Trying different flavors of lip-smackers with segments!
Warnings: Making out? Kinda smut? (not with 8 years old one of course, its a cheek kiss for him.) Humiliation kink(idk)?
It's kinda long eheh. Also, I couldn't make the text smaller in some places, so I apologize if it looks strange.
Assistant reader!f (in her +20ies) x Dottore Segments
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ summary: You buy a pack of lip-smackers and you try each flavor with one segment at a time, which is best done by kissing them.
8 years-old (a kiss on the cheek!) cherry-cola You found him in your room again, it was his usual spot when he escapes from olders’ bullyings. Curled up near the edge of your bed with his notebook resting against his knees, scribbling down something with that tiny serious expression he always wore whenever he thought too hard. He barely even noticed you entering.
“I bought these a few days ago,” you said while dropping beside him onto the mattress. You held up the little package of lip smackers in front of him. “I still can’t decide which flavor to try.”
The eight-year-old glanced up briefly. "And…? I don't see the problem that relates me here?"
“Hm. Fair point, Doctor.” You liked calling 8 years old one Doctor a lot, and deep down he liked it too, made him feel important among them.
You looked through them dramatically before pulling out the cherry one.
“This one then.” He watched carefully as you applied it, quiet as always. Probably trying to understand your reasoning.
Then before he could ask anything, you leaned over and pressed an exaggerated kiss against his cheek.
“Mwah.” A loud one.
He blinked. Slowly, his fingers touched the spot you kissed. Then he sniffed faintly, brows furrowing in curiosity.
“…Cherry?” You smiled immediately.
“Yeah, aren’t you a smart cookie?”. “I’ve never seen a cherry flavored one before.” He said while ignoring your teasing.
“Well,” you answered while nudging his shoulder lightly, “that just means there are still lots of things left for you to research, Doctor.”
Then he quietly pulled his notebook a little farther away from you, to hide his face before you could try kissing the other cheek too.
18 years-old, lemon-fanta! Finding the eighteen-year-old was always funny because he acted like he wanted to disappear while leaving the most obvious trails possible.
With a pile of stolen books from other segments, and dragged chair to the corner of the library he builds a castle from books and then tries to hide himself in them.
And somehow, every single time, you still found him.
He even once told you:“You can find me whenever you want. I only find you when you want.”
You approached quietly, fingers brushing over his shoulder. He startled immediately.
Actually jumped a little.
His head snapped toward you before he tried recovering his dignity by looking back down at the book in front of him.
“…What are you doing here, handsome?” you asked with a teasing tone.
“Ugh…Nothing.”
He answered with that sappy-sulky voice.
“Why did you even come here and disturb me?” he muttered while turning a page he clearly wasn’t reading anymore. “Don’t you have things to do? Be a useful assistant and maybe bring me coffee.”
The moment he saw you, he always tried acting annoyed first.
But you knew him too well.
“Oh, of course I have things to do,” you said. “And I should probably bring you your coffee too.”
He hummed with agreement.
“But before that,” you continued while stepping closer, “I need to do something else first.”
That finally got his attention(which was actually long lost the moment he heard your voice).
He lifted his head from the book slowly, chair sliding back just a little as he looked up at you with obvious curiosity hidden behind forced indifference.
“…What thing?”
You leaned down before he could think too hard about it and kissed him.
Bright lemon flavor spreading instantly against his lips from the gloss you had applied earlier.
He reacted immediately. He never misses his chance. One hand grabbing at your hip so fast it almost made you laugh, like he’d been waiting for an excuse all day. Eager.
And then you pulled away. A quiet, frustrated whine escaped him before he could stop it. This made you burst into laughter instantly.
His face went red so quickly he covered half of it with his left hand, glaring at you from behind his fingers.
“Just because I’m not as scary as the others,” he muttered bitterly, “doesn’t mean you can tease me whenever you want.”
You stood up again, pretending not to notice the way he tried to cover the immediate bulge occured when you sat down.
“I don’t know,” you said lightly while fixing your sleeve. “I think I’d love to see you act all crazy and scary too.”
His eyes widened slightly.
And before he could recover enough to say something smug back, you were already leaving the library laughing while he sat there completely flustered in the middle of his little book castle.
25 years-old, sprite! The twenty-five-year-old’s room was always quiet in the most unwelcoming way possible. He had papers scattered across the desk, lots of half-written reports, open books etc.
The faint scratching sound of his pen moving across paper that you could hear behind the door. You knocked twice against the door.
“You can’t come in,” he answered immediately.
You leaned against the doorway dramatically. “I mean, there was something urgent I had to ask you.”
“Well then,” he replied flatly from inside, “go find someone less bothered by your existence. I’m busy.”
You rolled your eyes.
“The earlier you help me, the earlier you’ll get back to your report.”
A long groan came from behind the door. But since he didn’t actually tell you to leave again, you pushed the door open anyway.
He didn’t even look up at first. “You’re too stupid to figure out your own unimportant problems?” he asked while continuing to write. “Why do they even keep you as their assistant? You clearly lack the ability to assist anyone.”
You barely reacted anymore honestly.
Every segment had their own way of being awful. His just happened to involve constant humiliation wrapped in distinct wording with attractive voice. So instead of getting offended, you simply smiled and walked over beside his chair.
“I don’t lack the ability to assist,” you corrected lightly. “You’re simply too good to require assistance.” That made him glance up.
You leaned your elbow against his shoulder, close enough for him to smell the sweet artificial citrus from your gloss.
He huffed quietly under his breath.
Then suddenly his hand grabbed your waist and pulled you directly into his lap.
You yelped softly from the force of it, which made him enjoy more.
“I’ve never seen anyone as interested in being bullied as you are,” he muttered near your ear while squeezing your thigh harshly. “It’s almost concerning.”
“Well,” you said sweetly, “if it’s coming from you, who am I to reject it? I am your assistant after all.”
His fingers tightened briefly before he leaned back in his chair with obvious annoyance.
“Whatever you needed, ask quickly,” he sighed. “I’m too busy to deal with your lame ass.”
Instead of answering, you kissed him.
