ă the winged insect and the funeral pyre ă - masterpost âœ
You expect him to be mollified, after a few swipes of the inside of his wrist against your neck to smear his scent along your skin. As you feel the tension begin to bleed out of him, you start to let go of his hand and step away.
He steps towards you. Mydeimos doesn't retract his wrist.
Your neck feels hot enough, already. You stumble against the archway, nervous titter in your throat, the heavy press of his skin against yours. Heart a trapped bird inside your ribcage. But you don't fly, you don't flee. Why is that?
✠relationship: phainon/reader/mydei
✠wordcount: 21.5k
✠tags: omegaverse, polyamory, mating/heat cycles, afab!reader, alpha!phainon, omega!mydei, beta!reader, ambiguous relationships, mild angst (?), hurt/comfort, heavy smut, each part also has its specific tags
synopsis: âthereâs something going on,â he says. âa chain of robberies, not random. itâs clean, professionalâin and out in under four minutes. iâve been watching them hit warehouses all across marmoreal. whatever theyâre after, itâs coordinated. and i canât keep up on my own.â
in which spider-man enlists the help of his favourite detective to uncover a series of robberies in new okhema city.
tags: modern!au, spider-man!au, romance, angst, action, smut, frenemies to lovers. profanity, violence, oral sex, fingering, blood and injuries, mentions of drug abuse & human experimentation, etc.
word count: 19.5k
a/n: reposted from my old account. thanks for reading!
Phainon thinks heâs a pretty good guy.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. Heâs not out here winning humanitarian awards or remembering to replace the Brita filter before it turns green. But still. He flosses most nights, and tips well on the rare occasions he orders pizza for dinner. He saves cats from trees, catches robbers in the middle of getaway attempts, and makes a decent grilled cheese when the mood strikes. In the grand cosmic scale of morality, he figures that puts him somewhere between a broke college student and a D-list superhero with a heart of gold.Â
Which is why, as heâs currently being pursued across rooftops by New Okhemaâs most persistent detective, Phainon feels the situation is a little unfair.
âI donât deserve to be chased like this!â he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. âIâm a pretty good guy!â
The boots pounding behind him donât slow. âYouâre obstructing justice!â
âYouâre harassing a concerned citizen!â
He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heartâs doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when youâre behind him.
Because if thereâs one thing Phainonâs sure of, itâs this: you hate him.
Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good.Â
He can live with that. Heâs been hated before. (He just wishes it didnât make him kind of want your approval.)
âYouâre breaking at least three laws just by standing there!â you shout as he swings up and over the next building.
Youâre getting closer. He can hear it in your voiceâless winded than his, more focused. Heâs not sure if heâs impressed or terrified. Probably both.
âDo you ever take a break?â you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.
Phainon whirls around, arms raised. âDo you ever let anyone live?â
Your eyes narrow like youâre imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident.Â
âOkay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.â He backs up, hands still in the air. âNo chasing or tasers. Please.â
You donât answer, which means youâre at least considering it. Heâs getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at allâlike how you always pull your sleeves down when youâre thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when youâre about to disagree with someone but donât want to start a fight.
âLook,â he says, tone dropping, just a bit. âThis isnât about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Streetââ
âYou stoleââ
âBorrowed,â he corrects quickly. âWith intent to pay.â
You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.
âThereâs something going on,â he says. âA chain of robberies, not random. Itâs clean, professionalâin and out in under four minutes. Iâve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever theyâre after, itâs coordinated. And I canât keep up on my own.â
He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting thatâll make his stomach twist in that way he hatesâbecause youâre usually right.
âI think theyâre watching me,â he adds, quieter now. âI think someone knows who I am.â
The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainonâs boots and rustles your coat, but you donât move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. Itâs the kind of stillness that unnerves himânot because he doesnât know what youâre thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainonâs chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.
âThatâs a bold claim,â you say slowly.
Yeah. He knows. He also knows youâre not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. Youâre listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tellâheâs seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when youâre filing pieces together in real time.
âYou have proof?â you ask.
Phainon knows you wonât move without proofânot a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesnât have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feelingâthat awful, skin-tight certaintyâthat something out there has started moving towards him, not away.
âI donât have anything concrete, but⊠Iâve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,â he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. âTheyâre too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? Theyâre not stealing cash or valuables. Theyâre taking very specific thingsâequipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.â
âShow me,â you say. Your eyes donât leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears youâre looking through it.)
He blinks. âWhat?â
You cross your arms. âThe footage. The files. Whatever youâve got. If youâre serious about this, I need to see everything.â
âOh.â Phainonâs voice pitches up an octave in surprise. âCool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.â
Phainon didnât lie. Chartonusâ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building thatâs had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittentlyâCHART NUSâ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when itâs feeling generousâand the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.
Heâs perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. Thereâs duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someoneâpossibly Chartonus himselfâhas carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.
Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hairâs damp, and thereâs a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.
He looks across the table at you. Youâre the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coatâs slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams copâstraight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.
âI told you,â Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. âBest sandwich in the city.â
âThis is where you wanted to debrief?â
He shrugs. âThey know my order here.â
You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. âYou said these started three weeks ago?â you ask, flipping it open.
Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. âWarehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. Theyâre hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like theyâre refining their technique.â
You glance up. âAny pattern to what theyâre taking?â
âThatâs the thing.â He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. âItâs weirdly⊠modular. Like, theyâre not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. Theyâre taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.â
He slides a finger across one of the printouts. Itâs a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.
Carbon-neutral polymer casings
Fiber-optic microarrays
Refrigerated storage containers, Class III
Unknown compound, biohazard sealed
âDoesnât scream smash-and-grab,â you say, studying the list.
âExactly. This is purposeful.â
You turn another page. âThe camerasââ
âLooped,â Phainon says. âEvery time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flickerâlike it skips half a second. But the timestamps donât change.â
You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you thinkâsees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesnât add up. He likes watching you think. Thatâs a problem.
âDo you think theyâre testing something?â you ask. âOr building it?â
âThatâs what I was hoping youâd help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.â
âNever say that again.â
He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. âCanât make promises I donât intend to keep.â
You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.
When you speak again, your voice is lower. âYou said you think someoneâs watching you.â
Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. âI donât think,â he says. âI know.â
You look up.
âTwo nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That shouldâve been the end of it, except when I got homeâŠâ He hesitates. âMy apartmentâs locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.â
Your expression hardens. âDid you call it in?â
He snorts. âYeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think Iâm being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.â
You donât laugh.
âSorry,â he mutters. âDeflection. I know.â
âYou shouldâve told someone sooner,â you say sharply. âIf someone has your gear, they might have access to yourââ
âThey wonât,â he cuts in. âThe techâs locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that⊠thatâs not normal.â
You nod. âYou think itâs connected to the thefts.â
âI think Iâve been getting too close,â he says, quieter now. âAnd someone wants me out of the way.â
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.
âThen we need to get closer,â you say.
Phainon blinks. âWaitâwe?â
âThis is serious,â you say simply. âAnd if someoneâs watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.â
Heâs staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throatâs dry and his heartâs doing that thing again. âCool,â he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. âCool cool cool cool cool.â
You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. âTomorrow night,â you say. âBring everything else youâve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.â
He gives a mock salute. âAye aye, Captain.â
You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. âWash your suit,â you say. âYou smell like mustard.â
The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.
