectly around him. one hand clings to his shoulders, locking him in place and feeling every oscillating wave of his muscles at every small movement. the other hand stays locked in his.
your pussy’s weeping, downright throbbing at the taste of his tongue in your mouth. you couldn't help but think about how it’d feel inside of you—
ankles lock right behind him, trying to bring yourself even closer and closer to where you needed him most. your drenched panties catch on to the tent at the front of his shorts, and you have to hold back a sob.
you think, in this moment, you’ve finally made up your mind.
“i want you,” you murmur. “so bad.”
percy lets out a small, mirthful chuckle. “can feel you getting wetter over me, doc. ‘s like a damn waterpark.”
before you can retort, percy’s hands grip your hips—not rough, not tight, but as if asking for permission—and only slightly lift. your fingers hook under the garter of your waistband and, with his help, you shimmy out of your shorts.
percy doesn't have to try, and yet, every move of his arm is showing off and flexing his biceps for you to ogle at.
and, as the next piece of fabric comes down, he lets out a guttural groan. both of you watch—percy, transfixed—as a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of your panties.
oh, you really were so wet.
percy continues to stare, a small smile stretching across his face and into a smirk.
“don't–don't get cocky about it.” your legs inch closer together in an attempt to block out the pure intensity of his stare, when—
“dont.”
his middle and ring finger swipe a long, languid stripe up your pussy lips, pooling your slick onto his digits.
your mouth drops into a little “oh!” as he starts to sink his middle finger into your pussy. and as if in a daze, he’s letting the second of his long fingers in.
“jackson—you… fuck!” you're trying not to wail, to keep your voice low so other campers can't hear you—but, fuck, do percy’s fingers feel good.
percy’s brows furrow and crease in the middle just as he watches your cunt swallow up his fingers. he moves them slowly, just a small wriggle side to side, before he feels the slight resistance—“fuck,” he whispers against your neck (he’s never felt so parched). “so tight around me, pretty girl,”
you whine when he pulls his fingers out. sheeny slick coats them, a line of it keeping you two connected still.
you miss the feel of percy in you for a few seconds, before he’s pushing his fingers back in, out, in. they were so vicious, so greedy, taking up all the space and swabbing at you. in, then out, then in.
“don't stop, please.”
“why would i?” he murmurs. his eyes aren't on you at all, but down, down, down.
he scissoring your entrance wide open with his roving fingertips to the point where you can feel his fingerprints against your soft insides. you shiver at the way he sinks them in again with a sluurp.
percy leans in a bit more, pressing a kiss to your carotid, then clavicle.
in that same moment, his wrist has found a newfound angle, one that somehow pushes his two fingers deeper in. hitting nearly the back of your pussy, pushing back and forth against your gooey walls.
when you feel it, your eyes widen.
he smiles. “found it.”
he hooks at your most sensitive gummy bundle of nerves. curves his fingers just right.
your loose limbs start shaking at percy’s relentless back and forth with your g-spot– “jackson—think ‘m gonna—”
lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and—
white-hot pleasure between your eyes. tension curling your toes.
“cum f’me, pretty girl,” he rasps out. he squeezes in a third finger inside your tight cunt—
and you're seeing stars.
he’s fucking you through your high, each thump of his fingertips against your g-spot and each glide of his long fingertips easing you down.
again, and again, and again.
right as the high bates, you feel an emptiness when percy’s fingers have pulled out of your weeping hole.
you pull him in by the shoulders, kissing him just to get a taste of his lips and tongue.
“give me more, jackson,” you mumble against his lips.
“what?”
“you know what i mean,” you tell him. your hands snake to his belt loops, pawing at them in delirious desperation. “want more of you.”
percy groans.
his feet land on the ground beside the bed. metal clinks against the floor. clothes ruffle as they're being discarded.
“been wanting this for so long, pretty girl–” he lugs his boxers down, along with his bottoms, “felt like i was dying.”
his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen. he was big—so mouthwateringly big; flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light—every part of him was so unfairly pretty.
and, well, you just couldn't resist a taste.
beding down in one fluid motion, you press a kiss to his weeping tip, drag your tongue all the way down the vein under his shaft, and his hand immediately flies to your hair.
“shit— hah- you don't have to—”
“shut up, jackson.”
and with that, you’re shoving as much of his throbbing erection down your throat. there’s a slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip.
“shit, oh—yes, yes, yes–.” percy lets out a guttural moan. Fingers thread through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth, his hips stuttering and jerking with pleasure.
it was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his scent filling your senses. beginning to move up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.
his dick twitches in your mouth and your cunt clenches. you brace yourself, ready for his orgasm, when he stops.
and just pulls his cock out.
there’s a loud, lewd pop! that accompanies it that makes his dick twitch and your pussy ache. you’re about to retort, mouth opening to ask him why— but he beats you to it.
“don’t wanna cum yet,” he tells you. he grabs his cock, tugging it ever so slightly, when he says, “lean back for me, pretty girl.”
and that you don’t argue with.
your legs are spread in front of him, and the look on his sea-green eyes is so carnal, so hungry that you motion to close yourself up. he places your legs above his shoulders, eyes stil trained on your soaked core.
he drags his reddened tip right through your swollen folds, catching maddeningly on your clit, teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. too slow.
you wiggle your hips just so that the tip just slides inside your hole.
he curses above you, and you feel small spurts of precum lining your walls.
with newfound vigor, percy pushes his hips forward, groaning out your name.
you could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in inch by inch.
his cock was long enough that it kissed your cervix, and that the mushroom tip hooked just right against your g-spot. it didn't lack girth, too—it was thick enough that you could feel the veins pressing against your walls.
deliciously painful, borderline addicting, and something you didn’t know you’d been craving until today.
and it’s almost like percy felt the same, cock hot and throbbing agonizingly inside of you, almost like his second heartbeat.
he buries himself to the hilt and stays. he bows his body down until his damp forehead meets yours.
“greedy girl,” he says. “so tight. gripping—hah–gripping me like a damn vice.”
he pulls himself out fully, just ‘til his tip is kissing your sloppy hole. you whine at the loss of contact, only for him to ram his cock all the way back inside your warmth.
skin on skin, skin on skin. he starts fucking into you, the sheer tightness of your pussy sucking him in so greedily, like she never wanted him to part.
“yes, yes—oh—just like that,” you moan out.
“all–all of it‘s ngh—yours, my girl. yours,” percy says, his baritone voice now raspier above the sloppy squelches that immediately start pouring out of your pussy.
slick gushes out of your cunt with every in and out, dripping down his length and pooling around his balls. they sting against your ass with every thrust in.
“percy—fuck,”
and you feel percy freeze. the loss of movement makes you cry out.
“why—?”
“say it again.”
“what? noo, just come on and fuck me—”
he thrusts once, then stills. “c’mon, my girl, please? lemme hear it one more time.”
oh.
“mmfh—ah—okay, okay.” and one more thrust, harder this time. “oh—! percy, percy, percy! fuuck—”
he keeps the pace constant, rough, kissing your cervix with every in and out of his cock.
“that’s so right, baby.” he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulders. “sounds—hah—sounds nice, right? better than jus’ jackson?”
you lean away from the bed, hand gripping onto percy’s shoulder for support as you grab his face and kiss him.
he continues thrusting his cock in and out of your poor walls, a sheeny white ring of fluid gathering around his base.
you feel him so deep, he’s pushing your eyes to roll allll the way to the back of your head with the crown of his fat tip.
it was intoxicating, inebriating—from the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, fucking into you, his lips kissing ever surface he can reach, his teeth biting and marking what’s his.
“m’ so close, percy,” you sob.
percy’s large hand trails down where your bodies meet to draw frenzied circles on your puffy clit. “cum with me—please, baby.”
“inside,” you gasp out. “want you inside.”
and this orgasm seems to be stronger than last time, lightning hot pleasure zapping through your body faster. sobs escape your mouth. your back arches so much you fear for your spine. your body flinches every time he brushes against your clit.
percy’s high comes right alongside yours, and he’s shooting thick, hot, strings of cum, painting your walls white with a low groan of your name. you feel it dripping out of your cunt and into the sheets under you before it's being fucked back in.
when your highs bate, you flop unceremoniously on percy’s bed.
he lets out a small chuckle, before kissing your forehead. “i’ll be right back, okay?”
you watch as his figure retreats to his closet and comes back with an armful of clothes.
the towel in his hands is warm as he cleans going down, passing your stomach, before finally wiping down your inner thighs. he slips his boxers on you, then a shirt.
when he finishes, he collapses right beside you. he pulls you closer, settling you right over his heart, draping an arm over your back.
for a moment, both of you just stare.
“you were amazing, percy,” you say. “i… i liked it. a lot. i'm glad it was you.”
percy presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “i've liked you for so long. still can't believe i managed to kiss you, let alone…”
you let out a small laugh and snuggle closer.
tuesdays were the worst days of the week, you think.
but maybe, just maybe—you brush a stray lock of percy’s hair behind his ears—tuesdays had a little bit of merit to them.
( . . . )
“told you you wanted me”
you grumble against his chest. “shut up.”
he only presses you closer to him. “i don’t know who you’re fooling, baby. i saw you skip that pitcher of water entirely.”
your eyes widen and snap up to meet his. then, feigned nonchalance. “i didn’t need it.”
“i’d have healed faster with it.” then, he grins down at you, canines and eye crinkles and all. “it’s okay, baby, i’d do the same so i could get in the pants of my hot, muscular, super handsome—”
you smush a pillow over his face.
“you wanted me first,” you protest. “you probably asked a bunch of kids to cut you up so you had an excuse to come see me.”
percy’s lack of retort—and movement—makes you sit up.
“oh my gods.”
“listen—”
“there is no way.”
he groans, burying his face deep into your hair. "you're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"
you only grin in reply, canines and eye crinkles and all. "never."
-> © DEUXIOSE (2025). do not repost, republish, translate, or use any of my works to train AI.
fire as always solis u never freaking miss !!! 🙌🙌🔥🔥
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
“Okay, will do.”
“Thank you, baby.”
my man my man my man (nobody tell Nanami)
Chapters: 9/? Rating: Explicit Warnings: Yandere Relationships: Chamber/Reader Summary: He’s a patient man, and one ruled by careful tempering of his obsessions. He has to be, in his line of business, where one wrong move could prove fatal. Chamber wants you to give yourself to him, of your own accord. So when the time came that you realized what has happened, he could say:
Ma cherie, this was your decision. You chose this. No regrets now, hm?
I finally provide the long-awaited chapter nine. Thank you, everyone, for your patience while I sort through my life. I hope you all enjoy.
☉ feel me (18+ MDNI)
Oh, does Phainon make you feel him.
content: AFAB!reader x dom!Phainon; penetrative sëx (p in v); lotta teasing from his end; biiig díck; short cockwarming; püssy-slapping; crëampie; begging; dirty talk; freaknon...
wc: 997
"Phainon, stop—mmmh—teasin' and put it in, already!"
"Put what?" He says in faux obliviousness as he towers above you, dick hanging in front of your hole.
"God, you full well know—" a drawn-out moan exits through your lips as he prods his tip against your entrance. He's so close but so fucking far that it infuriates you to no end.
Phainon takes his cock, wrapping his hand around its thick, thick girth, and drags the head slowly in circles over your slicked folds. Up, down, up, down, up, down—coating every surface of your cunt with your fluids.
"Aw, sweetheart, can't handle it?" He purrs sinfully, voice dripping over your ears like hot honey. "I haven't even put it in yet."
You groan in both pleasure and frustration, "Ahh—exactly! If only you'd jus—"
His cock falls on your cunt with a loud, wet slap, meaty length slotting against you perfectly. You go quiet for a second, and then mewl at the prolonged contact. You clench around it, seeking some kind of stimulation, something, because Phainon gets off on dangling his dick like a carrot in front of you and you keep chasing it to inevitably fall into this trap. Because you can never get enough.