He reacted instantly to that. One hand gripping your hip harder while he bit down lightly against your lower lip in that mean way of his that was always more provoking than affectionate.
You were kissing him with that sprite flavor he would definitely despise.
You almost laughed into the kiss. Especially when he started to make you lean back towards the desk like he intended to keep you there much longer.
Before he could though, you pushed against his chest lightly and stood back up.
He looked irritated immediately. “Well, I was actually going to ask about my new lipstick,” you said while fixing your clothes. “But I guess you didn’t like it?”
He stared at you for a moment.
Then grinned slowly.
“I hate it.”
35 years-old(Omega), vanilla-cola! Omega’s room was usually quieter than the others and with Nod-Krai trip approaching, the atmosphere had only gotten worse. Documents scattered across the desk, unfinished calculations glowing faintly across screens, reports waiting for signatures. You’d spent the last hour helping him organize materials for the trip without daring to distract him even once.
The moment you entered earlier, you had planned to greet him properly.
With a small kiss, you know.
But the second he started giving instructions, you abandoned the thought immediately. It felt too risky making him wait over something so trivial.
So instead, you focused entirely on being useful. Exactly what his assistant should be, as you could feel that he likes you most when you show usability. So, you barely even remembered the vanilla-cola you had applied beforehand.
Until... “Why,” Omega said suddenly from somewhere behind you, “am I smelling vanilla?”
Your fingers immediately flew to your lips.
Right. The new lipstick.
You turned toward him with a small smile. “Oh, I tried a new flavor earlier. Didn’t realize the scent was that strong.”
His eyes settled on your mouth instantly. “Get up.”
You obeyed before thinking twice. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood, and Omega stepped closer without another word. Then his fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward carefully. Neither gentle nor rough. His gaze stayed fixed on your lips with a level of attention that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.
“I don’t think you wear these because your lips are chapped,” he said calmly. “They always look shiny regardless.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. You didn’t realize he paid attention to things like that or maybe you simply weren’t supposed to know?
“Well,” you answered softly after a moment, “of course I applied this for you.”
That earned the faintest smile from him. Then he leaned closer.
Close enough that you could already feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. If either of you moved even slightly, the distance would disappear completely.
You waited but Omega stopped there.
“It smells lovely indeed,” he murmured quietly.
Then he released your chin, turned away from you entirely, and continued gathering the papers for Nod-Krai like nothing had happened.
Leaving you standing there like that, made you think that everyone was somehow getting a taste of his cruelty.
45 years-old, strawberry-fanta! The meetings of the Harbingers were sometimes unbearably long. So, even after an hour passed, you were still waiting. Despite the fact that he specifically told you:
“If it takes too long, leave.”
You sat quietly on one of the hallway benches outside the meeting room, legs crossed while absentmindedly applying the strawberry-flavored gloss you had bought earlier. Mostly just to distract yourself from boredom.
Then finally you heard the doors opened. You immediately stood up as the Harbingers began leaving one by one. Voices echoed through the hallway, coats brushing past marble floors, conversations overlapping carelessly.
You spotted him instantly. But before you could approach, you overheard Pantalone’s amused voice.
“After you’re gone, perhaps I should steal that assistant of yours,” he said lazily. “Even someone like you seems interested in her. There must be something exceptional there.”
Dottore laughed softly. “Well, ask her after I leave. If she wishes to join you, she may.”
Then he glanced toward you briefly. “Though, for your sake, you should know she only shows interest in me. I doubt she’d perform quite as enthusiastically under your supervision.”
Your lips curled into a smile before you lowered your head slightly to hide it.
Eventually the hallway emptied, leaving only the two of you. You approached him quietly and took the bag from his hand before he could object, naturally falling into step beside him as you both walked down the long corridor.
“I told you not to wait if it took too long,” he said after a moment. “Why are you still here?”
“Because I’m your assistant,” you answered simply. “If you had to stay in that room for twenty-four hours, then I’d stay here for twenty-four hours too. I’ll wait whenever you need me.”
That made him smile faintly.
The two of you continued walking side by side. Then suddenly he spoke again. “Am I hallucinating,” he mused lightly, “or do you smell like strawberries?”
You smiled immediately. “Nothing escapes from you, hm, Doctor?”
Compared to the other older segments, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. Easier to tease too. But he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Well, if I fail to notice the changes in my lovely assistant,” he said calmly, “or the little shenanigans she keeps pulling, then I’d simply be ignorant of my surroundings.”
Slowly, you linked your arm with his as he allowed it naturally.
“So?” you asked while looking up at him. “Is that a bad thing or a good thing?”
He turned his head toward you fully then. “You shouldn’t ask such obvious questions.”
And before you could reply,he suddenly pushed you gently toward the wall beside the hallway. You let out a surprised sound as your back touched the cold surface behind you. His hand guided your arms down instinctively so he could cage you there easily.
For a second, you just stared at him. And then he kissed you.
The strawberry flavor mixed between you instantly while his hand rested against your waist with terrifying ease. He made you feel overwhelmed in a completely different manner. Like standing too close to someone entirely aware of their own charm.
When he finally pulled away, you almost stumbled forward from how weak your knees suddenly felt which caused a laughter from him.
“You know,” he mused while watching your expression carefully, “I think I understand why the eighteen-year-old is so obsessed with you.”
You immediately smiled back. “Oh?” you teased softly. “Is it only him?”
He extended his arm toward you again patiently, waiting for you to take it.
“No,” he answered after a moment. “I don’t think it’s only him.”
65 years-old, fanta! You found him exactly where he always was. Sitting near the large window of his office with a book resting in one hand while the other tapped slowly against the armrest of his chair. The room was quiet except for the ticking of some old mechanism nearby.
He acknowledged your presence immediately but didn’t look up.
“You’re lingering,” he said dryly. “Which usually means you’re about to become troublesome.”
You smiled to yourself and walked closer. “Maybe only a little.”
A quiet hum escaped him at that. You had applied the Fanta flavored one earlier, and honestly, compared to the others, you weren’t even sure if he would tolerate it. He always acted above things like that.