The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. Itâs the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if youâve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.
But for once, heâs early.
The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. Heâs patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. Itâs messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.
He shifts on the overturned milk crate heâs using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. Thereâs a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long itâs been since heâs properly showered.
He hates waiting. But heâd never admit that heâs anxious. Especially not for you.
Your footsteps break the quietâsharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when youâre walking up behind him like youâre about to read him his Miranda rights.
He doesnât turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. âI was starting to think you ditched,â he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.
âYou said nine,â you answer. âItâs eight fifty-nine.â
He smiles, just a little. Canât help it. âWow. A punctual cop.â
You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampooâclean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.)Â
You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when youâre processing too many things at once. God, heâs noticed that too many times.
âThis is a mess,â you say flatly.
âOrganised chaos,â he corrects.
You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmorealâs industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.
Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. âThose are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. Theyâre moving clockwise.â
âSo whatever theyâre after is in the centre,â you muse.
âBingo,â he says, tapping the innermost circle. âAnd guess whatâs smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?âÂ
He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. Itâs ugly. You frown and say, âThat place?â
Phainon nods. âUsed to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now itâs just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.â
âWhy hasnât anyone investigated it?â
âBecause itâs boring,â he says. âThereâs no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeperâlike, old permit records and city zoning logsâthereâs a basement thatâs sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.â
Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realisesâagain, and with an unfortunate amount of clarityâthat he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldnât.
âSo theyâre not just building something,â you say. âTheyâre hiding it.â
âOr staging it.â
âWeâll split up,â you say. âTonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. Iâll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.â
âCopy that,â he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. âThough I think you just want to get rid of me.â
âI want to get results,â you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. âAnd weâll cover more ground this way.â
Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. âThe chemical plantâs been shut down since the fires in March, but Iâve seen movement thereâshadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, butâŠâ
âBut this group doesnât leave power boxes half-cut,â you finish, glancing at him. âThey donât miss steps.â
Exactly. He doesnât say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. Youâre starting to see what he sees.Â
You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. âIâll have to log this in quietly. My teamâs not going to love me going off-grid again.â
âYour team doesnât know youâre chasing me around rooftops?â
âThey know. They just donât know why,â you say. âWhich is probably for the best.â
He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. âFlattered.â
âYou shouldnât be.â
âStill. Thanks for not turning me in.â
You shrug. âYou havenât made it worth my while yet.â
He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonusâ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, âYou have a burner?â
You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suitâpast the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterdayâand pulls out his own cracked phone. The screenâs a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.
You raise your brows. âThatâs a phone?â
âTechnically,â he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. âGive me your number. Iâll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.â
You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, âBurner ends in zero-nine. Donât call me unless itâs urgent.â
âDefine urgent.â
âExplosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.â
âSo⊠brunch?â
Phainonâs lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improveâbecause you said yes to brunch with him.Â
Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You donât know what he looks like beneath the mask, donât know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.
You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. Heâs seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.
Also: kind of hot. But thatâs not relevant.
âSo,â he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, âhave I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?â
You hum and reach for the syrup. âI canât decide if youâre more irritating in daylight or when youâre dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.â
Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. âWhy not both?â
You glare at him.
âIâm trying to be helpful,â he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someoneâs listening. âI know Iâm not the most traditional source, and Iâm aware Iâm breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but Iâve been watching these people for weeks. And Iâve never seen anything like this. Theyâre too clean. Too prepared.â
You nod. He can tell youâve already connected the dots. Youâve probably connected ten more he hasnât even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.
âI went by the Marmoreal site last night,â you say. âDidnât go in, thoughâjust circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.â
âSame model from the Fourth Street hit?â
âCouldnât see,â you admit. âBut the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.â
Phainon exhales slowly. âSo theyâre still active.â
âVery.â You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. âYou sleep at all?â
â...No,â he mutters, sheepish. âBut I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.â
âHealthy,â you deadpan.
He shrugs. âYouâre one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasnât⊠this?â
âIâm not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.â
âI like jam,â Phainon says.
You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesnât say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.
Thatâs when it hits him: this is the first time heâs seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.
Heâs in so much trouble.
You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. âWhat?â
âNothing,â he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. âJust thinking.â
Phainon hesitates. He wants to say itâs because itâs his favourite. Because the coffeeâs bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs donât match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.
Instead, he shrugs and says, âThought youâd appreciate the pancakes.â
You study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. âDonât make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,â you say, spearing another bite.
It turns out that Phainonâs theory is, horrifically, right.Â
One week. Thatâs all it takes.
Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. Heâd hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe theyâd spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.
Youâre okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.
His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.
Phainon jumps.
The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. Heâs faster than usualâmore desperate than smooth. Itâs a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesnât know if youâre hurt. You said youâre okay, but âokayâ is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.
The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. Thereâs a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.
Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.
Youâre inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. Youâre not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.
He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. Youâre alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.
âIâm fine,â you say, even before he can speak.
âYouâre not fine,â he snaps, more sharply than he means to. âYou said crossfire. Thatâs not, like, a stubbed toe.â
âIt wasnât aimed at me.â
âThat doesnât help!â
He hears his own voiceâtoo loud, too worried, echoing off concreteâand he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.
You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. âSpider-Manââ
âWhat happened?â he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. âWalk me through it.â
You sigh, but nod. âI was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptorâfried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.â
âLithium?â
âGone,â you confirm. âThey knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.â
âOnly one?â
âOne. And Spider-Manââ your eyes meet his again, steady now, seriousââthey werenât just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.â
He exhales through gritted teeth. âYou think theyâre building something.â
âI think they already have,â you say grimly. âAnd theyâre just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.â
Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question thatâs been sticking in his throat like a splinter. âDid they see you?â
âIâI donât know. Maybe,â you say.
âMaybe?â His voice rises again.
âI lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. Iâm not sure.â
Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he canât do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesnât have the vocabulary for.
âI should have been there,â he mutters.
âYou were across the city.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. âSpider-Man. Stop. Iâm not dead.â
âYet,â he says.
âIâve been trained for this,â you say. âI know how to handle myself.â
He doesnât doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene thatâs already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. âYou need backup.â
âIâve got it,â you say, your voice firm. âIâve got you.â
Itâs not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.
Finally, he says, quietly, âYeah. You do. Can I take you home?â
Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, âYes, please.â
The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. Thereâs a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you donât flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesnât miss that.
The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftopâlow enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You donât complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like itâs normal. Like you trust him.
Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. Youâre warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he movesâshoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landingâhe feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldnât like that as much as he does.)
Your buildingâs only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesnât want to rush it. He doesnât want to leave you alone, not yetânot while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasnât fully drained from your bones.
When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.
You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. âYou donât have to walk me all the way up.â
âI know,â he says, already crouched on the rail. âI just⊠wanted to be sure.â
âThanks.â
He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like youâre still half in the fight. He wants to ask if youâre okay again, wants to tell you that the word âcrossfireâ nearly gave him a heart attack. But youâre already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.
âSpider-Man?â you say, just before you disappear inside.
âYeah?â
âDo you, uh, want to come inside?â
He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his headââstay safe,â or âthanks for the ride,â or âyouâre worrying too muchââthis had not made the cut. Not even close.