"Look at you." He muses while you cover your eyes with your hands, unable to handle this torture. You know his eyes are twinkling, thoroughly enjoying seeing you twitching, the cute dimples on his face peeking from his enjoyment.
"My limelight." He utters name reverently, doing anything but. "So needy."
Another lift of his cock and a slap.
"So eager for my fat dick."
Slap.
"For me."
Phainon pushes his finger under your folds to fully expose your clit, the mere brush of his fingertip sending shivers down your spine. One more time, he lets it plop down, and it thwacks against your swollen nub. Thighs jerking, you blather little prayers of 'please, please, please', only for Phainon to withdraw. You've given up on being angry; now you just want him inside of you. Slowly removing your palms, you peek down and let out a small whimper at the view.
All you see is the top of his gorgeous cock, head crimson with pearly precum beading out of it. He's just as worked up as you are, but for some reason he's not putting it the fuck in.
He's toying with you. That's what it is.
So you push up on your hands, leveraging the movement to grind yourself against his length.
"Hey—!" Phainon groans at the sensation of his dick pressed right up against him, coupled with your warm, slick pussy.
"Phai, pleeease put in f'me..." You whine and arch your back wantonly, skin on fire.
In only 10 seconds, you're able to see the moment he breaks; when his gleeful azure eyes darken and his groans turn guttural. He separates from you, making you cry in protest, only to meet you face to face, his body hovering over yours and his hands gripping both sides of your waist in a vice.
It's then that you feel the languid drag of his dick into your cunt.
"Ahh—! Fuck, Phainon—!" He meets every ridge of your walls, millimeter by millimeter.
He's taking his precious, endless time, just as he did before, to make you feel. Every step of the way. His precum and your arousal swirl where you meet, little clear threads and bubbles of it oozing out by force of his veiny cock.
At the end of the maddeningly slow thrust, your cunt kisses a thatch of gray hair, and Phainon goes completely still, save for his quiet panting. He warms your insides, and you keen at the fullness—the sheer bliss of having his cock nestled deep within you, stretching your tight walls and moulding them to his shape.
And then he pulls out all the way and snaps his hips forward.
"Fuck!"
He thrusts over and over again just like that, stroking every sensitive spot painfully slow at first and rocking your walls next. Phainon sets the pace, a tsunami of force and arousal that pulls you under to drown you. Your lips hang open in an 'o' with each thrust, and fire pools in the base of your tummy.
"Hah—look at all of your juices. Wetting my—fuck—cock so well—" He breathes, eyes clouded with lust and mesmerized at the way his cock disappears into you, only to return more glossy each time.
Unbidden, you moan loudly, begging him to keep filling you, to keep making you feel his dick change the very chemistry of your cunt.
"Should've—mmh—made you beg for this before, darlin'—who knew you'd like it this much?"
"Yeeeeeah," you agree, feeling spit trickle out of your mouth. "Hate it when—when I can't feel you—finally put it in, baby..."
"Made my patience snap—" Phainon says and accentuates it with a hard, wet, plunge into you. His heavy balls slap against your skin, brushing the base of your pussy.
"Shit—'m cumming—" and fuck, you realize in your cockdrunk haze, he's gonna pull out. You don't want that.
"Inside." You whine, bringing a hand to caress his face, pinky gracing his sun tattoo. "'M on the pill. Inside."
And how could he say no? You already made him fuck you thoroughly, what's another step further?
Phainon lets himself go, releasing his seed deep into your pussy, his body spasming from pleasure. The spurts, white and viscous, shoot out and squelch against your throbbing walls and cervix. His cock, too fat to allow any of the cum dribble out, sits fixed in place, and your groin distends slightly, vulgarly, from the loads of seed.
The fullness of him combined with his hot cum sends you over the edge, and you cry out, hugging him closer to you with your legs, trying in some way to get him deeper inside you.
"You feel that?"
Yeah. Yeah you do.
end note: so down bad for him...as usual let me know if there are any bad spelling errors and such :)
✶ WE NEVER LEARNED HOW TO STAY mike wheeler x reader
warnings; aged up mike, just a thought i had before bed about two idiots whilst listening to beach house, fluff. wc: 1.7k.
he bass hits you before the door even opens.
it’s the kind of sound that crawls up your spine and settles behind your eyes, vibrating everything you thought you knew about yourself into something blurry and loud. someone’s yelling over a freshly imagined rumor, red cups scatter across the floor, and the air smells like sweat, cheap cologne, colorful flavored air in sticks and something sweet you can’t really place. a frat house. you still can’t believe that’s where you are.
you weren’t even supposed to come. at least, that's what you kept warning yourself for the whole week.
you’re standing just inside the doorway, fingers already curled around a drink you didn’t ask for, wondering how the hell you ended up here when it happens.
you see.. him?
it’s not dramatic, at first. no slow-motion, no buzzing in your ears or cheeks suddenly feeling flushed. just a flash of dark curls in a room full of people, a familiar bad posture—shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller even though he’s taller now and now something in your chest tightens before your brain catches up.
mike wheeler.
you almost laugh. of all places.
of all people.
you’d never thought you’d meet him again like this. not in a frat house, not leaning against a kitchen counter with a red cup in his hand, not looking… different. older. broader, maybe. less boy.. bolder? more like something he’s still figuring out how to be.
and yet still him.
still that same face you learned by heart once upon a time. still the same eyes that used to look at you like you were a secret he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about.
your first instinct is to leave.
your second is to stare.
he hasn’t seen you yet. he’s talking to someone not from his kind, nodding along, smiling politely in that way he always did when he didn’t actually care about what was being said. you remember that smile. you remember thinking you were the only one who could tell the difference.
you were wrong about a lot of things back then.
you and mike were friends. at least, that’s the word you used because it was easier than admitting how blurred everything else was. you met young, middle school young, when everything and everyone felt temporary and permanent all at once. you bonded over stupid stuff. music. bad movies, second period almost never ending class. the shared understanding of feeling slightly out of place no matter where you stood.
then you grew up.
or tried to.
middle school turned into something heavier. everyone started building versions of themselves they thought would survive high school. mike leaned into the nerd thing, keeping his head down. you went the opposite way. learned how to laugh louder, dress cooler, stand next to people who looked like they belonged.
you drifted. not all at once. slowly. painfully.
and yet there were moments.
stolen pecks behind gym doors. exchanged notes. long looks that meant too much and never enough. you’d find each other in the quiet spaces between chaos, like muscle memory refusing to die.
it never lasted.
by high school, you were strangers who knew each other too well to be strangers. you stopped talking. pretended not to see each other. pretended it didn’t hurt. you told yourselves it was necessary. survival.
now he’s here.
now you’re here.
and suddenly, the past doesn’t feel so far away.
your eyes meet across the room.
it hits both of you at the same time.
his expression freezes, just for a second, before something soft flickers behind it. recognition. surprise. maybe relief. he straightens without realizing it, like he’s trying to remember how to stand in front of you.
you consider pretending you didn’t see him.
you don’t.
you weave through the crowd before you can overthink it. he meets you halfway, awkward and hesitant, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to take up space in your life anymore.
“hey,” he says.
“hi,” you reply.
it feels ridiculous how much weight that single word carries.
“you… uh,” he glances around, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t think i’d see you here.”
you snort. “yeah, well. state schools don’t exactly give us many options, huh?”
he smiles at that. a real one this time.
“guess not.”
there’s a beat of silence. not uncomfortable. just loaded.
“you look… different,” you say finally.
“so do you,” he answers, softer.
it’s true. you both look like versions of yourselves you never planned to become. slightly worn around the edges. a little more guarded. yet a little more real.
the music shifts, louder now, and someone bumps into you. mike instinctively steadies you by the arm, and the contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest.
“wanna—” he hesitates, then nods toward the back. “balcony’s quieter.”
you don’t even pretend to think about it.
outside, the night air is cool and heavy, wrapping around you like a secret. the noise dulls behind the door, replaced by distant laughter and the scent of the midnight. the balcony light flickers overhead, the fraternity funds are used for things more useful.
it’s just you and him. like it used to be?
for a moment, neither of you speak.
“high school was…” you start, then trail off.
“yeah,” he says. “it was.”
you both laugh, a little bitter, a little fond.
you talk then. about nothing and everything. about how weird it was leaving home. about how people change themselves until they forget what was real, rich coming from you two. about that second period teacher. about how you thought you had to be someone else to survive.
he listens the same way he always did. like every word matters.
“i used to think about you,” he admits quietly. “more than i probably should’ve.”
you swallow. “me too.”
he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, hesitating before handing you one of his earbuds, still tangled.
“you remember this?”
your breath catches when the first notes play.
that stupid song.
the song you used to listen to on repeat, in his basement, in your bed after hanging out with him, when you two were dreaming about leaving, about becoming someone new, genuinely.
you press the earbud in, leaning against the railing beside him. your shoulders brush. neither of you moves away.
the music wraps around you, soft and aching and familiar.
for a moment, you’re not at a frat party. you’re not pretending to be anyone else. you’re just two kids again, standing on the edge of something unnamed, listening to a song that understands you better than most people ever did.
mike looks at you then, really looks at you.
and you realize some things never really leave.
they just wait.
the song fades out slowly, the last note dissolving into the night air then resurrecting itself as the first note, a bit like you and mike. you don’t take the earbud out right away. neither does he. for a moment, you just stand there, breathing the same air, reminiscing the same things. staring out at nothing in particular.
mike’s voice breaks the silence.
“i was really dumb, you know.”
you turn your head slightly. “yeah?”
he lets out a breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “for letting you go. for acting like i didn’t care when i did. when i always did.” he rubs his thumb against the edge of his phone, nervous. “i thought if i pretended hard enough, it’d stop hurting.”
your chest tightens.
“i thought if i stayed, i’d disappear,” you admit quietly. “so i left first. every time.”
he looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s trying to read something between the lines of your face. “you didn’t have to.”
you shake your head, a sad smile pulling at your lips. “i didn’t know how not to. that was kind of my thing. leave before i get left. before i become… a memory. or worse, a joke people bring up at reunions like this.” you gesture vaguely toward the party behind you. “you know. ‘oh yeah, remember her?’”
he frowns. “i never thought of you like that.”
“i know,” you say softly. “that’s the problem.”
the words hang between you, heavy but honest.
he leans his elbows on the railing, staring out into the dark. “i used to replay everything. all the what-ifs. what if i’d said something different. what if i’d fought harder. what if i’d just… told you i wanted you to stay.”
your heart stutters.
“you didn’t make it easy,” he adds, not accusing, just stating it. “you were always halfway out the door.”
you swallow. “and you were always too scared to ask me not to leave.”
“guess we were both cowards.”
“guess so.”
the silence this time is softer. less heavy. almost forgiving.
you look at him, really look at him—at the way his curls fall into his eyes, the freckles on his nose, at the way he still holds himself like he’s bracing for impact, at how familiar he feels despite the years and the distance and everything unsaid.
“you know,” you murmur, “i used to think we were doomed. like we were just one of those almost-things people talk about when they’re older. and even more miserable”
“yeah?” he asks.
“yeah. but now i think we were just… young. and scared. and trying to survive in different ways.”
he nods slowly. “i think about that sometimes. about how much easier it might’ve been if we’d met later.”
you tilt your head. “you think so?”
“maybe.” he pauses, then looks at you again, eyes softer than before. “or maybe it had to be like that. maybe that’s the point.”
the music from inside swells again, laughter spilling out onto the balcony. someone yells your name faintly, but you ignore it.
mike hesitates, then reaches out, brushing his pinky against yours. it’s barely there, but it sends a spark up your arm, and heart.
“i don’t expect anything,” he says quietly. “i just… didn’t want to see you again without telling you the truth.”
you let out a slow breath.