Still, you leaned carefully against the side of his chair.
“So, what are you reading about? Maybe something interesting?”
He answers back without waiting, “Not everything we read needs to be interesting, sometimes you just read to… read.”
Which caused a small nod from you. To change the topic, to make him talk to you more, “I bought something new today,” you said casually. “Though you’ll probably hate it.”
That finally made him glance at you over the edge of his book.
“Probably.” You laughed softly.
“See? You're too uncurious for a research doctor.”
“Experience allows me to predict disappointment accurately.”
“But no matter what, don’t you think you should try first, there’s always possibility for a different outcome.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He already understood what the new item was you found. Of course, it wasn’t a dagger or an elixir you came up with. The smell of orange was too heavy to not to notice.
You slowly reached toward the lower edge of his mask then, fingers brushing lightly against the material. Waiting, giving him enough time to stop you if he wanted.
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t. Instead, he sighed quietly like you were exhausting beyond reason.
“Ridiculous girl,” he muttered. But he tilted his head upward anyway. Just enough for you to slide the lower half of the mask away and reveal his lips.
You were not seeing his eyes but you were aware that his gaze stayed on your face the entire time as you leaned closer. “You always act like you’re above these things,” you whispered softly, “but you indulge me every single time.”
“Someone,” he replied calmly, “has to tolerate your nonsense.”
And then he kissed you. The citrus flavor lingered between you while his hand rested briefly against your jaw, keeping you there for just a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.
You blinked at him quietly afterward. And he simply lowered the mask back into place with complete composure.
“…Didn’t you have something else?” he said after a moment. “That’s too sweet.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “That’s your review?”
“That was your objective, was it not?”
80ies, OG Zandik, coca-cola! When Zandik first took you in, he noticed very quickly that you liked flowers and though he never commented much on it, a greenhouse had quietly appeared not long afterward.
At first, it was yours. Then eventually, somehow, it became his too. Now half the plants inside were labeled with small notes in his handwriting, some altered for experiments, others growing under strange conditions only he understood. The greenhouse smelled less like a garden these days and more like a research facility pretending to be one.
Not that you minded. You found him there again that evening, standing beneath the warm glass ceiling while examining one of the glowing flowers near the center table.
“You’re stealing my greenhouse,” you complained lightly while approaching him from behind. “It was never yours exclusively,” he replied without even turning around. “You simply lacked the intellect to use it efficiently.”
You smiled. There he is, you thought to yourself.
The old man carefully adjusted one of the leaves between his fingers before speaking again. “The western section requires watering tomorrow. You’ve been neglecting it.”
“Wow, Im surprised that you noticed.”
“I notice everything.” You moved closer until your shoulder brushed against his arm. He didn’t move away. At this point, Zandik tolerated your clinginess with the same exhausted acceptance one would have toward a persistent cat.
Your gaze drifted toward the flowers surrounding him. “You know,” you murmured softly, “I think you spend more time here than I do now. Perhaps green makes you feel at ease, hm?”
With dodging your last words, he speaks “That is because unlike you, I possess consistency.”
“But you’re also turning my flowers into experiments.”
“They should be honored.”
You laughed quietly under your breath before gently taking his hand and guiding him toward the nearby table set. He looked mildly annoyed the entire time, but he still sat down, and after a second of hesitation, you settled carefully onto his lap sideways, arms slipping loosely around him while resting your head against his shoulder.
The old man let out the deepest sigh imaginable.
“Hopeless girl.”
Yet his hand still rested against your waist automatically. You smiled against his doctor coat that smells like… science!
The cola-flavored gloss still lingered faintly on your lips, and eventually he noticed too. “That scent,” he muttered after a moment. “Artificial. Overly sweet. Also, very unpleasant.”
You looked up at him innocently. “Maybe it tastes good though.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “You cannot know without trying it, right?”
For a long second, he simply stared at you like he was debating whether or not you were worth the trouble. Then his hand moved slowly to your jaw and despite all the criticism, he kissed you anyway.
The faint cola flavor mixed between you while the greenhouse remained completely silent around you except for the soft hum of lamps overhead.
When he finally pulled away, his expression remained perfectly composed.
“…Still artificial,” he decided calmly. You burst into laughter instantly and though he clicked his tongue in disapproval you still caught the faint amusement hidden beneath it. He was now, too tired to deal with you, but still managing somehow.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7
Summary:
*RINGS DINNER BELL*
THIS IS IT, MY DARLINGS. After some unfortunate developments in the aftermath of your rescue, you finally reunite with Herman. And it is everything.
Relevant Notes:
Waterboy/F! Reader, no use of Y/N but it's your POV, reader is a Dispatcher with powers, Porn with plot, multiple parts, slow burn, tension, fluff, all that juicy stuff.
This one wound up being really long (huehuehue) but I hope it's worth the read <3
Warnings:
Y'all are eating today. The grand finale. MDNI, 18+ below the cut. Fingering, PIV sex, creampie, oral (both receiving, we are mutually horny in this house), body worship, confidence issues rear their stupid heads, mild body issues, inappropriate use of hero strength, sweet, fluffy afterglow
You found out when you were trying to figure out where exactly to go with Herman. You could not indulge your pent-up desires for him in his grandma's house. It just felt disrespectful. Your apartment had a huge fucking hole where the door should be. You seriously consider ruining a hotel room.
White Out died on the way to the hospital, and Herman shatters. He killed someone. He knew, one day, it might happen. There might be a situation where he had to, to save someone else. But he knew he went too far. And this is out of your skillset to deal with.
The SDN thought of everything. Somewhere out of the city, in the mountains, a peaceful retreat fully staffed with the best trauma counselors awaits those of you who encounter true horrors in the heat of battle.
He's been gone for a month.
He didn't need to even ask you, but he did. With his house keys in your possession, you've been checking in on his grandma ever since he left for the program in between your shifts and on your days off, watching the news with her in shock and awe as the dead mayor's wicked web of mad science blows wide open. You wonder if Herman knows he's being hailed as a hero. And it isn't because they're glad White Out is dead.
The public surprises you, sometimes.