It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but heâs pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.
Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartmentâs light. Youâve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.
âI mean,â you say after a second, brows furrowed. âOnly if you want to. You donât have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across andââ
âI want to,â he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. âI meanâyeah. If youâre okay with it.â
Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. âYou literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think weâre past the point of stranger danger.â
He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and heâs painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warmâcoffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.
Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.
âMake yourself at home,â you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. âIâve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.â
He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to riskâwell, anything else.
âTeaâs good,â he says.
You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that youâre still running on fumes. Thereâs a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.
He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. âThanks.â
âNo problem,â you return, then gesture to the couch. âWe can sit. If youâre staying a few minutes.â
He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasnât caught up to the fact that heâs safe here. With you. Thereâs a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.
âSo,â you say. âDo you want to talk about it?â
Phainon frowns. âThe break-in?â
âNo,â you say, looking at him squarely. âYou. You were⊠panicked tonight.â
Phainon goes still. Itâs not immediateânot sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someoneâs gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesnât look away from you, but he doesnât answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.
You shift forward a little, your voice low. âLook, Iâm not asking because Iâm nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I justâŠâ You pause, exhale. âI got lucky tonight. Thatâs what it was. Luck. If I hadnât ducked at the right second, if theyâd come around the corner just a little fasterââ
âBut they didnât,â he says quietly, cutting you off.
âThatâs not the point.â
Youâre sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flashânot with anger, but fear, the kind you donât let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.
You swallow. âIâm scared, Spider-Man. I know youâre helping. I trust you. But thisâthis thing weâre chasing⊠if something happens to youâI wonât even know your name. I wonât know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. Thatâs not just reckless, thatâsâcruel.â
He flinches at that. You notice.
âI just want to know whoâs standing next to me,â you say. âThatâs not so much to ask.â
âI canât,â he says, before heâs even fully processed it. âIâm sorry.â
âThatâs not good enough.â Your voice isnât raised, but thereâs a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. âYou trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you donât trust me enough to know who you are?â
âItâs not about trust,â he says quickly, too defensively. âItâsâGod, you think I donât want to tell you? You think I donâtâdonât lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.â
âThen whatâs stopping you?â
He looks at you, then. Youâre not angry. Youâre scared. Scared of whateverâs coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.
âYou donât understand what that means,â he says. âIf you know who I amâreally knowâit changes everything. You donât get to walk away from that. You donât get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds outââ
âIâm a cop, Spider-Man. Iâve seen worse things than secret identities.â
âItâs not just mine,â he says. âItâs everyone around me. You knowingâyou become a target.â
âIâm already a target.â
âNot like this,â he bites out. âIf someone traces it back to youâif they think you matter to meââ
âI do matter to you.â
You suck in a breath like you didnât mean to say it that way. But you donât take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.
âYou do,â he says, barely audible. âOf course you do.â
âThen why wonât you tell me?â
He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. âBecause the second I do,â he says, âyou stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I donât know how to protect you from.â
You shake your head, frustrated. âYou donât get to make that decision for me. Iâm not asking for your social security number, or something. Iâm asking to know whoâs at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When itâs 2 a.m. and I canât sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.â
He doesnât argue. He doesnât tell you youâre wrong, because youâre not. But still, he stays silent.
You stare at him for a moment longer, and when itâs clear he wonât budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: âI think you should go.â
Phainon doesnât try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. Thereâs a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.
âI do trust you,â he says. âMore than anyone.â
Itâs not that youâre avoiding each other.
Itâs that youâre both avoiding each otherâwhich, in practice, amounts to the same thing.
Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, itâs clipped, tactical. When he replies, itâs mechanical.
(âWest dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.â
âCopy. South alley tripwire still intact.â)
Phainon doesnât know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that itâs entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.
But God, itâs lonely.
Thereâs a rhythm to the city that used to make senseâpulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons donât heckle him like they used to.
Itâs been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply.Â
He doesnât stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worseâif youâre still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the windowâs already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and thereâs a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.
You donât greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.
âBiotech division out of Theoros Labs,â you say. âIt used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?â
Phainonâs already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.
ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS â SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.
He looks up. âTheyâre trying to replicate me.â
âNot just replicate,â you say, shaking your head. âWeaponise.â
Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.
âTheyâve been pulling data from old surveillanceâfight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?â You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. âTurns out itâs a synthetic neuromuscular system. And thisâthis lithium coreâitâs the ignition switch.â
Phainon stares at the blueprint. Itâs rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.
A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.
âWhy?â he says, voice hoarse. âWhy build this?â
âI donât know yet,â you admit. âBut someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.â
He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. Itâs him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unitâs balance favours its left side, just like he does when his kneeâs aching. They didnât just study him; they dissected him.
âHow long have you known?â he asks quietly.
âA few days,â you say. âI wanted to be sure. Didnât want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.â
âAnd you texted me anyway.â
You meet his gaze across the room. âBecause itâs you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesnât. Theyâre coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. Theyâre not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They donât care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.â
He sets the folder down. His hands wonât stop shaking. âHow⊠did you find out about all this?â
âDonât get mad.â
When Phainon doesnât say anything, you sigh and look away.Â
âI visited the old R&D site. Alone.â
âAre you serious?â Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. âYou went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.â
âI called you when I had proofââ
âYou shouldnât have gone in the first place!â he explodes. âWhat the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of thoseâthose thingsââ
âYou werenât talking to me!â you shout back. âWhat was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?â
âI was trying to protect you,â Phainon grits out. âAnd instead you threw yourself into a place that couldâve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypesâanything.â
You throw your arms out. âAnd what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until thereâs a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I donât know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when Iâm this scared.â
âYou think Iâm not scared? You think I havenât been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I havenât imagined a dozen versions of how it couldâve gone wrong? You think Iâm not scared every time I donât hear from you for a few hours?â
âThen why didnât you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?â
âBecause if I said it out loud,â Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, âthen it would be real. It would beâyou would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone whoâs helping me out. Youâd be a person Iâd have to lose.â
You blink, thrown. âYou think youâre going to lose me?â
âI know I could,â he says, almost like it hurts. âBecause itâs already happened. Every time I get closeâevery single timeâit ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because thatâs the only choice I ever get.â
He doesnât even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesnât notice how heâs gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.
âI canât protect you from this. I canât protect you from them. I canât even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but thatâs the one thing I canât do. Because once you have that, itâs over. Youâll look at me differently. Or worseâyouâll stop looking at me. And I canâtâGod, I canât stand that.
âDo you know what itâs like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they donât see a personâthey see a weapon?
âI didnât sign up for this shit! I didnât even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just⊠was. And now theyâve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if youâd died at that lab, Iâno one wouldâve even known. Youâd just be another casualty they scrub from the recordsâand that wouldâve been my fault.â
His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.
He doesnât realise until you doâuntil your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like youâve been sucker-punched.
His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdownâwhile he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating himâhe took it off.
His hairâs a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. Thereâs a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.
â...Oh,â Phainon says, stunned. âShit.â
You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. âYou took your mask off.â
He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else thatâs passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesnât pull away.
Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. âI⊠didnât mean to.â
âYou didnât mean to,â you echo. âJesus.â
Phainon canât say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.