“i’m glad you did.”
you don’t kiss him. not yet. maybe not tonight.
but you stand there a little closer than before, sharing an earbud, sharing a moment that feels strangely like closure and possibility all at once.
and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the urge to run.
nsfw || Mike Wheeler x f!reader ࣪𖤐.ᐟ
⤷ ゛An imagine of what follows years, after-S5. What if you meet Mike, who has survived everything that had happened; only now he’s a shell of his old self, and thinks he should withdraw from intimacy ˎˊ˗
content warning. porn with feelings! explicit sexual content (oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex/creampie), virginity loss,, light biting/nipping, trauma references (post-S5). All characters are aged-up. AU college setting. wc. 3.1k summary. Mike Wheeler is older, carrying the weight of surviving everything — scarred, smoking, convinced nothing is good anymore. Until his want for you gets too loud, he acts on the want he’s been bottling, and the two of you give in to one messy, explicit night that becomes something harder to walk away from. a/n. imma be honest... this was written only bc ive been wanting to use this line: "What's a pretty girl like you want from a guy like me?" since forever lmao
It's late. This part of the campus is where streets are hush, and it smells like wet pavement.
His silhouette is familiar. You think it's because you keep catching eye contacts in the crowd, and his face is the one you keep finding everywhere you go.
“What’s a pretty girl like you want from a guy like me?” He lets the words out in a drawl, smoke trailing from a half-smoked cigarette balanced between two long fingers. He exhales along with his plume of smoke before he takes another drag.
You’ve seen him and his friend group around, lingering like shadows on the edges of your vision seemingly everywhere you go now. They are a cluster of people who move around like they carry the weight of Hawkins in their posture.
College suits them: late-night lectures, dark circles, sunken cheeks, all swirling around a rumor of what happened back then that everyone pretends to treat like folklore.
Hawkins is a hometown with scorch marks and hushes.
You finally approach him after an extended eye contact where neither of you chooses to look away after being caught. He isn’t shy in the slightest, his smirk and soft chuckle before looking forward again. He’s not the nervous kid you see in the hallway of your godforsaken high school, the one with the unruly hair, with dice and D&D figures in his pockets anymore. But if you look closely, you can still see the faded-out campaign shirt peeking from under his sweater, a talisman of who he was. You urge your feet towards him.
“You think I’m pretty?” Your voice comes out higher than you intended, higher than he’s heard before from his eavesdropping.
He thinks your smile is more alluring up close.
“I know a pretty girl when I see one,” the boy takes a final drag before flicking the but off his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out beneath his shoes.
The smoke smells faintly of something else underneath — herbal, earthy — the kind of scene that hints at a joint rolled to ease the nights. It suits him: Mike Wheeler, now coarser at the edges.
You smile, tell him your name, and you learn his name too.
You start encountering him in public more frequently, whether it be seeing him propped in an alleyway leisurely before you garner his attention by the call of his name or unceremoniously nudging against him. You stand close to him, following him into the parts of town you never would think to venture to before; encouraged only by the jerk of his head accompanied by the reassuring draw of his eyebrows and his big, doe-eyed looks that are now more guarded than open.
Your everyday life alters after only a few short interactions, staged for you to think you’ve encountered him organically when, truthfully, Mike has sought you out. It isn’t hard— he finds himself reading people the way he used to read maps, the way he studies routes and schedules. It is easy to figure out your routine, where you like to frequent.
You like to visit the park often, take the scenic route on your way into town while running errands, and before long you look to the shadows and the shade for him or any dark corners with a smile on your face.
You’re so trusting and compliant with such a stranger like him, one who never strays too far into the sunlight, never exposes too much of himeself until you are in the deserted parts of the city with him. You’ve never asked about his past, only if he still thinks about it.
He answers in small things: eyes darkening almost instantly; so much so that you think it ages him everytime you ask.
But you chew your lip when he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger the first and only time he answers you. You vividly remember the feeling under his intense gaze on your lips before his wide, probing brown orbs meets your gaze once more with the warm breeze of his voice, “Can’t remember a thing.”
It excites and captivates you further, entranced by the enigma that he is. At first, Mike admits he finds you fun.
You’re an interruption from the world that keeps moving forward. You’re a normality that’s rarer than you should be.
He engages with you out of pure happenstance, a passing whim to continue to subtly garner your attention.
A mistake to continue to revel in it.
But he wants to be a little selfish. Can’t help it, not with how you fill any silence between you with idle chatter that it never feels bothersome. Mike likes your voice and begins to prefer it, your company over that of the other members of his party; making up the excuse that’s why he starts skipping hanging out with them and following you instead on your mundane errands.
You are, blissfully, unaware of the actual scope of the effect you’ve had on him. Until he asks you for a second time, on a random day as he sits on the floor of your bedroom while watching you paint your nails. “What’s a pretty girl like you want from a guy like me?”
He says it with his usual tone and you simply shrug your shoulders without looking up. Your fingers, smaller than his, he notices — hold tightly to the tiny brush as you carefully paint the polish onto your fingernails.
Maybe you feel pity for him. Maybe you want to piss off your father.
But you — oh, bringing you home — he’s certain that’s something his family would agree is a good decision.
Especially when you look up momentarily to smile at him with those enamoring eyes of yours; he’s more than certain his mother would love you before he swipes away the insidious thoughts.
He has no business having those plans, that isn’t a life for him, not anymore. Nor is it a life he can even offer you. He has no legacy to guarantee anyone a safe life, especially the ones close to him. But he’s so lost in you.
He craves it the more he sneaks away to indulge in your company; the desire morphs into something gentler than he ever intended it to be. Honeyed moans and breathy sighs, his lids fluttering every time you gasp for innocent reasons only feeding the visions of himself drawing those sounds out of you provocatively.
It spurs his movements now, moves his muscles as he wraps his hand around your wrist to halt it in place, even though you’ve barely finished the final coat to the last nail. Too far gone to back off, in too deep not to satiate his hunger he’s unknowingly cultivated.
Mike takes the applicator from your hand and barely deposits it safely back into its holder, muffling your confusion by sealing his lips over yours.
He’s kissed you before, chaste but just as spontaneous as this one. Not nearly as deep, not charged with this much intent. The way you melt so easily into him, paired with the soft sound he pulls from you, is the final nail in his coffin. Mike can’t hold back now if he wants to.
His body presses into yours, broad palm slipping to the small of your back as he lays you down while the other hand moves from cupping your jaw to caress the curve of your skull. He tilts you to his liking while he slots between your thighs, pressing into your center as his tongue swipes over yours greedily to earn the sweet moans that have plagued him.
But it’s when he rolls his hips into yours, when you feel his growing rigidity that you tense and push hesitantly at his chest.
Mike instantly pulls back, jared from his trance as he looks at you with darkened hues, panting for breath as he searches your features. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth, attempting to find the words but failing as the blood that roars in your ears also heats your skin. You are visibly anxious to tell him your inexperience, but Mike chuckles, leaning back and shushing you as he scoots back on your plush carpet.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs low, carefully tugging at your shorts, slow and deliberate as you raise your hips to aid him in the action, “You always bite your lip when you’re nervous by the way.”
“No, I don’t,” you protest, catching yourself performing the tell before you pinch the bridge of your nose.
He chuckles at that, pulling down your underwear next as he settles on his stomach. Deft digits massaging into the opposite thigh of the one his cheek now rests on, playfully blowing cool breath onto your exposed sex. He fixes you with a hungry gaze as you prop yourself onto your forearms, thighs trembling with the urge to bring your knees together.
Mike gives you a look, leaning close with a slow blink and you can feel his breath fan over you. “I know you very well, in case you haven’t noticed.”
You’re left only able to choke on a surprised squeak when he places a kiss on your throbbing bud before his lips wrap around it. Sucking gingerly as a tease until your head lolls back with a breathy sigh.
It’s as if he’s goading you to turn it into a long moan like he has been imagining.
He flicks the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue before dropping his jaw to slap at you fully. You feel him splitting your folds with his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head, the vibrations of his low hum sending shocks of electricity up your spine and overwhelming your senses quickly.
The warm feel of his fingers — the small, practiced movements he learned back when the world was a little simpler — press into the fat of your inner thigh, adding a contrastingly delightful feel to his treatment.
His touches on your body — every single, small, miniscule movement — is fanning the flames into an inferno in your veins as your hips start to roll into his face.
His name starts pouring out of your mouth in quick babbles before long, you have half a mind bringing your hand over your mouth in an attempt to quiet the sweet moans only for Mike to grab at your wrist. His eyes blink up to glare at you over your mound as he sucks harshly at your clit in warning, forcing your lips apart in a throaty moan at the feel.
It’s when you feel his fingers tease at your entrance, prod carefully at the tight ring before slipping his middle finger in to the first knuckle that you cum for the first time.
It makes Mike groan himself, eyes rolling as he continues to push into your fluttering hole. His finger presses up into the velvet walls so your hips buck harshly into his mouth and out of sync with the laps of his tongue until his long digit is buried to the last knuckle.
You arch when you feel his ring finger added just as slowly, squeezing his head again with a whimper as he scissors his fingers and twists his wrist. He drinks in the sweet taste of your cunt, your juice dribbling down his chin by the second time he brings you to release.
You lean up to push at his head, nails scratching delicately at his scalp, “Mike, please.”
Begging for mercy or more, neither of you are sure but you’re exhausted from his treatment for certain.
“You gotta be patient if you want this to feel good,” his voice a deeper timber than it usually is, and you find him kissing your clit as he rises from between your thighs. You fall flat onto your back, chest slightly heaving as you rest. You peek with a tilt of your head when you hear the rustle of his pants, watching intently as his thumbs dip into the waistband of his boxerbriefs after he’s unzipped and unbuttoned his pants.
His face stays buried on your cunt, simply angling his jaw as he slips the loose material of his panst to pool around his knees first. Dipping down and taking your lips in a kiss, letting his tongue caress yours to give you a full taste of yourself on him as he frees himself of his bottoms completely. Kicking away the garment with a noisy clatter and leaving them in a heap.
His hand slips between your bodies, grasping his shaft as his thumb spreads the beading pre from his weeping slit. Your eyes hover on the way he is pumping languidly before aligning himself with your slit, rutting to coat himself in your wetness with a pleased hiss.
Mike can feel you tense beneath him, gripping at his upper arm despite how you try and calm yourself. The way he’s confident in how he’s prepared you, you’re certain he has done this before.
And the repeated reassurance is welcomed, appreciated, “Relax. It’s gonna feel good.” whispered between peppered kisses more than once.
“I know it will,” you whisper, letting your arms loop around his neck when you feel the tip prod at your still fluttering entrance. He kisses you more insistently as he presses forward, lips hard against yours as he distracts you from the initial stretch.
He ruts his hips short and slowly to have you adjust to his length but he does well in having you focus on the pull of your hair. The scrape of his nails carefully at your scalp, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before he’s bottomed out in you.
Unable to withhold the relieved groan at the snug fit, at the way your walls squeeze and pulse around his cock and you’re glad for it. It makes your heart soar that you feel as good for him as he does for you.
You both share the thought, it means more than simply physically, but that’s something for later on down the road.
Mike’s thighs tremble after a long moment, waiting for you to give him permission to please the both of you with bated breath. All the while, he is kissing at your jaw and throat, nipping at your earlobe with his hands firmly holding your hips when you pull your hips back testingly. You can’t move very far with the way his weight pushes you into the floor, but it’s enough to make him hiss.
You repeat the motion and Mike mirrors you; with an obviously experienced angle. He exhales a shaky breath while you moan long and sweet into his ears before he sets his pace. It’s slow at first until you begin to meet his thrusts, your legs wrapping around his hips to push your heel into the back of his thigh. “More Mike, more.”
And he’s always been a man eager to please you, hastening the rut of his hips until each clap of skin interrupts a moan instead of punctuating it.