There was no way to remove that implant, in the end. Not without killing him. The autopsy showed significant head trauma, but that wasn't actually what killed him. He simply ran out of time. Maybe Herman's ass-beating weakened him enough to succumb, but poor Daniel Reynolds, decorated ex-Marine, probably only had a week left to live. His organs were so badly damaged, they were shocked he even lasted as long as he did.
The thing about the retreat is that it's a cleanse. No phones. No outside world. Just you, nature, and healing. You don't even know if Herman knows. You hope to everything they told him. It wasn't his fault. He didn't kill him.
You're on your way to his room. With permission, of course. And you didn't ask. His grandmother offered. "I've been wondering if he's ever going to bring you home for a proper dinner," she muses, leading you upstairs. You follow her chair as it carries her up the flight. You help her out of it, and you've come to find that she isn't as frail and helpless as Herman made her sound.
To be fair to him, he never talked down about his grandmother. Just the way he described how he cared for her -- you expected to be taking the role of a nurse. Turns out, sweet, adorable Herman just likes to dote on her and doesn't let her strain when she doesn't need to. Sometimes she tells him to stop treating her like she's made of glass, and he will pull back for a few days, but you have an idea why he's so anxious about her.
I don't wanna wind up alone.
You've been replaying that day in your mind.
He almost said it. There was nothing else he could have been saying. In that moment before all hell broke loose, he nearly got it out.
I love you.
You stand in his room. It smells a little mildewy, and most things are wrapped in plastic. Posters of his favorite metal bands, laminated, litter the walls. It wasn't your genre, but it also wasn't not your genre. You had to admit, Herman's playlists were growing on you. And the more you learned about the culture, the more it all makes sense. Metalheads seem scary to the outsider, but the community was actually full of some of the most down-to-earth people you ever interacted with. You posted on a major message board for the fandom, asking for gift ideas when Herman comes back.
There's a signed vinyl record waiting for him in your now-repaired apartment. Already in a protective, waterproof slip case, of course.
"I really miss him," you sigh out. The small, elderly woman pats your back.
"Me too, sweetie. You want something of his? I used to use my boyfriend's shirts as pillowcases." She chuckles, eyes sparkling.
"You think he'd...be okay with it?"
She scoffs. "I think he'd give you his skin if you asked for it. He talks about you so much it's almost annoying." She's amused, playful. You giggle.
You find yourself thumbing through his hung up shirts, and you can't believe a man that owns exclusively black chose such a neon, sore-thumb hero suit. You love it, the contrast. You pull out a Satyricon shirt. It's old, you can tell. The printed image and lettering faded by so many washes over many years. You hold it to your chest. It's huge compared to you.
You imagine he's in it. Against you. You want those arms around you. You keep bouncing between painful yearning to just sleep, entwined in his gangly limbs, and a burning need for him. Those fingers. That impressive length he's somehow hiding all the time, though now that you've had time to think about it, there's sometimes a shape in his hero suit that is probably more than just a crinkling of the thick fabric.
It smells like him, somehow. A little musty, but you're that weird person that kind of like the smell of a basement. You hug the shirt close and thank her for letting you do this, and before long, you're in the kitchen, having tea.
"You must really love him," she says. Her glasses sit a little down the bridge of her nose, and her delicate fingers hold her teacup like it's a gem set into a ring. "Taking care of an old lady you never met, just for him. Even though the SDN could assign me a caregiver. Maybe he doesn't know what his insurance covers, though." She chuckles. He is a little scatterbrained. You smile over at her.
"Yeah, I. I think I do." You feel warm. Fuck. You miss him. What if he comes back too different? What if they didn't tell him? What if they did, but he blames himself anyway? You think you'd stick with him regardless, but, the fear in you isn't about that. What if he changes his mind about this?
What if the way he is about you scares him?
"Well, good. Because I think he'd put out the sun for you. Goodness, I've never seen him so smitten. Warms my little heart." She observes you with so much warmth, you know exactly why Herman is so fucking sweet.
She raised him. He doesn't remember the accident. He was a baby, safe and sound in a properly installed carseat, which was the only reason he lived. After the accident, his powers surfaced. "You have no idea how hard it is to take care of a baby that can flood half your house when it's upset," she explained, though the way she spoke, it was like a fond memory. "He's a great kid. He grew up so fast. For a minute there I was worried he'd never stop getting taller!"
You share a laugh. You've really enjoyed your time with her. Sometimes you just call her to see if she wants to hang out. You've been going over more and more, not just to help her around, but to continue your budding friendship. The cats swarm you when you enter now, knowing you're more than happy to disappear under a pile of them. One's rubbing on your ankle as you speak, and you drop a hand blindly, wiggling your fingers. When you feel it rub its face into your hand, you give it a good scratch under the chin.
"Have you heard anything?" You stare into your half-finished tea. "They'll call you first, right? I hope."
She nods. "I'm actually really glad you popped by, because I did. I was going to call you after brunch with the girls."
"Oh, jeez. If you have to head out, I can get out of your hair--"
"Oh, pff. Elanor had to cancel, so we bumped it to an early dinner. You're welcome to join!" Then she remembers her original thought. "They've declared him all healed, whatever that means. He's been discharged. Someone should be bringing him by early tomorrow. I'll be sure to send him your way." She winks.
There's something knowing about it. You know that adorable elderly people are still humans who've led rich lives, but it's still always awkward when they remind you. "I was wondering where his confidence was coming from until he started rambling on about you." She grins, waggling a finger at you. "You're being safe, right?"
You burn red. "Wha-oh. N-no. I mean!" You cough. "We-that's. I was helping him work on his powers. We never-it wasn't like that." She didn't need to know he was two knuckles deep in you when White Out crashed the party. Or that you held him in your arms as he squirmed and whimpered. These were not details for Grandma. No sir.
"Ah. Just hand stuff, then?"
You choke on your tea, and she cackles, startling a nearby cat.