âCan Iâ Will you tell me your name?â you whisper.
He wets his lips, and says, quietly, âPhainon.â
You nod, once, and say it back. âPhainon,â you repeat, like itâs a truth youâll guard with your life. âOkay. Iâm not afraid of you. And Iâm not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.â
Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.
âOkay,â he says quietly.
You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks youâre handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you.Â
He doesnât move at first. Youâre pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like itâs trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.
He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like itâs been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.
He lifts his arms slowly, like heâs learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you donât flinch. You donât pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.
He breathes in.
God, itâs you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times heâs seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait.Â
His grip tightens, no longer tentativeâarms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, youâll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and itâs instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.
(Itâs you. Itâs you, and youâre warm and safe and alive in his arms.)
Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesnât existâthe weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that heâs made a mistake, that youâll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.
Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like youâre afraid he might vanish, too.
It comes to himâterrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.
He could be in love with you.
Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, armâs-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)
He wants a future he doesnât dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know youâll still look at him the same way.
(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)
Itâs that simple. You donât push. You donât speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesnât cry.
Itâs five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that heâs trying really hard to ignore. Youâre beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like thisâwalking, togetherâis something you do all the time.
Itâs not a date, he tells himself. Itâs really not.Â
But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadnât wanted to leave yet.
So here he is. Not skipping, because heâs got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out heâs being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.
The cityâs quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. Itâs eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the cityâs holding its breath right along with him.
Phainon doesnât know what heâs supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget youâre still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.
You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like youâre trying not to smile. âYouâre doing that thing again.â
âWhat thing?â
âStaring at me.â
Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. âIâm not,â he says, too quickly.
âYou are,â you say, not unkindly. âLike Iâm going to vanish or something.â
Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. âWell. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldnât put it past you.â
âOkay, fair,â you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. âStill. Youâve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like Iâve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.â
âI donât have a face.â
âYou do have a face,â you say. âThatâs the problem now, remember?â
Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that heâs not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. Heâs not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.
You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.
Phainon chances a glance at you. Youâre watching the sky change colour like itâs a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. Thereâs a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when theyâve seen too much, done too much, but still canât stop moving.
The diner sign glows into view at the end of the streetâwarm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. Thereâs a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag thatâs probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.
You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. âThis place okay?â
âItâs perfect,â Phainon says before he can stop himself.
You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainonâs boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. Thatâs the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.
You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesnât care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.
You donât even bother looking at yours. âWaffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.â
âThat specific, huh?â Phainon says.
You shrug. âGotta know your diner defaults.â
The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. âYou kids look like youâve been up all night,â she says, though she canât be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.
âWe have,â you say sleepily, âbut we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.â
The waitress doesnât blink. âCoffee?â
âYes, please,â you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.
Silence stretches between you again, but itâs easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.
Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You donât move it.
He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. Thereâs something quiet there, soft around the edgesâexhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust heâs not sure he deserves. (Still, itâs there.)
Phainon thinks about how this shouldnât be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.
[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. Iâm already on scene. Itâs not you, right?
[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.
Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jumpâlands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.
He doesnât even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but thereâs no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the cityâs mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesnât matter. Heâll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.
Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but thereâs no crowd. Theyâre keeping it quiet.
He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene.Â
He finds you posted just outside the warehouseâs side entrance, pacing like youâre trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holsteredâbut your fingers are twitching near it, like youâre weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hairâs tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. Heâs never seen you look so still and restless all at once.
He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.
The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip aroundâand relax just as fast.
âJesus,â you exhale, taking a step forward. âOkay. Okay, thank God. I wasnât sure youâd even seen the message.â
âI left the second I did,â Phainon assures. âWhatâs the situation?â
Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.
âIt showed up fifteen minutes ago,â you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. âTook out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entryâit knew exactly where to go.â
The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.
It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entryâitâs like watching him pace through a mirror.
Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suitâif you could even call it thatâis matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. Thereâs no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and itâs gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.
Phainon swears under his breath. âThey built it,â he mutters. âThatâs Flame Reaver.â
You glance up. âYou sure?â
He nods. Heâs gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like theyâve been branded into his skull. âPositive. Same proportions, same gait. But itâs not scanning the building. Itâs buying time.â
âFor what?â
Phainon doesnât answer at first. Heâs too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees itâa flicker of something. It wasnât raiding. It wasnât looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.
The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.
âWait,â he says sharply. âWhereâs your radio?â
You blink. âWhat?â
âYour radio,â he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. âYou always keep it on.â
âI took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.â
âNo.â Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. âNo, thatâs wrong. Thisâthis whole thingâitâs not a distraction. This is the distraction.â
âWhat are youââ
His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.
Now youâre gone.
Phainonâs heart lurches.
âWhere is she?â he hisses aloud, and suddenly heâs on the moveâscrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct lineâs holding firm around the building. Thereâs no breach. No one has come or gone.
Except you. Except whoeverâor whateverâcame for you.
He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passesâalley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.
On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.
From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that vanâitâs too smooth, too clean. Thereâs no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.
A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.
Phainon freezes.
It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlightâyour badge. Not a replica.
Except itâs wrong. Youâre not there.
You wouldnât leave the perimeter without backup, wouldnât ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.
And whoeverâor whateverâthis is, itâs walking away like it knows the exact timing window itâs working with. Like it wants him to follow.
âTheyâre splitting us up,â Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.
He doesnât hesitate, doesnât even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.
Phainon yanks the door open. Itâs emptyâno driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. Itâs a burner vehicle, then. One they didnât plan on keeping.
âDamn it,â Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already movingâuntil he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.
He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willinglyâuntil it was too late.
A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next toâa toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.
It wasnât just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious.Â
But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinctâs attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really neededâyou.
Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics youâd shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasnât a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. Theyâd studied him down to the limp in his left knee.
Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.
He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when youâre about to argue; the furrow in your brows when youâre thinking too deeply. If theyâve copied thatâyouâdown to the way your voice hitches when you say his nameâ
His stomach flips.
âThey took her,â he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. âThey took her.â
Phainonâs fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady.Â
He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where heâs going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.
Itâs a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. Heâll make it in seven.
Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He canât afford to be wrong. Canât afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesnât need you alive.
Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.
The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.
Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. Itâs darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facilityâs skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others.Â
Itâs too quiet.
He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entranceâwhatâs left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someoneâs been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are strippedâjust empty labs and decaying workstationsâbut the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.
Theyâve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.
Phainon stops mid-step; thereâs a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.
âAh, Mr. Spider-Man,â a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. âOr should I say⊠Phainon?â
Thereâs a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.
âDonât be shy. Youâve already made it farther than most,â the voice says, and this time, itâs accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. âI imagine you have questions. Thatâs good. I admire curiosity. Itâs a very human trait.â
The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.
Lycurgus smiles like heâs greeting an old colleague. âThis facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was⊠restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.â He gestures to the space around him. âWelcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.â
Phainonâs voice is low, sharp. âWhere is she?â
âYour detective, yes?â Lycurgus says. âShe is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. Sheâs being prepped for mapping. Itâs better if she doesnât wake up mid-scanâthe sensory feedback can be unpleasant.â
Phainon steps forward. âYouâre going to let her go. Now.â
âOh, Iâm afraid thatâs not going to happen.â Lycurgus tilts his head. âSheâs far too important. As are you.â
He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadowsâtaller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.