"Is this pace good enough?" He asks between pants with his effort and through the pleasure he feels, a satisfied curl spreading on his lips as you nod emphatically while you clutch to him.
Your gasps are pitchy, all music to his ears, his sac tightening with his impending climax.
The hand that’s rested firmly on your hip now pushes you into each thrust now as you build to you both build to blissful rapture, singing his name in a sinful hymn. One Mike finds he’ll fall to his knees for often to hear if you’ll let him.
He spills into you after his finally pointed thrust tips you over the edge, squeezing him tightly as your cunt pulses in time with the waves of euphoria that wash over you.
Mike thrusts into you lazily, hips slowing to a halt while he sighs in relief. You’re tacky with sweat and you swear the room feels so much warmer than usual— but he still wants to be close to you. You finally feel his withdrawal of his spent cock from you and his low, albeit shy chuckle when a small whimper sounds in your throat as if you aren’t twitching with each of his final rolls a moment prior.
He leans back in his haunches as you untangle yourself from him. You’re lying on your back as Mike massages his thumbs into your hips to soothe any soreness.
“Feeling alright?” He asks even as he watches how the tension leaves your features before you nod to him with a lazy sigh and a tired smile on your lips.
Your head lolls to the side to watch him as his hands move to your thighs. He repeats the action idly to both appendages before he moves to get dressed. He gathers your clothes and then his own, lying on his side next to you after only slipping on his underwear. He does not move away when you scoot closer to tuck into his chest.
There are images folded into his sleep: the flash of alarm lights, the taste of metal, the memory of El raising her hands and the world bending with her. He has watched her burn worlds open and close — and after that, he learned how fragile ordinary things can be.
He wonders if he should ever tell you about those days, about what it does to a person to stand in the middle of something that tears the world apart.
There are people threaded through those memories — Nancy, Holly, Will, Dustin, Lucas, Max. He knows everyone would understand if he told them about you. Still, he wonders if he should ever tell you about those nights and days.
You lie quietly with him as he mindlessly stares at the ceiling, his free hand drawing indistinguishable patterns into your back, How could he be bad for me?
Mike’s thumb runs a slow, steady path along your spine; the motion is both an apology and a promise. “What’s a pretty girl like you want from a guy like me?” he murmurs again, the old tease stripped of bravado, its edges softened by a tired kind of hope.
He wonders if he should ever tell you about his past, everything about it.
˖ ◜ hold me, console me (and then i'll leave without a trace).
യ ( j. grace ) 𓂃 the stars can only watch as two lovers dance in each other's arms for the last time.
roman ! reader + established relationship. wc 853. requested.
the waters of the little tiber are calm.
underfoot, the bridge creaks ever so slightly—a short hum of greeting. two teens bound along the wood, giggly and giddy, drunk on something only the two of them can begin to comprehend.
the stars above watch the two with a fondness that has the night sky shining brighter than usual. the moon joins in, casting her light upon them—a faux spotlight that the waters of the river catch and cascade back, illuminating the two lovers in an otherworldly glow.
“dance with me,” one requests. the other replies, extending a hand out—one gratefully taken. with the light of the stars reflecting in his eyes, jason and his partner dance to the melody of their beating hearts.
the son of jupiter raises his hand and yours, twirling you slowly, memorizing the way your eyes glint in the light, how your small laugh sounds in his ears. he pulls you gently towards him, hands traveling to your waist the moment your head rests on his chest.
the moment is gentle. the two lovers sway softly, in tandem with the little tiber’s waves. you start humming, and the sound reverberates in his chest, molding the tiny strings of his heart to accompany your tune.
“you’re beautiful, angel,” he tells you—and he means it. the glow of the moon rests kindly on your cheekbones, and the light of the cosmos shines in your eyes.
“thank you, jay,” you tell him, eyes meeting his. your hand cups his jaw, thumb tracing the small scar on his upper lip. you pull him in, and he meets you halfway, soft lips meeting yours.
when you lean back, it’s to confess to him something the stars have seen, something the moon has known, something that has lingered between the two of you long before any of you became each other’s.
“i love you, jason.”
the boy is stunned for a second—the words are foreign to his ears. but they aren't unwelcome, never unwelcome when they come from you. the swaying slows to a soft rocking as he lets your words echo in his ears, over and over and over again. when he comes to and when the words are so engraved into the crevices of his mind, he leans in once more.
“i,” he presses a kiss to your forehead; “love,” a kiss to the tip of your nose; “you,” a kiss to your cheek; “too,” a final kiss to your lips.
“i love you, too,” he confirms. and he says it like a promise, an oath he swears to live by ‘til the end of time. he presses his forehead against yours, as if to seal it true.
the silence that follows isn't suffocating. it's homely — a moment between pledge and forgettance, a moment where the two lovers can linger together comfortably.
“want this moment to last forever,” you tell him.
“yeah?” jason replies.
when you nod, he tells you, “let’s stay here, then. just you and me.”
he pulls you closer, grounding you, hoping his actions can convey something too huge in magnitude for his mouth to ever be able to express.
and the stars stir. the environment seems to shiver—the low waters of the little tiber become small waves, the green of the trees shakes violently, the huffs of the wind become stronger, and the night sky twinkles brighter. it’s as if the stars are trying to draw the attention of the two lovers, telling them to stay, stay, stay together.
but the stars’ effort is futile. the two lovers break apart when you shiver, saying, “‘s too cold, but i don't wanna leave yet.”
jason chuckles. “let’s get you to bed, then, hm? we can always come back tomorrow, angel.”
and the environment stills. it's as if they know about what's to come the moment the sun rises, the moment dawn graces over the little tiber. yet, they’re not enough to sway the son of jupiter, who picks his lover up, and starts walking towards the barracks.
you wrap your hands around his neck, peppering kisses along everything your lips can touch.
you bury your head in the crook of his neck, mumbling an, “i’ll miss you” against his carotid. you press another kiss against his pulse.
“you’ll see me again in the morning,” he replies.
“that's too many hours without you.”
and jason chuckles. “you’ll see me in your dreams, angel. i’ll personally make sure of it.”
he lays you gently on your bed and pulls your covers over you, pressing a final kiss goodnight against your forehead.
if the stars could interact with the two lovers at all, they’d keep them together, scream at them to stay with one another, to hold each other longer. for, in this moment in time, jason grace walks towards the via praetoria, unknowing that in merely a few hours, when dawn graces the waters of the little tiber, he will wake up in a bus 1, 270 kilometers away from everything he’s ever known, with no memories of his lover’s features he’s sworn to memorize, nor the “i love you”s that he’s engraved into his mind.
and the stars can only watch as he leaves.
thank you to anon for the request! i hope i did it justice :') the title is from no one noticed by the marias, listen to it here! if you like what i wrote, please leave a reblog & send me an ask! <3
-> © DEUXIOSE (2025). do not repost, republish, translate, or use any of my works to train AI.
why is this so underrated?? oh my god this is so FIRE op 🔥🔥
—my lady, why have you forgotten me?
in which : under the care of an endearing knight who seems far more than he lets on, you can't help but notice his gaze often lingers on you as if forgetting him was the cruelest thing you could’ve done.
wc: 11.1k (it gets better as u read i promise!!), historical / royalty au, knight x princess, reader is from aedes elysiae, let’s give it up for sir phainon aka yearnmaster3000, childhood friends + amnesia, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “my lady”, art by 子执子知 (id: 61319986479) on douyin.
this is what happens when ure unemployed n have a big fat crush on phainon. enjoy !
PROLOGUE: WHY WON’T THE HANDSOME KNIGHT MEET MY EYES?
you’re not sure what’s stranger.
how natural it feels to walk beside prince mydeimos again after all these years, or the fact that he is personally leading you around castrum kremnos like an old friend.
which, technically, he is.
you grew up crossing paths at the same royal festivals and formal banquets, you even attended mydei’s own coming of age ceremony at some point. though you rarely saw each other beyond such occasions, you still managed to build a rather good friendship over the years.
“this way,” he says, pushing open the doors to the training grounds.
you squint against the sudden sunlight. the rhythmic clang of metal against metal reaches your ears as dozens of knights spar in duels, while others run drills under the barked commands of their captains, sweat darkening the collars of their tunics.
somewhere in your chest, a distant ache stirs.
your parents had only your best interests at heart. they wanted you somewhere safe especially after the assassination attempt that left you with only half your memory intact.
the neighboring kingdom, castrum kremnos, was the obvious choice; home to the finest warriors in the land, and close enough to your homeland that you wouldn’t feel entirely adrift.
and so, here you are now, a year after your coming of age ceremony, standing on foreign soil under the protection of another kingdom.
they hoped a change of scenery might help you heal after all these years.
“i was told,” you say, “that i’m to choose a knight.”
mydei nods, “it’s customary. you’ll remain under kremnos’ protection regardless, but a personal escort will ease the council’s worries. and your parents’.”
you don’t suppose you like the idea of having a glorified babysitter in metal armor, but alas, you understand why it’s necessary.
finally, you come to a stop at the edge of the training grounds. “choose carefully. these men and women will lay down their lives for you, should the need arise.”
your eyes sweep over the crowd, scanning the lines of soldiers before you—until they catch on a certain figure and don’t move again.
he kneels like the rest, yet something about him sets him apart.
snow-white hair falls loosely over his face, obscuring most of it, catching the sunlight like spun silver. with his head bowed, you can’t see much, only the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his cheek.
but what little you can glimpse is almost ethereal; the kind you might even call beautiful.
mydeimos’ voice rings out, taking you out of your trance and dismissing the knights back to their training. boots scuff against stone at the command as they stand and begin to disperse across the grounds.
as they return to their drills, you sense more than a few lingering looks subtly aimed your way—brief, curious flickers of the eye; some seem eager to catch your attention, others simply taking in the sight of the visiting princess.
where the others can’t help but sneak a glimpse, you notice he doesn’t so much as lift his head.
his focus locked somewhere far from you. not once does he look at you; in fact, he’s the only one who doesn’t.
you glance back toward the field just as a commotion starts to stir.
from your vantage point, it’s easy to spot a few older knights surrounding a younger recruit, likely an inexperienced junior, judging by his awkwardness and stiff movements.
the knights goad him with swings he clearly struggles to deflect, one even slips in a low sweep that knocks him off balance, and when he stumbles back, barely managing to stay upright, the laughter that follows is nothing short of mean-spirited.
in the midst of everything, one of them even glances toward you.
ah. so that’s what this is. show-offs, the lot of them.
your brows furrow slightly at the sight in front of you. the hits aren’t hard enough to injure, but still, that’s no way to treat your comrades! you’re just about to lean toward mydei to ask if this kind of thing happens often when—
the white-haired knight approaches with a calm, unhurried gait, tilting his head slightly in a casual nod.
“three on one?” you hear him say, voice clear even from a distance. "doesn’t seem very fair to me."
“captain,” one of the older knights replies, straightening slightly, though there’s still a trace of a smirk on his face. "we’re just testing the rookie’s reflexes. builds character, you know."
“oh? then let me help.” he draws his training sword in one smooth motion, the blade gleaming under the sun. “how about i take his place? i could use a little discipline myself.”
a short silence follows; the knights glance at one another.
then, with a begrudging scoff, one of them steps forward, rolling his shoulders as he raises his blade.
“don’t go easy on me, captain.”
“wouldn’t dream of it. though if this is your way of impressing her highness…” he briefly flicks his gaze up toward you, the look on his face is hard to pin down—
“you’re doing a terrible job.”
ACT I: WHY HIS LOYALTY WAS MINE ALONE
the spar that follows isn’t violent, but it’s unmistakably a lesson (one the egoistical bunch sorely needs).
the white-haired knight meets every blow with ease, and effectively disarms his opponents. the difference is immediate.
by the time the bout ends, the three knights lower their blades, avoiding his gaze as they shamefully retreat with stiff bows. the white-haired knight gives the junior still watching from the sidelines a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder, and murmurs something you can’t quite hear.
you blink.
that was… unexpectedly gentle.
and very impressive.