One day. Just one day. Not even that. One sleep, and Herman would be back. Surely he'd be with his grandma first. You're afraid to text him. You're afraid you'll never see him at your door. You're so afraid. You could feel him float away when the news hit, detached, filled with numb shock. Taking a life changes people, whether the conclusion agrees with you or not. A mountain of evidence supported the truth. He died on his own. Coincidentally. His kidneys shut down and they couldn't start them back up again.
Not even Starfly could outheal the damage.
But you knew Herman. He was beautifully emotional, sensitive. This hit him deep. You didn't know who'd you be talking to when...or if, you saw him again.
So when you phone rang while you were on your way home from work, buzzing in your cupholder, and you glanced down to see Herm <3 on the screen, you nearly drove into a ditch. You broke the law and answered it in a fumbling rush, swerving a little before correcting, trying to steady your breathing. "H-hey! Hi!" You want to ask so much. Tell so much.
He sounds bright. He sounds...okay. He says your name, your real name, and it's like doing so relieves some kind of pain he's feeling. "I've-are you. Are you free? Grandma said you were at--working today."
"Yeah! Yes. I'm on my way home right now. I just need like twenty minutes and I can come see you, or..."
You hear keys jingle in the background. A cat yowls sharply. "Aghk! Sorry, sorry! Cinnamon!"
You hear his grandma: "Don't rush, you'll trip and break your neck!"
He laughs, clearing his throat. A door closes. "I-I'm coming. To you. If--well. C-can I?"
This man. Can he?! After a month of being without him? A month of leaning against the shower wall thinking about him, pretending he's there? He has the audacity to imply you'd say no?!
"Yes. I need to see you. I want to know everything."
He's panting now, probably speed-walking. "I'll, be there. Twenty--you sure that's all you want? I-can, stop, wait a little--"
"Herman, I'm not locking my door. If you get there and I'm still in the shower, join me."
You hear him gulp. Some kind of rough scraping sound carries through the receiver and his voice wobbles as he stammers, "crud--". You imagine your words knocked him off his balance, literally, and you giggle.
You say your goodbyes and break another law to get home faster.
Though you like the idea of your suggestion, you finish your shower as fast as possible. Essentials only. You bunch your hair up under a shower cap, scrub down, and dry off in five minutes flat. And a deliciously sinister idea creeps into your brain.
You pull his shirt off your pillow and put it on.
And then you wait.
Herman skids through your door like he's a quirky character on a sitcom, mostly out of breath, his hair a mess. He's wearing plainclothes again, and you kind of wish he'd shown up in his suit. Slowly unzipping it, teasing him, was on your to-do list.
You are casually preparing a nightcap for the both of you; something sweet, not too strong, because you know how sensitive his stomach can get when it comes to hard liquor. You smile at him, giggling as he trips himself trying to get his shoes off, catching himself on the back of your couch.
You leave the drinks and go to him, and at first, it's just a hug. You missed this. He was so much bigger than you, yet he still managed to figure out how to sink into you, his arms holding you firm but gentle. The hand on the back of your head twitches, and he rubs his fingers into your scalp. A shiver follows, traveling downwards, igniting the heat in your core.
"You know, right? They told you? It wasn't you, Herm. You didn't..."
"I know." He kisses your neck.
His skin is damp, and so is his hair; but it's more like he got caught in a light rain than the usual. You run your fingers across his skin, up into his hair, the question hanging in the air.
"I f-found it. The hap-happy medium."
Now you're just thinking of celebrating with him. You squeal, squishing his face between your hands. But he still looks sad. "Would. If I couldn't. Would you s-still..."
You frown. "Herman. I would happily be drenched, head to toe, for the rest of my fucking life. I told you I don't care. I told you I don't want you to be normal. I want you to be comfortable. So what's more comfortable? This? Or soggy?"
He pushes his forehead to yours with a lengthy whimper. "Th-this. Honest. It f-feels. Better."
"Then keep at it. For you. No one else."
He breathes and sniffs, and you reach to thumb a tear away. "I r-really...I love..." Finally, he notices. His eyes sweep down. His cheeks redden. "I-is that--m-my sh..." he trails off.
There was something about wearing just a man's shirt that always set him off. You didn't know why. Probably some territorial, lizard brain response. It was fun to exploit. He's stammering now, just making noise at this point. His hand moves down the fabric, pulling it up, smoothing over your thigh. Your skin tingles. Those drinks are going untouched, but you sure fucking won't be.
"O-oh, God," Herm whines, stooping over. His cheek presses to yours and his hand cups your ass, squeezing as the other joins to even it out. You figure after everything, him being too polite to do this would just be silly, and a giddy noise leaves you as he lifts you with ridiculous ease. You weigh nothing in his grasp. He doesn't even strain.
Hero strength. Turns chairs into deadly weapons, and reduces you to a horny mess.
"I missed you so much," you breathe, kissing him as he holds you there, wrapping your legs around his waist.
He's whimpering into you as he intensifies his kissing, tongue invading, and you didn't even clock him walking you well past the couch until your back hits the wall. He plants a hand beside your head, trusting you to stay in place on your own, moving it to hold your face for a moment before trailing down your neck. He tugs on the collar of his shirt like he wants to tear it off you.
But it flips back into place as his fingers release it, warm palm massaging your breast before getting restless. Traveling lower. His thumb caresses where your underwear would be if you were more inclined to behaving, but you had a feeling this would drive him wild, and you're so glad you did it.
His hands hook the back of your knees, gently easing you to release some pressure, and Herm pulls away with a love-drunk smile.
And just a hint of doubt.
You return to your senses, watching him as you slip your fingers through his hair. "You okay?" you check in. He's back, now. You have all the time in the world. If he needs time...
"I--how many." He frowns. "Ha-have you done...this before?"
You're not sure how to process that. Did he just ask you what your body count was? He can see your growing indignation and trips over a correction.
"W-wait, I just, I--" Oh, he's terrified.
Ruined it. Why do you always--
"It's just if, you're ex-pecting...am. I wanna be--enough."
His head bumps the wall beside you as he whines. "M'sorry. I'm..."
You soften. You make him look at you, smile, and kiss his nose. The tip first, then all up the bridge, earning yourself one of his cute little chuckles. It's nervous, but you can feel some of his anxiety fade. "I'm expecting you. You're always enough, Herm. Okay?"