âI know what you think weâre doing here,â Lycurgus continues. âMass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yesâwe are building weapons. But not just weapons. Weâre building evolution.â
âYouâre building copies,â Phainon corrects.
Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. âFlame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purposeâchased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb⊠Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.â
He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.
âWeâve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didnât make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.â
He taps the side of his own head. âBut it wasnât enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldnât replicate.â
âYou mean her.â
âYes.â Lycurgusâ smile returns, tight and reverent. âYour control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.â
Phainonâs voice is a growl. âSheâs not a variable.â
âSheâs your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when sheâs afraid. Itâs poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.â
The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. Itâs not the Flame Reaver. Itâs something else.
Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split maskâhalf red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesnât recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.
âItâs a neural sync model,â Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, âcoded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. Itâs capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesnât hesitate. It doesnât panic. And, most importantly, it doesnât forget.â
Phainonâs heart hammers. His blood feels like itâs gone cold. âYouâre trying to make a Spider-Man that doesnât need a person inside.â
Lycurgus meets his eyes. âExactly.â
The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.
âYou two were only ever reference material,â Lycurgus intones. âAnd now that the templateâs completeâwell. All we need are the final scans.â
âWhere is she? Where is she?âÂ
Itâs all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgusâ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.
âSheâs nearby,â he says coolly. âLower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You wonât get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you doâby the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.â
Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isnât mechanical. Itâs worseâsoft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.
Phainon doesnât wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.
Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. âYou think youâre here to save her,â he says, breathless, âbut youâre too late. Sheâs already part of it.â
âI swear to Godââ Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgusâ throat. âI swear to God, if you touched herââ
âI didnât have to,â the man croaks. âShe volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knowsâtactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategyâitâs all feeding the AI as we speak.â
âYou fed off of us.â Phainonâs grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.
âYes,â the scientist says. âAnd you should be proud. Irontomb wonât just replicate your choicesâit will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.â
Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.
A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejectsâthin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric currentâand shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.
The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainonâs hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.
CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.
Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.
Thereâs no time to thinkâhe fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.
The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. Thereâs no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too cleanâlike the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.
He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION â, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.
Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.
The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. Thereâs no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. âCome on, come onââ
From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. â...Phainon?â
He chokes on relief. âIâm here.â
Youâre alive.
He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.
Youâre inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnosticsâwaveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.
âHi,â you whisper, voice thin as gauze.
âHi, yourself,â Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.
His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.
He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesnât let them. He tightens his grip until youâre fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.
âIrontomb,â you breath, half-slurred. âItâs awake. It⊠used me. Ran simulations. My voice. Myââ
âI know,â he murmurs. âI know. Weâre getting out of here.â
You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell youâre coming backâyour pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.
But the walls hum. The lights tremble. Heâs not fast enough. The reinforced door behind him explodes inward.
Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesnât look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.
The voice it speaks with is your own.
âPhainon.â
The blood drains from his face.
You stir weakly in his arms. âThatâs notâthatâs not meââ
âI know,â he whispers.
It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. âYou hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when sheâs within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.â
Phainon doesnât respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.
âYou always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,â Irontomb says. âThat makes you predictable.â
Phainon doesnât wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machineâs legsâbut it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.
Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like itâs studied him for yearsâand it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where heâll move before he does.
Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperateâand Phainon is desperate.
âThe server room!â you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. âTake it to the server room! Follow me!â
Phainon doesnât hesitate. He hears your voiceâunsteady, but clearâand thatâs all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontombâs shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainonâs already moving.
âGo!â you shout again, breath ragged. âDonât fight it hereâthey control the lithium core from the server room!â
Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skinâs cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm.Â
âCan you run?â he pants.
âCan you carry me?â
He grins through bloodied teeth. âAlways.â
He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesnât look back. He runs.
You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontombâs footsteps are thunder behind youâprecise, mechanical, relentless. It doesnât rush. It doesnât pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.
âItâs learning again,â you murmur.
Phainon grits his teeth. âTell me where to go.â
âLeft!â you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. âThe blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and IâI stole Lycurgusâ key card before he sedated meââ
Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.
He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hingesâsomeone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesnât stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.
The moment youâre both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesnât need webbing. Itâs fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainonâs shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.
âDonât look down,â Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.
âYou mean donât look up,â you reply, voice tight.
He doesnât argue. Two more floors. Thatâs all you need.
Phainon angles towards the next levelâs opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impactâshoulder first, then hipâbut keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.
The server roomâs door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.
âCan you override it?â he asks, already placing you down on your feet.
You stagger once, then nod. âIâI can try.â
Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access cardâLycurgusâ clearance still hot in the systemâand slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.
The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows itâs wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesnât care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights arenât just white, theyâre clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.
At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except itâs not alive. Itâs lithium, itâs electricity, itâs something that was never supposed to breatheâbut it is, somehow.
He doesnât like it.
He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. Youâre a weight he doesnât mind carryingâyouâre grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.
âIâll buy us a minute,â he mutters.
You donât respond. Youâre already goneâmentally, physicallyâmoving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesnât. Youâve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.
He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His headâs still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.
The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees itâthe thrum of Irontombâs feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.
âPhainon,â it says again, in your voice. âYou hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when sheâsââ
âYou said that already, dipshit,â Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.
He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesnât stop, doesnât give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.
Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainonâs already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.
âYou donât get to use her voice,â he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. âYou donât get to be her.â
Irontomb doesnât flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.
âShe is a variable,â it says, still in your voice. âAll decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.â
He grits his teeth. âShut the fuck up.â
It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracksâhe doesnât have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.
He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontombâs legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.
He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesnât have a plan anymore, doesnât need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.
Youâre doing it. Youâre actually doing it. Irontomb knows.
It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, itâs already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fireâ
âNo,â Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontombâs leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards itâinto itâslamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.
They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isnât one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontombâs doesnât.
âYour biology is compromised,â it says. âYou are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.â
âYouâre not her,â he spits. âYou donât even sound like her.â
Out of the corner of his eyeâthrough the haze of painâhe sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more commandâ
The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.
You did it.
Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.
He doesnât exhale until the lights stop flickering. Heâs already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruisedâbut moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.
Youâre still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, youâre not moving.
âHey.â He drops down beside you fast. âHeyâhey. You good? Talk to me.â
Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.
âIâm here,â you say, voice like sandpaper.Â
âYeah,â he breathes. âYeah, you are.â
He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove youâre really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasnât reset.
You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like youâre afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldnât have to. Heâll look for both of you.
The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitchingâreflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.
Still, Phainon keeps you close.
You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. âYou okay?â
Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. âGonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.â
Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.
âYou look like hell,â you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenalineâs finally wearing off.
âYeah, well,â he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. âYou shouldâve seen the other guy.â
Itâs three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.
The city below doesnât sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.
Itâs a stillness born of aftermathâsharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.
Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. Heâs perfectly still, suspended in gravityâs indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.
This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.
Heâs grown used to these late hours. Heâs begun to need them.
After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like himâscientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed cleanâPhainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.
He watches your window. Itâs open again, just slightly. It always is now. Heâs never asked you why.