“you’ve got a sharp eye. that’s phainon, the captain of the royal knights,” mydei adds with a touch of reluctance, “the only one here who can rival me in a spar, unfortunately.”
you stifle a laugh. the image of the oh-so-mighty mydeimos getting knocked flat in training is too good to resist. must be frustrating, being shown up by your own subordinate.
he shoots you a sideways glance. “you look like you’re thinking something rude.”
urk… nevermind!
anyway, you feel a bit guilty; you’d meant to observe everyone objectively, to judge them fairly by their skill. but admittedly, you’d been staring more at his face than anything else on the field here.
still, as that little display just now proved, he also happens to be the most capable one out there (given that he’s the captain and all).
so really, it’s a win-win isn’t it?
your eyes naturally drift back to him across the courtyard, and when his gaze unexpectedly meets yours, you offer a small, pleasant smile.
for a moment, something in his expression falters. his pupils seem to dilate ever so slightly like he’s been caught off guard, before he quickly averts his gaze as though he hadn’t seen you at all.
“do you know him?” mydei asks, curiosity evident in his tone.
“no,” you reply without hesitation.
his hair—snow-white, so striking in a way that feels impossible to forget. you’re almost certain you would remember it if you had seen him before, somewhere in passing, though where or when eludes you.
you brush the thought aside. probably just a trick of the eye.
while you’re busy conversing with mydei, you miss the way his gaze keeps drifting to you whenever you aren’t looking; and how, earlier, when your eyes passed over him without a trace of recognition, he turned away just as fast.
mydei gestures him over; he approaches and comes to a stop before you both, offering a courteous bow.
when phainon lifts his head, his eyes find yours—and for the first time, he doesn’t look away. they’re warmer than you expect, startlingly soft, and the way he holds your gaze makes your breath catch a little.
you blink, unsure what to make of the sudden attention, and even more unsure why it leaves your heart skipping a beat.
but before you can dwell on it, he drops to one knee. “thank you for choosing me, my lady,” he says, voice steady. “i’ll protect you with my life.”
ACT II: WHY I FELT SOMETHING AKIN TO WARMTH
you don’t remember much of your childhood, not after that day. your memory fractures like shattered glass around the moment you were attacked, during the afternoon you snuck out.
your parents told you it was a group of mercenaries that vanished without a trace after the failed assassination and that you were lucky someone nearby had saved you in time.
whoever it was carried you back, left you somewhere safe enough for the guards to find you in a bloodied and unconscious state, before disappearing without any indications of their identity.
the search that followed led nowhere. there were no witnesses, and your testimony was of no help either, you couldn’t recall a thing about the attack. even now, it’s all a blur, likely a side effect of the trauma caused by this incident and the coma that followed.
and though you tried, again and again, to recall the face of your savior… there was nothing.
still, some part of you is convinced it wasn’t just a stranger. deep down, you’ve always believed it must have been someone dear to you—and the only person that comes to mind is a boy your age who you’d often sneak off to play with when you were young.
but you can’t recall his name. or what he looked like. not even the sound of his voice.
but whoever he was… you’re certain he was the first person who ever made you feel truly loved.
since your arrival at kremnos, the letters haven’t stopped.
every few days, a fresh stack arrives. you open elegant envelopes sealed in wax; promises of affection, proposals of alliance, declarations of admiration from noblemen near and far, so on and so forth.
you never read past the first few lines.
today is no different. you absentmindedly sort through the pile as they gather on your desk, eyes glazed from the monotony—until a familiar crest pressed into pastel pink wax catches your attention.
from… countess cyrene?
countess cyrene of aedes elysiae; though your duties often kept you both endlessly busy, the two of you still exchanged letters now and then.
you’ve always looked forward to her letters. this one is no different.
the letter comes in her familiar flowing script. she writes that word of your stay in kremnos has reached her—and she’s delighted, at last, to have a reason to visit. once her family matters are in order, she promises to make the trip and see her old friend again.
you continue to read for a while, barely noticing how the sky softens into twilight. and at some point, without meaning to, you fall asleep.
when phainon finds you, the room is quiet, bathed in the gentle hush of dusk.
you’re fast asleep beneath the warm spill of fading light, your breathing soft, the faintest crease between your brows. you’re slumped over the desk, cheek resting against your arm.
he pauses in the doorway. maybe it’s the way your features have softened in sleep, or how the dying light catches the way your hair falls over your face. maybe it’s because, just for a moment, you look almost delicate to touch.
his gaze traces your sleeping face, and something tender tugs at his chest—so achingly soft it almost hurts.
he really wants to call your name.
but as a knight, his loyalty belongs to the empire, and with that vow comes a line he’s sworn never to cross—one that makes love for a princess he serves forbidden.
wait, what was he thinking? he quickly shakes himself awake.
because if he lets even a sliver of that feeling slip through, he’s not sure he’ll have the will power to stop himself from crossing that line.
so instead, he shrugs off his cloak and drapes it gently over your shoulders, hands careful not to graze your skin.
he tells himself this is enough. it has to be.
by the time your eyes flutter open, he clears his throat.
“forgive me, your highness,” he mutters, his voice gently pulling you out of your slumber, “i merely wished to shield you from the wind.”
you blink up at him, still bleary with sleep; and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red under the lazy, unfocused way you look at him.
“it’s quite alright. thank you, sir phainon.”
but his heart knows better than to believe it’s truly enough.
that night, as you lie beneath the silk canopy of your bed, eyes lost in the dim glow of the ceiling, your fingers find the necklace resting at your collarbone.
you toy with the pendant absently; you don’t remember when it was given to you, only that you’ve had it for as long as you can remember.
and as always, your thoughts drift to him.
your dearest childhood friend—whose hands were as soft and warm as summer. he’d reach for you, and you’d follow without hesitation, slipping past watchful guards into the wild beyond the palace walls.
you’d race through sunlit fields until your lungs burned and laughter spilled freely from your chest; lying beside each other as you chattered on about suffocating etiquettes in the palace, while he’d offer you pastries from stalls in markets you never get to visit.
being with him always smelled of freshly bloomed wildflowers and sun-warmed earth—the kind of scent that clung to your sleeves long after you’d returned to the palace, hoping no one would notice where the young princess had been all afternoon.
you remember the weeks after you woke from the coma; how every morning, you’d pull back the curtains and press your forehead to the cool glass, eyes sweeping the grounds in silence.
waiting for a glimpse of a familiar wave.
but no matter how high the sun rose, no matter how many mornings passed… that never came. and even now, you still find yourself wondering—
why didn’t he come back for you?
you pull phainon’s cloak a little closer around your shoulders. it smells faintly of wildflowers, just like those days you still dream about.
and somehow, that’s enough to lull you to sleep.
ACT III: WHY, YOU ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE!
in the stillness of the royal infirmary, long after the palace has fallen quiet for the night, a young boy stands beside the bed of the unconscious princess.
a dark hooded cloak hangs off his small frame; even tucked beneath the fabric, the pale strands of his snow-white hair caught what little moonlight filtered in.
he lingers quietly, gaze fixed on her face, bruised and bandaged. his hands tremble as he reaches for hers, lifting it gently to his lips before pressing a soft kiss to her palm.
then, he tucks a delicate necklace into her hand and folds her fingers around it.
it is a modest thing, barely worth a glance to anyone else, but he had spent the last of his coins on it the moment it caught his eye at the market stall. a sun-shaped pendant. it reminded him too much of her—warm, bright, and out of his reach.
“wait for me,” he whispers. “i’ll be strong enough to protect you one day, no one… no one will ever hurt you again,” he whispers just barely above his breath. “i promise.”
he could’ve sworn her expression softened, the crease between her brows smoothing ever so slightly, as if his words had reached her in her slumber. in his hopeful haze, it felt real enough to believe the faintest smile on her face was meant for him.
taking one final glance, he slipped away the way he came, vanishing into the shadows before anyone knew he was ever there.
phainon, as it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to.
conversation with him flows more naturally than you’d imagined. he listens well no matter how trivial the topic is; and maybe it’s the cute way he tilts his head when he’s curious, or how he noticeably brightens just a little when you laugh—you can’t help but notice there’s something undeniably charming about him.
you learn this as the two of you walk through the outer streets of kremnos.
mydei had suggested you take time to acquaint yourself with the city beyond the palace walls, and you’d agreed without hesitation. a quiet stroll sounded like a welcome change of pace.
of course, you couldn’t exactly parade through the city without drawing unwanted attention.
so you and your knight both don simple cloaks over your usual attire, hoods drawn low to obscure your faces. from a distance, you look like nothing more than a traveler and her escort.
the narrow lane eventually opens into a quieter square where flower stalls line the street. a thought strikes you.
“sir phainon, if you had to choose,” you say, glancing at him from beneath your hood. “say, what would your favorite flower be?”
phainon blinks, “…a flower? my lady, i don’t think i’ve ever been asked that.” he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.
“but surely you have one.” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips.
phainon’s brows knit slightly as his gaze sweeps over the stalls. for a moment, he looks lost, till his eyes linger on a bouquet of sunflowers, their golden petals tilted toward the fading afternoon light. his gaze flickers briefly from the flowers to you, then back again.
“sunflowers, maybe.”
your smile widens. “is that so? i suppose sunflowers are really unique, especially their tendency to follow the sun wherever it goes.”
when you glance to the side to gauge his reaction, you realize he’s already looking at you. you almost miss the faintest trace of color dusting his cheeks as he squints slightly, as though he was looking directly into the sun itself.
“for your lady, sir?” the vendor asks brightly, holding up a single stem of sunflower.
phainon startles as though woken from a dream. his eyes dart from the vendor to you, and he straightens abruptly, clearing his throat. the faint blush that had lingered on his face deepens.
“she’s not— i mean— well, yes, if she wants, but—”
you can’t help laughing at phainon’s flustered reaction, taking the flower yourself. “i’ll take it then, thank you.”
he finds himself trailing just a step behind you as you skip ahead.
and it dawns on him; perhaps sunflowers don’t choose to follow the sun, but because they simply can’t help it. no matter how far its warmth drifts, they’ll always turn their faces toward the light.
and as he watches you from behind, phainon realizes he’s doing much the same.
ACT III: WHY I FELT A SENSE OF DÉJÀ VU
the dagger pressed cold against her throat.
“not a word,” the man hissed. his voice was calm unlike the tremor in the maid’s hands as she stood frozen, the tip of the dagger tracing the hollow of her neck. “do exactly as i say, and you’ll live.”
“p-please,” she stammered, lips quivering. “i beg, don’t—”
outside, the corridor was silent. most of the guards had been drawn away toward the western gate, distracted by a false report of intruders. the eastern wing, where the princess’s chambers lay, was almost deserted. just as planned.
the man’s gaze darted toward the far end of the hall. “where is she?”
“i— i don’t know. her highness said she wished for some—”
the dagger pressed deeper, drawing a thin bead of red beneath her chin.