Then you lean into his ear and test your hypothesis. The noise he makes when you roll his earlobe between your teeth is heavenly.
You release it wetter than your found it, watching goosebumps flare across his neck as you whisper into his ear. "I need you to believe me when I tell you these things, okay? It hurts my feelings, you know. I'm not lying to you. Stop thinking I am."
He pushes against you with a soft cry. "I'm. So-s-sorry."
"It's okay," you soothe. You run your tongue along the edge of his ear and you're genuinely worried his legs are going to give out. Then you laugh, mischievous, sultry. "How sorry are you?"
You weren't lying to him, not really. But you were expecting something. By now, you thought you'd be testing the limits of your new waterproof mattress cover. You couldn't have guessed at all, what he did next. Strong arms pin you as he slides you up the wall, between your loosened thighs, pushing your knees to rest on his shoulders one by one.
You slide down the wall a little, palms slipping as you try to keep stable, and he readjusts: one hand supporting your ass, the other arm gently angled across your torso, with just enough pressure to keep you snug. You're thankful for the vaulted ceilings, but your head still nearly touches it at the slant. Standing tall, looking up at you as he noses under his shirt, your hand flies to his face.
"W-holy shi-wait." You're dripping at this point, and his powers have nothing to do with it. Fuck. The way his eyes are, glassed over, pupils blown. "I should've--I didn't shave--"
Herman looks at you like you are clinically insane.
"So?"
He didn't know. He couldn't, because you never thought your partners were entitled to knowledge of your past lovers. But you'd really only been this far with four men, and none of them wanted to touch you unless you were bare. At that point, you figured it was the norm.
You release his face, looking down on him with so, so much love, your eyes half shut.
You accept him as he is. He returns that in kind.
The back of your head hits the wall as you jolt. His wide, hot tongue presses against you, drawing out a long moan. You half-laugh, wondering why the fuck he'd think he would be lackluster, as you achieve an areal view of your living room with his face buried in your core.
If he's never done this before, he must be some kind of horny savant, because the way he rolls his tongue against your clit is sending you into the stratosphere. You clench your legs around your head, moaning in the back of your throat, and he stops to look up at you. "Did I--are you okay?"
You're going to kill him. You groan out a husky laugh, taking a soft fistful of his hair, guiding his mouth back where it fucking belongs. "If you stop again, I'll choke you out with my thighs."
Herm makes eye contact with you, and you get the impression he is considering that is a very fine death to suffer.
He moves closer and tests whether or not you'll stay in place without his support. When you do, he spares a hand, and once again his delightful fingers are exploring your desperately wet sex. He teases your hole -- not to annoy you, but to make sure it's enough -- inching in until you feel that pull and flutter from your walls, and then in one slow shot, Herm slides it until he runs out of finger.
You clench around him. He's whimpering, muffled, as if his fingers are as sensitive as his dick, pumping a few times before letting his index join the middle. The multitasking leaves him less focused on your clit; but it's because he's searching. When he prods that spot that makes you flutter and breathe out, it's committed to his memory on the spot. He returns to licking and sucking you, mindlessly curling into where he knows it feels best.
You might just choke him out unintentionally. A sheen of sweat makes the air chilly as you dig your heels into his back, squeaking and rolling your hips. If he's uncomfortable, he's not telling you, lost in it now; his voice humming out like a starved man eating for the first time in months, adding a soft buzz to his tongue. Hot breath washing around you.
Your fingers tighten in his hair and you arch. "H-holy sh-shit--Herm--"
The hand still planted on you tightens around you waist and he pulls you so close you're worried he's suffocating himself. Fingers pumping harder as the heat forming low in your belly reaches critical mass, clenching so hard around them it almost hurts. You scream, suddenly unsatisfied with your position. You want to hold him. You want to kiss him. His shirt clings to you, your hair's plastered to your forehead, and he milks your climax well past the norm until you squirm and try to push away.
He immediately lets up, nuzzling his cheek against your shaking thigh. He's absolutely drunk on you, watching you come down off your high, gingerly removing his fingers while you catch your breath. He sinks to his knees so you can get your wobbly legs on solid ground and stays there, one arm wrapped around your leg while he just stares at you.
And finally, he gets it out. No false start, either. On a contented sigh, a little extra bass in his voice. "I love you."
You bite your lip and caress his face, gleefully lost in those eyes. "Come up here."
His hand trails upwards beneath his shirt, thumb circling your ribs. Brushing past your breast, sliding up your back. He rubs you lovingly, glancing away just a few times before managing to keep his eyes on yours, and he licks his fingers clean.
While you're trying to deal with what that does to you, he stands, pulling his shirt off, using it to wipe his face before discarding it. You lean up and snuggle into him, slowly coaxing him to awkwardly walk with you in his arms, heading to your bedroom. "I love you, too."
It feels right. Easy to say. You fell hard and fast, but until now, you were afraid to spook him. Or maybe, you just weren't ready to call it what it was, then. It feels like years have passed since you met him. You hope it always feels like this. You don't want time to ever move too fast. Not anymore.
You feel his relief. He was worried, same as you. But now you're on the same page. And somehow, this magnificent idiot doesn't think you wanted more than what he just did to you. He's almost confused as you pull him into bed with you, reaching down to palm him. He's huge even when he's soft, and you do have reservations.
You were never one to really care about these things. But now that you were face-to-face, so to speak, with an actually big dick, you weren't sure. Maybe you should care. Because you're not sure this will fit. Your sweet spot wasn't very far in for you, and even with your personal toys, you shopped on the...economic side.
"Woa-wa-wait," Herm sits on his heels on your mattress, holding your hand in his. "I j-just wanted. What you did f-for me, I." He laughs, blushing. "I ow-owed you. Was it...nice?"
"Was it nice?" you match his position and kiss him, laughing. "I nearly forgot my name."