The official line is a âbiochemical systems breach.â Itâs what the public got. But the real reportsâclassified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokesâtold a different story. Theoros Labs didnât just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.
Youâve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like youâre still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you donât have to. Heâs seen the files. Heâs seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.
You both have nightmares now.
Sometimes itâs Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, itâs worse: itâs you, only not. Itâs him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that werenât forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.
Thatâs when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.
Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.
He drops from the fire escape without a sound.
The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.
Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.
Youâre curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm heâs memorised. He doesnât know if youâre asleep or pretending. It doesnât matter. You always know when heâs here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.
He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.
(Heâs in love with you, heâs pretty sure.)
âDo you want to date me?â
The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire heâs threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.
â...Sorry, what?â he calls down.
Youâre standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expressionâequal parts brave and vulnerable. You donât repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.
Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. Heâs in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.
âYouâyou mean date-date?â he asks dumbly, like thereâs another kind.
You nod once, not smiling. âYeah. Date-date.â
Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlightâs catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you havenât just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin.Â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. âOkay. Thatâsâjust to be clear, youâre asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isnât waffles at five in the morning?â
âYou make it sound so romantic,â you say dryly.
âIâm hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,â he says, voice rising an octave. âYou kind of caught me off-guard.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou want me to come back when youâre right-side up?â
Phainon laughs, but itâs strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. âNo,â he says. âNo, donâtâdonât go. I justâŠâ His fingers curl loosely around the railing. âYou really mean it? Like, seriously?â
You shrug, but your voice softens. âWhy would I joke about that?â
âI donât know,â he says. âI mean, have you met me?â
You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. âYes. Thatâs kind of the point.â
Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasnât quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.
You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didnât cost you anything, like you didnât just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.
He swallows hard.
âI want to,â he says. âI want to date you.â
You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. âOkay.â
You shift a little closer to where heâs hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.
âCan I kiss you now?â you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think Iâve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, âI meanâyeah. If you want.â
You smile, small but warm, and step forward until youâre close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.
âHold still,â you say.
And PhainonâSpider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in loveâholds so, so still.
You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. Heâs not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.
Then, you lean in and kiss him.
Itâs awkward, at first. The angleâs all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it mattersânot when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. Itâs soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like youâve wanted to for a long time, like youâve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.
Phainon melts. He doesnât move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because heâs terrified that if he so much as breathes, youâll disappear. But then something in him sparksâan ancient, quiet wantâand he kisses you back.
He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but heâs warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.
Eventually, you pull away.
His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.
âThat wasâŠâ He clears his throat. âWow.â
You smile, head tilting. âStill want to date me?â
âI want to marry you,â he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. âI meanâhypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. Iâm hanging upside down. Iâve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.â
You laugh, and he grins.Â
âCome down, you idiot,â you say, still smiling. âBefore your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.â
âYes, maâam,â he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.
When he looks up again, youâre already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gentlyâand then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.
When you pull away, you donât go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.
âYouâre sure about this?â he whispers.
âIâm sure.â
âOkay,â he says. âOkay.â
He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because thereâs no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.
Thereâs only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.
Phainon thinks heâs a pretty good boyfriend.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things heâs fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry thatâs been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.
But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if heâs back late. Heâs trying. God, heâs trying.
And right now, looking at youâmessy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with himâhe thinks maybe heâs doing alright.
Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes thatâyou trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.
He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.
You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesnât rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listensâto the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and canât.
His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.
âPhainon,â you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to thatâyour spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moansâmakes him want to give you more.
When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in incrementsâyour fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.
âRight there?â he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.
You nod, or maybe you donâtâyouâre too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.
His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.
âPhainon,â you breathe again. âOh, fuckââ
He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. Heâs mapping you like heâs been doing since the beginningâlike every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. Heâs learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.
Youâre shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you donât even seem to noticeâdonât seem to careâbecause youâre so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.
A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for himâarching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until heâs sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until heâs beside you.
Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches youâeyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and fallingâand then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like youâre not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesnât know what to say. âStill in there?â
You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. âAsk me again in five minutes.â
He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.
âNot bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?â he says.
You laugh and shove his shoulder. âPhainon!â
âI mean, I mightâve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in⊠other areas.â
You scoff, but itâs half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainonâs chest. He watches the way your face softens when youâre amusedâhow your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.
âThatâs debatable,â you say, rolling to face him fully.
âOh, come on,â he says. âYou sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.
He feels like his heartâs trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where itâs just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because heâs pretty sure this isnât just a good dayâitâs the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.
(Youâre right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)
He tries to play it cool, like heâs not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like youâre trying to memorise him right back. But itâs a losing battle. Heâs smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks.Â
âYouâre staring,â you say.
âYeah,â he says, without even pretending otherwise. âI know.â
His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand thingsâabout how heâs never felt safer than he does when heâs beside you, about how it doesnât matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.
You roll your eyes at him like you always do when youâre trying not to smile. âWhat are you thinking?â you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesnât. Instead, he says, âThat I like you.â
âYeah?â you say teasingly. âI had no clue.â
He smiles. âSometimes I think this isnât real. Like Iâm gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all thisâll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.â
âItâs real,â you whisper. âDo you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Donât test me.â
(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove heâs real enough to do it.)
a/n: this is my favourite fic that iâve ever written. thanks for reading!
in their final year of college, a gifted art student and an acclaimed violinist cross paths through a project that was never meant to be personal. but slowly you realize, inspiration and affection can look a lot like each other.
pairing: mydei x f!reader
word count: 10.2k words
tags: modern au, college setting, artist reader, violinist mydei, fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, mentions of other chrysos heirs, made up mydei family lore, nsfw in future parts, i don't know what else tbh...
a/n: i'm so so incredibly excited to share this one with you!!! it's very special for me. even though this fic has been trying to become itself for literal months in my drafts... i really want this to be something beautiful and i'm working on it!! i hope you enjoy reading and find meaning in this work of mine. as always, thank you so much for reading. every comment, repost, like means so much to me!!! and feedback is always much much appreciated!!!
header art by insaneption on deviant art!!
PART ONE | PART TWO
âThe theme is vulnerability.â
Aglaeaâs silky voice fills your ears.
You think it should be easy, youâve always been the type to choose art that prioritizes conceptuality than materialism. Ideas, meaning, or experience over objects or materials. This is your way of expressing yourself after all. Every color, every line, every stroke of your brush holds value across your canvas.
So when you hear it, itâs not a big deal at all. There is time until finals, and you have all the trust in your own abilities. Art comes as easily as breathing to you. As if itâs a limb extending from your body, a part of your very being, and a connection to your soul. Never once did your head hurt when it comes to art. Itâs your language, you way of existing. And it hasnât ever failed you.
There wasnât a beginning of your art, and you know there wonât be an ending either. Art has always been, for you; and you will always be, for art.
The bright fluorescent lights burn into your eyes as your thoughts start to wander, and youâre already sketching out your work progress in your head.
Youâll start with a couple of different sketches, pick one of them to work on, choose your material, pick your colors, maybe change a thing or two as you go, and when itâs finished in no less than a monthâwell, itâs you, it shouldnât be more than thatâyouâll submit it to Aglaea with handsome victory and sweet pride.