“...in her quarters!” she gasped. “please, don’t hurt—”
“get me the oil,” he shoved the maid aside. make sure there are no witnesses, we’re here to assassinate the princess.
moments later, the corridors of the east wing filled with the faint scent of smoke.
the maid dropped the oil vessel and staggered back, horrified by what she had done; choking on her sobs as she fled down the hall. he watched her go until the sound of her footsteps faded, then tipped the lantern, adding fuel to the fire.
the flames leapt to life, devouring everything in their path.
you rise from your chair, a surge of alarm clawing at your chest. “is someone there?”
no answer.
by the time you reach for the door, the handle sears your palm with heat.
flames crackle as tendrils of smoke curl beneath the doors, making way into your chambers. just outside, unsuspecting attendants flee in panic, their screams muffled as they scramble through the palace.
you snatch a cloth from the table, and douse it with water, wrapping it around your hand before grasping the scorching handle.
but just as you brace to pull the door open, you freeze—dark streaks of oil begin to snake across the floor, seeping in from the gap beneath the door.
your stomach drops; in the next second, flames bloom like wildfire at your feet.
you instinctively take a few steps back. it claws at the edges of the curtains, the heat pressing in from every side as your lungs burn with each ragged cough.
a wave of icy dread crashes over you. every gut screams that this is no accident. the oil creeping deliberately under your doorframe leaves no room for doubt: someone did this on purpose.
could it be that they have returned for you, after all these years…?
your heart leaps when the window starts rattling violently; shattered glass and shards scatter across the floor as someone steps through the broken pane, hands bare and bleeding from the jagged edges of glass.
“sir phainon?”
the sight of him through the haze makes your heart stutter.
“what are you doing here? you should—” you cough violently, waving at the acrid air. “you should get out… it’s not safe here!”
phainon’s eyes dart toward the door behind you, where he knows other guards, dispatched the moment the fire broke out, were racing to reach your chambers.
but as he suspected, there was no safe passage leading to you. thus why he had to find an alternative as soon as possible.
without a second thought, he finds a way in himself, barely feeling the pain in his bloodied knuckles nor the scorching hot flames, driven by nothing but the need to reach you before it’s too late.
“forgive me, my lady, but i cannot obey that order.”
and though he says nothing more, the truth is written plainly across his face— you are all that matters to him. and the thought of losing you again is something he can’t bear to even imagine.
“please hold on to me.” you barely manage to question him before he sweeps an arm securely around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. the fire devours what’s left of the room as he braces his bleeding hands against the shattered sill, blood smearing faintly across the glass.
“phainon—your hands—”
he grins faintly, “you can scold me later, princess, preferably when we’re not on fire.”
before you can respond, he lifts you through the window and out into the open air; instinctively, you grab at the front of his cloak, clutching the fabric to steady yourself.
the cold rush of wind hits you like a wave, stealing the heat and smoke from your lungs.
he lands hard against the grass outside, his body twisting to shield you from the fall. his hand finds the back of your head, guiding it against his shoulder as he absorbs the brunt of the blow.
the impact jostles you both; for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. you can only feel the rough fabric of his shirt beneath your fingers, the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his heart pounding against your palm.
phainon exhales shakily, his grip loosening just enough for you to lift your head. concern is written all over the beautiful face laying under you, but neither of you seem to remember how close you are.
“let’s get you somewhere safe, my lady.”
he kneels beside you, hands moving with careful precision as he dampens a cloth and gently wipes the dirt from your skin.
you notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he tends to the scrape along your arm, the subtle tension in his jaw; his eyes that flit over you… your face, your hands, your shoulders, as if searching for possible wounds you haven’t noticed yet.
“i’m not badly hurt,” you murmur, watching him.
he pauses, eyes flicking up to catch your gaze. “even so, my lady,” he replies, “it eases my mind to be certain.”
“thank you, i’m alright, really.”
he knows he has no right to act as anything more than your devoted knight, yet he tends to you with a fervor that defies norms. each careful touch, each lingering glance, speaks of a devotion that goes far beyond; protecting you has become a desperate, almost instinctive need for him.
his fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and for an instant the world outside the safehouse feels like it’s miles away. the closeness and the warmth of his hand against your skin, makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
he clears his throat, snapping himself from the reverie. “i merely wish to ensure you are unharmed.”
you nod, “but what about you, phainon?”
phainon, phainon, phainon… how long had he waited to hear those two syllables fall from your lips? the sound rolls off your tongue like honey, enough to make him delirious off its sweetness.
you tilt your head at his lack of response, eyes lowering towards his knuckles; the blood may be wiped away, but the marks of the glass-cut injuries remain.
“…does it still hurt?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand before he can draw it back.
his hand is warm and rough in your grasp; you trace the edges of the cuts gently, thumb brushing over a faint streak of dried blood.
“you shouldn’t have done something so reckless,” you mutter, tearing a strip of cloth from your sleeve to wrap around his knuckles.
phainon watches in silence, gaze following the furrow of your brow, the faint crease of worry that doesn’t belong on your face.
and as your fingers tighten the makeshift bandage around his knuckles, his heart pounds loud enough that he’s sure you could hear it, if you only leaned a little closer.
unfortunately, this humble warehouse was built to house only one person at most, which explained the lone bed pushed against the wall.
at first, he stubbornly insists on sleeping on the floor, but you protest, unwilling to let a wounded man rest on the unforgiving floor.
in bed, he tries to give you most of the space, or at least he intends to… but with his broad frame, it’s impossible not to take up more than his fair share (despite his genuine best efforts).
so when your shoulder brushes against his, he stiffens, and you notice the subtle way his hand flexes around the sheet. the bandaged fingers of his curl involuntarily, white-knuckled, the muscle in his forearm trembling slightly as he wills himself to remain still, to restrain the urge to reach out, to pull you closer.
he convinces himself it’s the soreness in his knuckles keeping him awake, not the warmth of your body pressed against his side.
he stares at the ceiling long after you’ve drifted off (though he can’t help but sneak a few glances from time to time), listening to the even rise and fall of your breathing.
seeing you safe and here beside him once more, it’s the same comfort he remembers from long ago, like coming home after a long, restless journey.
after all this time, he finally has the chance to keep his promise.
the thought is enough to coax a small, unguarded smile to the corners of his lips.
INTERLUDE: WHY A PROMISE MUST BE REMEMBERED
his breathing was ragged, his steps uneven as he darted into the narrow alleyway behind the market. dust rose beneath his boots, mingling with the late-evening light that spilled through the cracks between the rooftops.
he hadn’t stolen anything. he swore he hadn’t. but when the steward’s silver ring had gone missing, and he’d just happened to pass by with his ragged appearance, that was all it took for them to put the blame on him. he learnt that explaining was futile when the haughty steward shut him up and called for guards immediately.
he pressed himself behind a crate, trying to calm his breathing. the echo of guards shouting carried faintly down the street.
“he went that way!”
... “don’t let that rascal get away!”
just then, a figure in a pale dress peeked in, her gaze sweeping the shadows before landing right where he hid.
...!
he bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut, praying to whichever god was listening to him—that she wouldn’t call out to the guards.
“hello?”
his eyes snapped open and he swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “…please don’t tell them i’m here.”
she tilted her head, studying the boy crouched behind the crate. “what’s your name?” she asked.
“...phainon.”
“phainon,” she repeated, as if you’re testing the sound on her tongue. “i like that name!”
“well i’m—” she began, but her words were cut short.
“your highness!” the guards called from behind her, relief flooding their tone when they finally spotted the young princess. “there you are, we’ve been looking everywhere! what are you doing here?”
she you blinked, casting a quick glance back toward the crates, before stepping away inconspicuously. “nothing,” you said lightly. “i thought i heard something and got a little lost.”
“but it seems i’m the only one here.”
the guards exchanged uneasy glances, hesitantly, they inclined their heads.
“understood, your highness. it isn’t safe here, please let us escort you back to the palace before your tutors notice,” one said.
they turned to lead you out of the alleyway, but before you followed, you looked back.
snow-white hair peeked out from behind the crate. his lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.
you smiled instead, lifting a finger to your lips to shush him gently, then gave him a playful wink as your parting gift.
phew...
thank god they—wait. wait, did the princess of aedes elysiae… just wink at him?
you don’t see him again for several days, at least not until another quiet afternoon when you manage to slip past your attendants once more.
beyond the palace gardens, down a sloping hill and through the meadow, there’s a quiet spot by the riverbank where almost no one ever goes.
that’s where you find him again. barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rinsing mud from his hands in the river. sunlight glints off his pale hair, the ripples painting silver lines across his face. he startles when he notices you standing next to him.
“…your highness?” he blurts, nearly stumbling to his feet.
“so you do remember me.”
there is something about the way he looks at you then, more so resembling the awe of someone faced with a miracle he never quite believed he’d see again. as some people are remembered as heroes because they save lives; while others, like you, because they give one a reason to keep living at all.
he straightens quickly, bowing his head, his hands still damp. “i didn’t expect to see you here, your highness. the palace is quite a ways off.”
you step closer until your reflection joins his in the water. “what a coincidence,” you muse. “i come here often, yet i’ve never once seen you. perhaps it’s fate, then.”
you tilt your head. “what are you doing here, anyway?”
“my parents’ field is nearby,” he says, awkwardly drying his palms on his trousers. “i was fetching water for them, your highness.”
you hum thoughtfully, glancing at the wooden buckets by his feet. “then i suppose i’ve interrupted your work.”
he shakes his head quickly, almost flustered. “no-not at all! you could never be an interruption, my lady!”
amused, you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. the sound makes him blink, unsure whether he’s said something foolish or funny (or both), he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his neck before lowering his gaze again, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.
after that day, you find yourselves meeting there more often.
“my lady, are you sneaking out again?” “maybe… but you won’t tell on me, right?”
neither of you ever spoke of your meetings to anyone. a young princess had no business secretly spending her evenings with a commoner, after all—what would the court say if they ever found out?
yet, despite the vast gulf of social status between you, you never treated him as lesser; and he finds himself drawn to you more with each passing meeting, until he can’t help but notice that his thoughts turn to you long before the day ends.
those little observations grow heavier in his chest as years pass, loving a princess is dangerous, but loving a commoner would be no less so. perhaps you both sense it; even the adults, if they ever knew, would likely dismiss it as nothing more than a fleeting childhood affection, a puppy love that simply, cannot last.
but looking at you now, you seem almost ethereal. is it truly selfish of him to wish you’d never leave? to hope you wouldn’t one day be wedded to some noble prince more fitting of your position?
to imagine himself there instead—if it were him standing beside you, would you look at him differently then?
he hates the way his heart dares to reach for something it has no right to want.
it is such an ugly thought, a feeling so unworthy of you, he fears it might taint you if he even dared to—
“then… when i grow up and become a princess who gets into all sorts of trouble—”
he blinks at you, as though the sweet sound of your voice had pulled him out of a dream. “all sorts of trouble?”
“yes,” you said solemnly. “you’ll come save me, won’t you?”
the boy paused, looking down at his calloused hands. the breeze rustles through the grass, carrying the faint scent of river water between you; he nods, surprisingly earnestly.
“of course, i’ll save you, no matter what.”
you smile brightly at his response, holding out your pinky toward him.
“then it’s a promise!”
he hooks his finger with yours.
“of course, i’ll protect you with my life!”
that day, the sun may be blazing brilliantly overhead, yet its light pales beside the radiant warmth of your smile, a light that touched his heart with a tenderness no dawn could ever match.
ACT V: WHY HE COULDN’T BEAR TO SEE ME SMILE AT ANOTHER
after a pleasant conversation with the knowledgeable lord anaxa, you slip out of the ballroom, and as always—phainon falls into step behind you the instant you turn away.
you push open the imposing doors leading to the balcony; cool night wind rushes in, brushing across your skin like a blessing after hours drowned under chandeliers. the music dulls to a distant hum as the doors ease shut behind you.
exhaling, you lean against the marble railing, letting the air fill your lungs. phainon steps into the moonlight, his gaze softens when it lands on your back.
“my lady,” he says quietly. “are you alright?”
jealousy doesn’t show easily on him.
usually, he’s a man with no need to covet. but nothing about you, or the way he feels for you, has ever been “usual” to him.
every time a noble leaned in too near, every fleeting touch on your arm as if they had any right to—
“yes,” you murmur, tossing a look over your shoulder and offering him a faint, tired smile. “i just needed a breath of fresh air.” your gaze drops for a moment before lifting to him again. “thank you for staying by my side, phainon.”
it reminds him, cruelly, of the place he stands, of what he can and cannot reach.
a low hum trembles through the air before the first firework bursts into the sky, scattering gold across the night. you both look up instinctively, the sudden glow washing over your faces.
another follows. then another. soon the sky is filled with blooming flowers, each one painting your skin in shifting hues of amber and rose.