He sputters out nervous sounds, almost laughter, but not quite, blushing like he did that day in the closet, when you told him you could hear him. You cozy up to him, curling up in his lap, drawing aimless shapes on his chest. He lays you both down and you let yourself disappear in his arms, closing your eyes. "You don't owe me, Herm. I didn't lend you money," you say, wry, amused.
You're a little sad he saw it like that. But you want him to stay light. "I want...more of you." You can hear his heart going a mile a minute. "All of you. It doesn't have to be now. Just. Wanted you to know."
"I j-just I. Too much in a hurry. I don't have any--you know. W-we can't, not without. Risk."
"Mmm," you sigh thoughtfully. You stretch and drape an arm around him. "Would you change your mind if I told you I take birth control?"
It hadn't come up naturally until then. When a doctor tells you you can skip your hellish period altogether, you take the offer. You felt lucky to be one of the ones that didn't experience many of the negative side effects.
Herm props himself up on his elbow, rolling you back, leaning over you. His eyes are darting, his cheeks burning again, and he's losing his grip on his newfound control. A few drops land on your face, leaving soothing, cool trails, and you grin up at him. "We don't have to. We have all the time in the world, now--"
His lips crash into yours. Herm hooks his arm under your back and drags you to your pillow, settling you down, trembling hands growing clammy as he tries to find the confidence he had earlier, and you stop him because he's breathing like he's about to die and his emotions are drowning out your own.
"Breathe," you instruct. "It's just me."
He nods, still unsure, springing out of bed to fumble his pants off. By the time he turns around, you've removed his shirt, sitting there stark naked, all for him.
And you laugh, because he stutters and pants, "W-wow--that's. Th-thanks." He makes a face at himself. "I d-don't know why that's. Why'd I s-say that--"
He's half-hard, struggling so much with all of it, and you wouldn't want him any other way. You give him ease when you beckon him over, pushing him onto his back, straddling him. "I need you to be careful," you say. "I've never...you know you're big, right?"
Herman had to know he had a huge dick. He had to. The sheer logistics of getting that thing into a pair of pants was probably maddening. Puberty must have been ridiculous for him.
He swallows. "Y-yea--I mean. I've been, t-told but. I th-thought maybe she was nice--being nice."
You slide down his body, kissing his thigh. He twitches in more ways than one, cock hardening further, and if you watched it close enough you'd be able to read his pulse for him. "Well. It's big, Herman." You were grateful he was mostly a shower. Any bigger than that, you weren't sure you'd want to even try.
"Wh-what are you do--hhhhooooomyGod--"
You lick him from base to tip before seeing how much you can take before your gag reflex ruins the fun. If he hadn't stopped you, you're confident in the surprising answer that "all of it" was the result. He swells in your mouth as his hands hold your face steady, thrusting just once before getting himself under control with an apologetic groan.
It slaps against his stomach when you release it, a devilish laugh following. "C-c'mback," he manages.
"Already this loud? God, you're so fucking cute, Herm." You kiss his hip bone, nipping and sucking his skin. "So gorgeous. You're beautiful, you know that?" He's desperate to have you back, pulling you as hard as he dares. Nose to nose, you sink down and pin his dick to his stomach with your heated, still-wet sex.
It slides through your folds and his eyes roll back. You've never heard him swear out loud before. He bucks against his will, and you're certain he could cum just from this, but it's been so long. Since you've felt him, since you've even seen him. You could wipe his hard drive later; for now, you wanted mutual destruction.
You kiss him deep before sitting up, gripping him softly. "Bear with me, okay? Try...try not to move."
He looks at you like you've asked him to grow wings.
You press him against you and drop your weight a little until you feel the give, hoping his incredible tongue paved the way for this. He tenses and grips your thighs, skin glistening with beads of water, barely able to keep his eyes open as his chest heaves with uncontrolled moans. You feel it twitch as you lower yourself, inch by inch, readjusting a few times. He can feel you; the apprehension, and his hands move to your waist when you still have a ways to go.
"If--does it--I don't--" A strained breath leaves him. "Dn'wanna hurt you," he whimpers, hips shuddering. He's making good on his word, but at great cost.
"It..." You sigh, grabbing his hand so you can kiss it. "Feels nice..." you slur. You're just worried there'll be a point where it doesn't. "Just--slow. Stay--still."
This is killing him. You take a breath and figure, may as well know now, and you sink. Down, down, down, until he's buried out of sight. Completely. "Y'okay?" Herman strains, feebly reaching for you.
You nuzzle into his palm. "You're incredible."
He cuts loose an aching whine, sitting up as his knees push you towards him, listening so good. He's slow. Careful. Pumping up into you, his powers showing more. It's perfect. It's almost impossible, you think, to overheat with him like this. Every drop of water makes the air hit you so good, and his hands smear it around, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The tingling on your skin almost enhances the pleasure you're feeling deep inside, and you suck in air as you learn you have more than one good spot.
He falters for but a moment, until the breath you take comes back out in a moan, and he continues. He stretches you, fills you snugly, dragging in and out of you with such wonderful pressure you can barely think. "Y-you're..." You drop your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him. "God, Herm--it's--you're." You moan in his ear and feel his hips stutter as he peppers your neck with sloppy, desperate kisses. "You're so-fucking-good--"
And then you can't do it anymore. The talking thing. It's all wet noises and heavy breathing and loud cries, whimpers, half-spoken syllables; from the both of you.
Confident now that nothing's going to hurt you, Herm tips you, twisting until you're under him. He only misses a few beats before he's back at it, one hand holding your knee to his hip, the other resting against your neck. His thumb reaches and circles your jaw, holding it gently so he can reach you better. After a while he forgets how to kiss, just holding his lips to yours before his jaw goes slack, water trailing down your chin.
"I--" your name, whined desperately, shocks through you. "Are you--?"
He's trying so hard to go last. But he's shaking and whining, on the brink of no return.
You need it faster, harder. You decide it doesn't matter if it's enough. You're drunk on this, so overcome by him; you want what he's holding back, and you want it now. "More," you choke out. "H-Herm. Harder."