And she wonât be surprised. In fact, you think no one would. Youâve made quite a name for yourself over the past four years in this school. Always ending the semester with top grades, never out of time, never out of line. Getting different sponsorships from various studios every other month, and some of your works have even sold out on some small museums.
Thatâs why youâre certain there wonât be any problems with this one either.
When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.
âThat instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.â
She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, âI was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.â
âI am, only when those new things arenât looking like they could come alive any second though.â you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.
âAglaea is out for blood again.â you mumble as you take a seat across from her, âShe has a whole theme for the finals. If I didnât know better, Iâd say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.â
Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, âYou say it like thatâs not the case.â
You huff a laugh. âEither way, itâs not that much of a problem,â and gesture to yourself with confidence, âIâll get it done in no time.â
Contrary to your prior statementâand the belief youâve carefully cultivated with your past achievementsâyou do not, in fact, get it done in no time.
Itâs funny, maybeâor more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.
But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: Itâs not in your favor.
Youâve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks⊠You name it.
You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castoriceâs performances, but alas, nothing came out of itâwhich surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.
You sometimes wonder how sheâd have done as an art majorâand feel a little relieved she didnât, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.
A week passes in futile endeavors. And itâs not like youâre running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasnât any problem to solve, because there wasnât a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.
Just when you were starting to think you mightâve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.
Itâs early in the morning when youâre pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.
Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, heâs next to you.
âOh, great timing.â Phainon smiles in greeting, âI was about to call you.â
You drop your bag to the floor, it didnât want to be carried anyways. âCall me? What for?â
âIâm invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?â
You tilt your head slightly,âConcert?â
âYou havenât heard? Itâs all over the campus bulletin boards.â Phainonâs eyes widen in disbelief, âItâs this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.â he spreads his hands to emphasize, âWe have quite a few joining from our school as well.â
At first, you want to argue. Say itâs going to be a headache and you donât have the time. Which isnât exactly wrong. Youâre all for music and art and performances, thatâs true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, youâre not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.
âIâd love to come, Phai,â you start, already shaking your head in rejection, âBut Iâm working on Aglaeaâs final.â
âWow.â he raises his eyebrows, âUsing art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?â
You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, âUnfortunately, itâs true this time. Iâm kind of struggling with this one.â
He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, âYou? Struggling?â
âDamn, must be a real kicker then.â
âIt didnât seem that bad at first,â you sigh, âBut now I canât even find the proper inspiration to start. Itâs likeâIt just doesnât click.â You shake your head in frustration.
Your dear friend mustâve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.
âTell you what,â he tips his chin, âCome to this performance with me, and maybe itâll help with your process.â
You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.
âYouâre struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.â a confident smile forms on his lips, âA stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.â
And thatâs how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.
The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.
It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.
And then there was you.
The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with itâs reflection.
Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasnât a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess thatâs the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.
Speaking of Phainon, he wasnât there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but youâll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.
The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.
A womanâs flute solo, another oneâs piano⊠It was all so beautiful.
Still, it wasnât enough.
You didnât have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didnât promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you havenât tried before and even if you didnât get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.
But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.
Your pencil stops.
Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like theyâre scared to see whatâs up there.
Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.
You donât get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.
He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what youâve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.
Itâs enchanting, itâs foreignâand you feel yourself drawn to it.
The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyesâŠ
Just what is this?
Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, itâs impossible to miss it.
Hear me, heâs whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?
Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrumentâdelicate, yet present. He seems⊠scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.
Heâs either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.
His gaze stays low, he doesnât look up, doesnât let anything else catch his attention. Itâs obvious. On that stage, itâs just him, his violin, and music.
When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if theyâre all in agreement, all know whatâs happening. Like theyâre conversing, like theyâre playing out a script written carefully.
The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the pianoâs notes fall like feathers.
And at the center of it all, him.
His violin cries.
You donât know how he does it, or what that even means. But youâre certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if itâs at the end of itâs days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.
Just like what you were searching forâvulnerable.
After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.
People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. Thatâs when you knowâ
Youâve found it.
You donât even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.
You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if youâre being pulled after him.
But when you finally reach the place, he isnât there.
Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But youâre only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.
You feel your eyes burn again. This canât be it right? Surely you find him somehow.
Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, andâa hand on your shoulder?
âWhat are you doing here?â
Oh, itâs him.
âPhainon?â your eyes widen, you didnât even realize he was standing there.
âArenât you supposed to be at the main halls?â he asks confused, âDid I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.â
âNo, no. Itâs not that.â you shake your head, âI justâI needed to look for someone.â
âLook for someone?â his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, âWho?â
âThe blond guy with red hair? The violinist.â you search his eyes, âItâs him. I need him.â
âOkay,â he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, âMydei is cool and all butâwow, didnât know you were into that.â
âNot like that!â you snap, then pause, âWait, Mydei? Thatâs his name?â
âYep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.â he tilts his head, âHeâs one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isnât he?â
He goes to the same school as you?
âFrom us?â your eyes widen, âYou know him? Can you introduce me to him?â
Phainon grins knowingly, âFound what you were looking for?â
âYes.â you nod your head firmly, certain and final, âExactly what Iâm looking for.â
It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.
He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didnât get along at firstâlike, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.
âAnd now?â you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, âHow are the two of you now?â
âMe and Mydei?â he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, âWell⊠We definitely arenât like that anymore.â
âAre you close though?â
âYeah⊠I guess you could say that.â
You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of hisâthen it shouldnât be too hard, right?
Wrong.
This guys is impossible to get a moment with.
Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydeiâs contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon letâs you know when heâs most available in his scheduleâwhich feels even more wrongâso you have a chance to catch him around the campus.
But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:
Iâm busy right now. Will text back when Iâm available.
Great. An automated message. And whatâs with the cold tone?
You donât want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely donât want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with himâif you have one, that is.
So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide youâre not just going to sit still and pray.
After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.
No wonder he feels so out of reach.
He started playing when he was very young, but wasnât really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesnât say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.
It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if heâs reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing heâs much more closer to you then you thought.
You werenât allowed to record during the concerto either, so all youâre left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isnât enough to give you what you need.
Despite your attempts, you canât seem to get to Mydei.
Then one morning, when youâre making your way to schoolâkicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you goâyou catch a glimpse of something gold.
Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and greenâand you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.
Could it be?
Itâs only for a short second, and if you hadnât raised you head just at the right moment, you wouldâve missed it.
He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.
You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights agoâout of breath and desperate. Heâs not going the same direction as you, but that doesnât matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.
When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. Heâs wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.
Heâs walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But thenâ
âOw.â
Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.
âSorry,â he says simply, âI didnât realize you were that close.â
He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there arenât any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?
âItâs⊠fine. I shouldnât have gotten that close in the first place.â
He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.
You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that heâs in front of you, you realize you donât really know how to talk to him.
âSo,â he starts, âDid you want something?â
Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didnât allow you to do.
And you realize, heâs handsomeâor beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You canât help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or⊠maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.
His hair catches your attention nextâbright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.
Then you look at his amber eyesâgolden like his hair, but a lot more fieryâthat are staring back at you now, and sayâ
âBe my muse.â
âIâm sorry?â
Mydeiâs face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.
Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.
âOkay, that wasnât what I meant to say,â you wince, âOrâmaybe it was. But not like that obviously!â
Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.