“look phainon!” petals of light drift downward, reflected in your awe-filled eyes, “it’s lovely, isn’t it?”
his breath catches at the way you grab his arm out of excitement (moving just enough that the warmth of you grazes against his side), the soft delight in your eyes, the way you lean forward slightly, lips parted in astonishment—
it coaxes dormant parts of his heart awake, blooming slow and treacherous like flowers touched by the morning sun.
“yes,” he says before he could help himself.
yet his gaze rests nowhere near the sky, but rather, on the spectacle that lives inside your gaze, the reflection turning your eyes into something soft and luminous.
he thinks that if there is beauty to behold tonight, it exists far closer than the horizon ahead.
and maybe that is why his next words sit so heavily on his tongue.
“my lady.”
“hm?” your expectant eyes meet his.
phainon swallows.
“in a week or so, i will be stationed at the frontlines away from the capital for some time,” he begins.
you blink, surprise flickering across your face, this is news to you. your fingers tighten on the railing.
you had hoped, more than you dared admit, to spend just a little more time with your beloved knight.
“how long?” you ask with a disappointment you try to swallow down.
“a few years.”
“i see.” a hollow ache blooms beneath your ribs, as if something dear to you is slipping out of reach.
his fingers curl at his sides, knuckles tense; every word he’s buried for years pushes its way up his throat before he can stop it. “and there is also something i have been meaning to say. my lady, i—”
a thunderous crack splits the sky above, drowning out the rest of his words in a blaze of gold.
you tilt your head, “sorry, what was it?” you call over the roaring cascade.
phainon’s mouth opens—then closes again.
“…nothing,” he turns his gaze away from you, “it can wait, my lady.”
and you, standing inches from him, remain blissfully unaware of the words he had finally dared to speak.
the ballroom is nearly unrecognisable once emptied.
you and phainon’s footsteps the only sound left in a place that had been overflowing with grandeur only an hour ago.
“a shame i didn’t get to dance properly tonight,” you say, half jokingly.
“is it?” he asks softly.
you shrug, smiling faintly. “i suppose so.”
“in that case…” he bows lightly, “if you’d allow me, my lady.”
“you know how to dance?” you ask, the hint of a smile tugging your lips.
he exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting. a flicker of playfulness ghosts across his face. “why don’t you see for yourself?” he returns with an unexpected hint of teasing gallantry.
you laugh and slip your hand into his.
his palm at your waist warms through the layers of your gown, its delicate threads woven by none other than the esteemed seamstress, lady aglaea.
he looks down, drinking in the sight of you—your flushed cheeks from the cold air, the soft part of your lips as you exhale.
for a man so adept at his weapon, his hands felt remarkably soft on your skin.
phainon’s breath caresses faintly against your temple as he spins you gently under his arm.
you both fall into a gentle sway, soft laughter escaping every once in a while.
he lets himself savor the moment, allowing himself this small indulgence: to believe, if only for tonight, you might recognize him in the same way he has always known you.
ACT VI: WHY I WAS JEALOUS OF HIS 'SECRET LOVER'
phainon almost never left you unattended, but mydei (of all people) was someone he trusted without hesitation. and today he had been ordered to train the troupe preparing for the frontlines, leaving you in the prince’s hands for the afternoon.
left alone with mydei, you slipped into your chairs across from one another with a glass of wine in hand (while he sipped his familiar pomegranate juice).
he regales you with stories of past misadventures, a surprising number involving phainon when he first came to kremnos; the image was so endearing you found yourself laughing, unable to picture that small awkward boy beside the tall composed figure you knew now.
“so how did phainon earn a place among the royal knights? seeing as he’s not of kremnoan blood and all.”
“oh? and what makes you say that?”
you lift a hand in gentle surrender. “only a feeling.”
that earns a soft laugh from the prince. “you’re right. he’s from aedes elysiae.”
aedes elysiae… huh. you knew he feels familiar somehow, especially that scent of fresh meadow he carries that reminds you so fondly of the grassfields back in your homeland. “he arrived at the palace gates back when we were barely teenagers,” mydei begins. “walked right up to me, introduced himself, and challenged me to a duel on the spot.”
you blink. “a duel?”
“my thoughts exactly,” he says, amused. “he declared that if he won, i would have no choice but to let him join the royal training ranks. insufferably confident, even back then.”
your brows shot up. “and?”
“the duel ended in a tie,” mydei admits with a wry smile. “which, frankly, was the only reason father agreed to it. that old man said any boy who could match me blow for blow deserved at least a chance.” he pauses, swirling the juice in his glass. “we became sparring partners after that. i suppose as a warrior, it was impossible to ignore his determination.”
“in that case,” your gaze drifts toward the empty doorway where phainon had stood earlier, “i should thank that past version of him. had that duel ended differently, our paths may never have crossed.”
“so you’re saying you’re glad i didn’t best him?”” mydei arches one brow in mock offense.
you huffed a soft laugh. “…i wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
he shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “unbelievable.”
“well whatever the outcome of that duel might have been,” he says with unusual gentleness, “i have no doubt he would still have found his way to you.”
you blink, then let out a short incredulous laugh. “really? what’s that supposed to mean, your highness?” you wave it off as a jest, half flustered.
to hide the warmth rising in your cheeks (which now, is much more obvious than the pomegranate tint in mydei’s glass), you clear your throat and reach for the safest refuge you know: changing the subject!
“anyway,” you say lightly, though your heartbeat has yet to settle, “do you happen to know why phainon wanted to be a knight in the first place?”
the prince hums, tapping a finger absentmindedly against his glass. “well, it would’ve been a waste not to put all that talent to use. but,” he leans back, eyes narrowing as he sifts through old memories. “truth be told, he mentioned it once. during a rather… heated match, of all times.”
you perk up. “he did?”
“he said he wanted to become strong enough to keep a promise he once made to an old friend.”
…an old friend?
“it seems he’s cherished that person above almost anyone else.”
you let out a quiet laugh, though it tastes oddly bitter in your mouth.
but before you can press mydei for more—
“talking about me?” phainon steps through the doorway, his eyes flicking between the two of you with a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.
soon the three of you settle around the table, drinks in hand. laughter spills as easy as the flow of river; stories and playful jabs make the hours slip by almost unnoticed.
“so, almighty mydeimos! pray tell, does her highness know about the time i landed ten perfect strikes on you in a row?” / “even she knows that’s a generous exaggeration, captain…” "—i demand a rematch! it's not fair, you wear way less than me-" / “wait so… when you said ‘heated’ match you actually meant… a sauna battle?”
rain spills from the sky without so much as a whisper of warning, chilling you to the bone in seconds. without a word, phainon shrugs off his heavy overcoat, lifting it above your head as a shield while the two of you hurry toward the carriage mydei had summoned.
inside, the carriage is dim and quiet, the only sounds are your uneven breaths and rain drumming against the roof.
when you arrive, phainon steps out first and offers his hand, guiding you to your chambers.
the warmth of the room hit you as you sway while fumbling for a towel. “i… i can manage.” you frown slightly, digesting the aftermath of the wine lingering in your system.
“with all due respect, my lady… your alcohol tolerance is abysmal.” his voice carries a chastising tone as he steadies you by the waist before you can tilt forward again.
you ignore the comment, turning your body to face him directly.
“now what are you d—”
his unfinished reprimand dissolves the moment your fingers slip into his hair. snowy strands cling damply to his temples as you gently pat his head, droplets gathering on your fingertips with every ruffle.
phainon goes completely still.
his hands remain at your waist, tense as if he can’t decide whether to retreat or hold you closer. you don’t know what came over you—but the more his ears redden, the more your hand (and your heart) insists on continuing.
and gods, the thought flashes across your mind before you can stop it:
he’s… kind of like a drenched puppy.
a really, really cute one.
phainon swallows hard, collecting his words. “…my lady, it’s getting late. you should rest. i’ll take my leave—”
he steps back to excuse himself, but you catch his hand before he can reach for the door.
“phainon.”
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “do you…like me?”
the tipsy haze in your veins makes every flutter in your chest impossible to ignore.
“of course i do, my lady,” he says quietly. “ there is no one i am more devoted to, my loyalty has always belonged to you.”
“then…” you swallow and lift your gaze to his, wavering. “do you like your ‘old friend’ more than me?”
phainon blinks, taken aback. “my—pardon? what do you mean?”
you push on, unable to stop the words tumbling out, soft and slurred with hurt you didn’t realize you were holding.
“mydei told me you seem to like them a lot,” you insist. “so much so that you even came all the way to kremnos just to train your best for their sake.”
you aren't sure what kind of reaction you expected. defensiveness, denial, irritation, anything—but certainly not the way his expression melts.
“...you really don’t remember, huh,” he whispers under his breath.
gently, he pries your hand from his wrist only to place it against his still-damp chest, right over the rapid thrum beneath his skin.
“you know,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “every time you say my name,” beneath your palm, his heart hammers against his chest at a rapid pace. “this place becomes a mess.”
you can feel the tremor beneath his skin, sense the heat radiating from him as he lowers his mouth near your ear, breath warm against your neck.
“i like… no, i love you. always, and only you.”
a warmth blooms in your chest, hot and dizzying. you let out a small, hiccupping laugh, words catching in your throat. “i—” you falter, leaning into him just as his hands come up to steady you.
phainon’s eyes meet yours again, the subtle lift of his brows showing relief that you don’t pull away just yet. “but please… get some rest now, my lady.”
his tone is tender, as if he fears staying too long might make leaving impossible for him.
not that you’d mind if he didn’t.
(your head is a total mess the next morning. phainon was right, your alcohol tolerance really was abysmal.
amid the dull pounding behind your eyes, your thoughts flit between your childhood sweetheart… and then, to phainon.
a part of you wonders, if maybe the two aren’t so different after all. could it really be that the one you’d always held dear is the same person standing beside you now? something about him makes your chest tighten in a way that feels… eerily familiar.
you can only hope to make sense of your own muddled feelings soon.)
ACT VII: WHY HE FEIGNED IGNORANCE (UNCONVINCINGLY)
there's a saying that once fear finally cracks a man, the truth often spills in fragments; grudging and ugly.
the warehouse reeks of iron and damp rot, the kind of cold that settles into the deepest parts of the bone.
the assassin is long past any condition to resist.
he hangs slumped against the pillar he’s been chained to for weeks, wrists swollen where the iron has scraped in too deeply. dark bruises bloom along his jaw; while dried blood crusts the corner of his split mouth.
a blade slides beneath his chin and tilts his face upward.
the wielder does not speak. he stands enshroud in shadow, his pale hair catching what little light the warehouse offers.
the assassin’s eyes flutter open to meet the cold, unwavering gaze before him. “i already told you everything i know.”
the white-haired man remains motionless, sword still pressing up beneath the prisoner’s jaw. “so she was nothing more than a tool to you.”
a hoarse, mocking laugh crawls out of his throat. “you’ve kept me here long enough,” he mutters. “don’t tell me you’re a coward, captain.”
turns out provoking him was a bad idea.
“if her highness had died in that fire,” blue eyes almost delirious looking as they fix on the man before him. “you wouldn’t still be breathing right now.”
the truth is, phainon had arrived late that night because he’d first cornered the assassin, swiftly knocking him unconscious, and dragging him here before sprinting back to the burning hall to reach you in time. barely in time.
and to think he has come so close to losing you again, was an outcome he simply could not accept.
it disgusts him, tending even minimally to the prisoner chained before him. every scrap of bread, every cup of water—it all but fills him with revulsion. a man complicit in the attempt on your life, merits no mercy.