He obeys with a loud, moaning whimper, and you feel it. The familiar knot in your stomach; every time he batters into your walls, they flutter, and you reach down just to ensure it. You rub fast circles on your clit as he hits staggering, uneven strokes, drenching you as he cries out everything -- your name, how beautiful you look, how good you feel -- and when he slams into you a certain way it all snaps.
He came first, technically, but he took you with him, riding it out as an alarming amount of release fills you with its warmth. When he fucks into you more, practically screaming now, so much is forced back out it's pretty much an instant mess.
Dripping in every possible way, you both collapse. Herm presses down on you, kissing you mindlessly, muttering such sweet things as his heart hammers so hard against his ribs you can feel it against your own.
You barely remember the shower. You're spent. He has to hold you up through most of it, taking his time to wash you, careful with your sensitive, pleasantly aching core. He can't stop touching you. He can't stop showering you with every compliment that wanders through his dopamine-drowned mind.
Herman was too powerful for the mattress cover, and you're too exhausted to fix it. But the couch is cozier, anyway. He's back to his comfortable dampness for the sake of your upholstery. You're there, face pressed into his chest, laying on top of him while he traces lines up and down your back. Silent. Comfortable. Drifting off.
I go completely a little feral at the thought of Robert and Herm sweetly bullying you while they absolutely devour you.
Like you're blabbering, stuttering, no full sentence can come out of your mouth anymore and Robert's like "They kinda sound like you" and Herm gets so giddy over that, because it's completely true.
TLDR: I want Robert to teasingly bully me and get Herm to join in, because he's such a sweetheart, he deserves to be placed into a position where he can do whatever the fuck he wants with me, you know?
You have no idea how much this prompt checks my personal boxes.
Herm is not very good at teasing you, no matter the amount of teaching from Robert. He will do whatever Robert says, but he just ends up complimenting you the whole time. All those complements work to tease you though.
Robert would be coaching him on properly eating you out/ sucking you off, he'd talk about how cute you are not able to make full sentences. Herm feels so proud for getting you to this state.
They'd be talking about how nice you look, all cross eyed and fucked stupid. Herm keeps mentioning how red you are and how cute you look.
Herm would grab your cheeks and just stare at your face while Robert is fucking into you from the back. He would keep leaning in for kisses and then pulling back to stare at you with wide pupils.
Robert will hold your mouth open while he's still fucking you doggy style. This is so Herm can properly kiss you with tongue. Robert will even hold your tongue down with his thumb so Herm can dominate with his own tongue.
So here you are with Robert: fucking you from behind, one hand stimulating your crotch, the other hand holding your mouth open and tongue in place, and kissing and biting your neck and back.
All the while there's Herm: French kissing you, one hand holding the side of your face, other hand stimulating your chest, and humping into your own hand.
having a fat crush on waterboy as a girlie with hyperhidrosis is the most healing thing ever cuz like bae dw about ur hands being too sweaty and wet to hold 🙂↔️ we’re in the same boat king let’s be wet af together 🙏💦
your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
❤︎ word count: 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
❤︎ before you read: female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
❤︎ commentary: IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
────────────────────────
After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
────────────────────────
In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
feel like dandadan is a setting weird enough that weird relationship dynamics just kinda fit the vibe without much further effort.
jiji seems like the type of guy who would convince okarun to do some gay experimenting with him and all the while be genuinely convinced its just a "bro thing"
like somehow cooks up some shit like "oh, since we're both into momo, we could practice being boyfriends on each other!" through a string of logic that Only Makes Sense To Him
okarun deep down knows it Is Gay but also ends up liking it enough that he does mental gymnastics to convince himself that this somehow constitutes normal close friend behavior (and also keeps telling himself "i just don't want to hurt jiji's feelings, that's all!!!")
momo herself is initially unaware of it (because okarun would die of embarrassment if he told her about it, and jiji wants her to be "surprised" by how much he "secretly practiced")
but when she finds out, she immediately loses her shit out of jealousy
which in turn kind of forces them to explain themselves, which then means explaining *why* they did it.
at which point momo is so fucking baffled and flustered that without really thinking she blurts out something like "okarun!!! you don't need to practice! if you wanna be my boyfriend just ask!!!"
which leads to okarun busting out the even More awkward "um. I-I would love to, really, but, um, I feel like you should know... all of this also kind of... made me realize i really really like Jiji too..."
and Momo's all huffily like "wtf then pick somebody!!!" (me. you have to pick me please pick me please please please-)
and Jiji is like "hear me out: what if we just both date him?"
Momo, more confused and scandalized than ever, but genuinely curious: "y. you can DO that????"
Okarun, somehow shocked to hear this despite having literally made out with Jiji already: "YOU LIKE ME BACK?!"
and so this situation ends up upgraded to a polycule
and then aira hears about this and is silent for all of about ten seconds before just straight up going "well in that case, i'm takakura-kun's girlfriend too!!!"
which has Momo soooo tilted like "Y-YOU CAN'T JUST BARGE INTO IT LIKE THAT!"
(Aira Does In Fact "just barge into it like that" once the ensuing argument somehow ends in her and Momo also confessing to each other in the heat of the moment)
been watching mashle and oh my god, the eugenics???? the way lance's parents were so ready to give up their daughter??? no second thought???? just "why did this child have to be born to us?"???? um everyone talking in mash's face about how non-magic people are inherently worthless???? the triple line dude fucking making dolls out of people and somehow no one??? is??? checking him???? and then when questioned immediately jumping into "well humans are little more than mindless beasts and i will become a creator deity and reshape the world in my liking!"????? the, um, corruption in the government??? the way this story is so clearly "h*rry p*tter if it was actually funny"??? the slytherin coded characters are blood purists???? they took out hufflepuff??? one of the magia lupus' mage's powerset was just big shuriken???? another one is rip off kisame???? lance is a siscon and the first thing mash says is "that doesn't make it better"???? lemon is genuinely so fuckin funny??? dot is incel-coded but like in a funny way??? dot says that lance is playing life on "easy mode" cause lance has a good face??? dot likes tea??? dot has good manners??? everybody only has one spell they can use??? finn ames is like if you transported is regular human into this stupid ass world??? i think the old man and the cop have explored each others bodies.