“but you’re right,” the knight says at last. “i won’t forgive anyone who lays a hand on her highness.”
the assassin stiffens. “what…” “was i unclear?” phainon’s gaze does not waver, “your time’s up.”
“no—nonono… wait!” his chains rattle as he jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade now dangerously close to his neck. “i told you everything! everything you asked for. you said—you said you’d spare me if i spoke. you promised!”
he promised… he promised… he promised…
phainon lowers his gaze, pale eyes devoid of heat as they drift away from the now pathetic man trembling at his feet. for just a moment, they hold the same softness they do when they rest on you.
“i did,” he says.
relief washes over the assassin’s face. “s-so you are a man of your words! i knew you’d—”
“but understand this, she did nothing to deserve what harm you brought upon her. and while she begged for her life all those years ago, you refused to listen for your own gain.”
phainon swears to fulfil every promise he makes…
“so i see no reason to listen to you either.”
—to you only, of course.
a princess killed on foreign soil would more or less be an open act of war; most likely have triggered a major political crisis, straining relations between the two kingdoms and their respective allies.
the knight knew that much the moment the truth spilled from the assassin’s lips.
if the attempt had succeeded back in aedes elysiae, the damage would have been just as detrimental. a kingdom already seen as weak due to the lack of military strength—what faith would its people have left? panic would surely have spread, leaving its people gripped by fear and uncertainty.
the assassin stammers, panic shredding what little composure he had left. “but she’s still alive, isn’t she? that’s what matters, right? i mean, nothing happened in the end, so—”
his breath cuts off abruptly mid-word, collapsing into a sharp, broken gasp. he convulses, coughing violently, eyes locked on the hilt of the blade pressed against his abdomen, each rasp growing weaker than the last.
“her life is not yours to bargain with.”
ignoring the man now bleeding and sputtering before him, phainon picks up the cup lying on the floor, whatever liquid remains inside sloshes weakly against the rim.
without a word, he tilts it over the assassin’s head. letting the cold liquid slowly cascade down, dousing his hair and clothes.
a hoarse groan escapes the man as the acrid sting of the liquid hits his senses. the sharp, unmistakable scent of gasoline makes his stomach knot with dread.
he had assumed it was just water when phainon brought it earlier as he always did, but now, with the familiar tang burning his nose…
as if to confirm his dreaded suspicion, phainon lights a match.
the tiny flame dances, casting a flickering glow across his sharp blue eyes. and for a fleeting instant, it reminds him of that night, vividly; the smoke, the heat, and your terrified gaze. it grates against every fiber of his being, seeing you in pain.
trapped in the inferno, the assassin is left to face what he set in motion himself.
through the haze, he sees it—that unsettling smile of a man who would burn the world down without hesitation, if it meant to keep you safe.
the fire spreads quickly, the knight takes his leave not long before the flames close in and the wooden beams collapse. surely by dawn, nothing of this place will remain but ash.
out of the corner of your eye, you catch a tall figure moving stealthily past you.
nowadays, you can recognise your white-haired knight anywhere, even from a mile away. but still, your heart gives a small, irrational leap.
“phainon?” you call out.
he freezes for a moment as if he was caught in the act, glancing over his shoulder before his eyes finally find yours. he jogs toward you as if nothing’s amiss, but you can tell that something’s off.
as soon as he comes fully into view, though his uniform is perfectly neat, you notice the strong smell of iron that clings to him anyway.
“phainon… are you okay?” you can’t stop yourself, concern spilling out as you step closer to inspect him. “what happened? did you get into trouble?”
he tilts his head, then flashes his signature grin. “i’m fine!” he says, “my lady, you know i’m really strong, you don’t need to worry about me.”
given his habit of deflecting whenever the topic turns to himself, you’re fairly certain he’s just trying to avoid whatever it is. nevertheless, you can’t shake your concern—what if he’s hiding an injury again?
“uh my lady…?” he can tell you’re not planning to let it go anytime soon; your gaze is firm, a slight pout forming as your worry fuels your refusal to back down so easily.
before you can press him further, he steps closer and wraps you in a sudden hug. “see? i’m not hurt.” he murmurs, his tone unusually gentle, as if sensing the depth of your concern.
you stiffen at first, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “phainon—” you protest, trying (and failing) to sound stern. you give his chest a light push, but he doesn’t budge. instead, he loosens the embrace just enough to look at you, eyes soft, almost wounded, like you’d just kicked a puppy.
“…did i do something wrong?” he asks quietly.
your shoulders slump in defeat.
perhaps realizing it was futile to even attempt to stay mad at this big, stubborn puppy, you sigh and give in, ruffling the edge of his hair and patting him on the back.
he leans just slightly into your touch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, clearly satisfied with having “won” this little battle.
though the way his arms remain around you suggests he never planned to let go so easily in the first place.
today is the day the knights are to be stationed outside the capital for the upcoming war against the black tide. the courtyard is alive with farewells from families and friends, but no matter how far you search, you can’t seem to find phainon among the crowd.
just then, you catch sight of someone moving off to the quieter edge of the grounds. there he is—alone, kneeling by his greatsword and polishing the blade with meticulous care.
“phainon!” you call, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to stay composed.
he stops, turning in surprise. for a brief instant, there’s that faint flash of shock in his eyes—but it vanishes as quickly as it came. slowly, he sheaths his sword and bows politely in greeting.
in the brief space between you, you raise your hand, trembling slightly, and reach up to his face.
“you idiot, were you going to leave without telling me?”
he freezes for a heartbeat, a faint chuckle escaping him before his fingers curl gently around your wrist. please forgive him, he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you once more.
he lifts your palm to his lips, pressing them softly against your skin—tender and reverent. just like it was when he kissed your hand all those years ago.
“i’ll be back before you know it.”
you slip the necklace from around your neck, the chain sliding free with a soft clink before you place it gently into his open palm.
“don’t lose it,” you say with a teasing lilt. “you’ll have to return it to me once you come back safely, alright?”
phainon’s fingers close around the familiar pendant, and a small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips. “as you wish, my lady.”
“then i suppose i’ll just have to wait for you this time, phainon.”
what a ridiculous demand from such a cruel princess—not because it was impossible, but because it left him no choice at all.
the thought draws that same faint, almost incredulous smile to his lips.
there was never a world in which he would not do his utmost to return to you.
ACT VIII: WHY HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS it’s been two years since you last saw him. having returned to your homeland to visit your parents a few months ago, you find yourself wandering the familiar grounds of aedes elysiae.
the fields are fragrant with late blooms, and the warm sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with light.
ever since that night, when the truth finally dawned on you, the memory has clung stubbornly to your thoughts: his infuriatingly handsome smile, the way he presses your palm to his lips, the beating of his heart, his whispers in your ear—it all replays in your mind whenever you even remotely think about him.
it has to be him…
overwhelmed by nostalgia, you let your feet carry you almost without thought. soon, a familiar sight comes into view: the shimmer of lake water and the golden wheatfield you’ve returned to countless times as a child.
you stand at the edge of the bank, closing your eyes and letting the wind brush across your face, a bittersweet feeling arises deep in your chest.
but a sudden rustle comes from the stalks behind you, pulling you from your reverie. you peel your eyes open just as a shadowed reflection ripples across the surface of the lake.
your heart leaps. instinctively, you spin around…
“...phainon?” a familiar face greets your vision. “so you do remember me.”
your knees almost go weak, your chest tightening at the sound of his voice as you take in the familiar tilt of his head, and the way the sunlight catches his hair just like you remembered.
and a rush of emotions—relief, joy, longing—crash over you all at once.
“you… you’re really here.” you step towards him, until the space between you is pretty much non-existent.
“i promised i’d return,” phainon murmurs, leaning closer. almost hesitantly, his earnest gaze flickers to your lips before returning to your eyes.
he waits patiently for your nod, and when you finally do, he closes the last of the distance between you.
you’ve missed him terribly.
you melt into him, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as his hands settle gently on your waist, drawing you closer.
but beyond all else, you love him more than anything.
this closeness—the undeniable press of your body against his—is all he has ever longed for. it makes him feel light-headed even.
holding you close, he savors the soft exhale that mingles with his own.
his world is finally back where it belongs.
maybe things would’ve been easier in another life, maybe the gods would take pity and give you both a kinder story.
but to phainon, it makes no difference. not this life, not the next, not the thousand before or after. because he has loved you in every one of them. in every form, his heart always finds its way back to you.
he remembers the warmth of your hand even when he’s born without one. he dreams of your voice in lifetimes where he never learns your name.
even if you so cruelly forget him again, if he must live through it all, he would. again and again.
because this is the most terrible truth of it all: it is the most human thing he’s ever known, to helplessly love you, despite it all.
he loved you, he loves you still, and he will keep loving you—for as long as the sun continues to rise, his heart will belong to you.
as surely as yours is his.
before the assembled court, the king rises.
“for your service to the realm of aedes elysiae and castrum kremnos,” the king declares, voice carrying through the grand hall, “you are hereby granted a title befitting your deeds. from this day forth, you shall stand among the highest of my lords.”
phainon inclines his head in a respectful bow. “thank you, your majesty.”
“your actions have greatly strengthened the enduring bond between our kingdom, and kremnos.”
“so brave hero,” the king continues, “you may name your reward. gold, estates, influence—whatever you desire shall be yours.”
“i’m honored, your majesty.” he adds, “but i ask for none of those things.”
the king inclines his head, curiosity evident in his expression. “then what is it you wish for?”
phainon lowers himself to one knee. “may i have the hand of the princess of aedes elysiae?”
EPILOGUE: WHY WON’T THE CHARMING PRINCESS MEET MY EYES?
first gifted by your beloved knight in your childhood, to countless days through battles, then at last all the way back from the frontlines—the necklace’s once-shimmering metal had lost its luster, spots of rust crept along the chain and the pendant bore a few small chips.
you had told him a hundred times over it didn’t matter, insisting that it was fine just the way it was. you really didn’t mind, it was the thought that counted.
but phainon, being the ardent lover that he is, believed otherwise.
“here you go, young man,” the old lady says, holding out the carefully mended necklace. its chain gleamed faintly now, polished and whole again.
“this is amazing! thank you so much, ma’am.” grinning, phainon takes the necklace from the goldsmith’s hands.
“it’s my pleasure, dear. come by anytime, okay?” the old lady replies, the wrinkles on her face deepen with her smile as she gently holds both of his hands in hers.
“of course ma’am!” phainon nods politely.
you giggle. well there he goes again, stealing the hearts of every elderly he comes across.
slowly, he lifts the necklace from his hand and clasps it gently around your neck. the cool metal brushes against your skin, and for the first time in so long, it finally rests where it belongs.
“there we go,” he says softly, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "all yours again."
perhaps not used to such public displays, you feel your cheeks heat up. you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at the necklace, your fingers fidgeting nervously with the chain.
phainon notices immediately and can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you more.
his hand deliberately brushes your shoulder, then trails down to adjust the necklace, fingers grazing your collarbone ever so slightly.
that cheeky bastard… you can almost see the curve of his smirk from the corner of your eyes.
the sun rises behind you, painting the world in a mesmerising dawn. but in phainon’s eyes, you are the most ethereal sight of it all—because you are his sun.
with a mischievous grin, he tilts your chin upward, coaxing your gaze to meet his.
please allow him to be selfish just this once. he wants to fill your memories with him, to leave traces of himself in every corner of your life, ensuring you’ll never forget him again.
a man so terribly in love with you, phainon only has one wish:
that is you’ll remember this moment—not just today, but tomorrow, and for all the days that follow.
so that he may always keep you in his sight, in his thoughts, in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else can reach.
won’t you promise him that, his lady?
extended author’s notes / fun facts: here (soon)
thank you for reading !! reblogs are appreciated <3
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