âLook, I know thisâll sound weird,â you smile weakly at him, âBut I promise Iâm not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldnât answer soââ
You take a deep breathâquit stalling, just get to the pointâyou close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.
âI was at the audience,â you look at his eyes directly, âAround a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.â
He nods again, âThatâs great to hear. Did you enjoy it?â
You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.
âVery much so,â you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, âI enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, Iâm here to make an offer.â
Mydei raises a brow,
âEven though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.â You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, âIâm an art major, we go to the same school.â
He turns his head at where youâre pointing, then looks back at you, âI see.â
But itâs clear heâs not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.
âAnd this final Iâm talking about,â you sigh, âIs really taking it out on me.â
âIâve sketched, painted, scrapped, restartedâabout a hundred times. Nothing works.â You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. âBut when you were on stage that night⊠It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.â
His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, âClick?â
âInspiration,â you clarify quickly. âThe way you played, the way the orchestra complimented youâeverything about it. I couldnât stop thinking about it afterwards.â
You hesitate for a second before finishing.
âSo I thought⊠maybe if I actually painted youââ
Mydei blinks.
ââas my muse,â you rush, âNot in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.â A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, âIâm the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.â
âThe best, you say?â
âThatâs my reputation, yes.â
He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like heâs giving it a good thought, or maybe heâs just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope thatâs not the case.
Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
âYou know,â he says, âmost people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.â
Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. Youâre not stupid, heâs rejecting you without being rude about itâ
âIâll do it.â
You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.
âReally?â you ask loudly, âYou agree? That easily?â
Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. Itâs a clear sound, coming from the chest.
âReally.â he nods, âBut I have one condition.â
Condition? Well, it doesnât matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.
âSure,â you beam at him, âWhat is your condition?â
âI want you to paint me with my violin.â
âYeah, he agreed!â You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, âCan you believe? I didnât even have to do anything.â
Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.
âThatâs good to hear,â her soft tone graces your ears, âSo, you have anything in mind?â
You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.
âWe didnât get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.â you sigh, âBut he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.â
Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.
After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the processâwhich would be in about an hour from now.
He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldnât be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.
âI gotta go now,â you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, âI donât have much time left.â
She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.
You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.
Just a painting. Nothing more. Itâll be alright.
Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.
You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.
It probably wonât. But still.
Your phone buzzes just as youâre slipping on your shoes.
Mydei: Iâm already at the cafe. Take your time.
Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?
A second message follows.
Mydei: Well, donât take too much time.
You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he mustâve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.
You type back quickly.
Me: Omw!!
The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You donât know why itâs doing it, but it is. This isnât some important commission or for some big contest either. Itâs just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And youâll manage even if things donât go that well with Mydei.
Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.
When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesnât seem to be drinking.
Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.
âSorry if I kept you waiting.â
He shakes his head, âI arrived early,â then gestures to the chair in front of him.
You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, âYou brought your violin with you.â
âYeah,â Mydei hums. Itâs a sweet sound, you take note, âI come from practice.â
âI see,â you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, âYou seem to have a really packed schedule.â
âI guess you could say that,â
Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, itâs hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.
âBut I like what I do,â he nods faintly, âSo I donât mind it.â
You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because itâs impossible to miss it, youâd need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.
Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.
To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.
After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. Theyâre messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.
âI was thinking something more natural,â you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. âNot too staged. Like youâre just⊠playing.â
He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.
âWhat are you going for exactly?â he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, âDo you have some sort of theme for this?â
Theme. Right. The theme.
You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.
Vulnerability.
For a second you picture saying it out loudâI want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.
Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.
He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.
You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You donât know what it means, you donât know where it comes from.
Would he think you were mocking him?
Your eyes meet with Mydeiâs for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.
âStrength,â you clear your throat softly, âI needed something powerful.â
âPowerful?â
âYes,â you lie with ease, âYour music is exactly what Iâm looking for Mydei. Powerful.â
You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldnât be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasnât how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tenderâvulnerable.
Mydeiâs eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.
Then he nods once.
âI see.â
A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesnât completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.
After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.
The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.
The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, itâs not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so itâs not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You canât say you hate it.
The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.
You canât help but huff a laugh at the sight, âYou can sit wherever youâre comfortable,â
He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.
While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.
You set it up where it wonât block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.
Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayonsâanything you can find, really, even if they donât quite belong together.
The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you wonât need all of this. But the room is awkward, youâre nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.
Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.
You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydeiâs way.
He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. Thereâs no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.
Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, âYou can start whenever,â
Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.
He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. Youâre supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.
This is only your second time hearing him play, and itâs no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if youâll be able to handle a whole month of this.
âIâll be moving quite a lot while playing,â Mydeiâs voice pulls you from your thoughts, âWill you be able to draw?â He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.
Itâs not condescending, heâs genuinely curious.
âIâll be fine,â your pencil finally meets the paper, âI want to capture the moment anyway.â
He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.
Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like itâs instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.
You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.
In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, âWhy did you agree to this?â you meet his eyes, âNot that Iâm complaining, of course, but I didnât expect you to say yes so easily either.â
Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,
âIt was the look in your eyes, I guess,â he says, âIâve never heard someone talk about my music like that.â
You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?
ââŠWhat kind of look?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
Mydeiâs bow doesnât pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.
âJustââ he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, âIt was as if youâre hearing me for what I actually am.â
And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe itâs the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.
You donât have an answer back to it, which doesnât help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydeiâs eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.
The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isnât helping.
It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you donât want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesnât fix it.
You exhale quietly through your nose.
And Mydei shouldâve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, âSomething wrong?â
âOh, donât worry about it.â You wave your hands in the air, âItâs just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.â
He hums like that means anything to him, âAnything I can do?â
Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, âI, uh, I donât think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesnât charge a fortune per hour, I guess.â You sigh.
Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.
Just when youâre thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydeiâs hum brings you back.
âActually,â he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he canât believe heâs saying this, âMy place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.â
Your brows lift a little.
âYou could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.â he says, a little softer. âIf itâs weird, itâs weird. Just figured Iâd mention it.â
A small âOh,â is all you let out at first, âYeah, umâyeah, that would be great actually. You sure youâre okay with this?â
He shrugs, âI donât have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldnât be a problem.â
The idea of going to Mydeiâs houseâto paint him, no lessâpossibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.
For the drawing, obviously.
âAlright,â you take a deep breath, âWhen are you available?â
âHow about,â he pauses, âRight now?â
The walk to Mydeiâs apartment is mostly silent. He isnât much of a talker, youâve realized over the little time youâve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.
âWeâre here,â he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.
You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.
His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think thatâs kind of in character of him.
He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isnât really decorated. Itâs just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, âYour place is nice.â
He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.
âWill this work?â
You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. âYeah,â you shrug, âWay better than the studio.â
A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you donât mention that to him.
âWhere do you want me?â Mydei asks.
You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.
âIt would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,â you hum, âMaybe it could hit you from the side?â
He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You donât have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.
And the silence is back.
Itâs not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldnât mind some more energy in the room. Itâs not the stillness of the moment that bothers youâthe music is enough to move itâbut more so him.
Wouldnât be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldnât be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and thenâlike a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesnât really give an answer but just hums quietlyâeven if it wasnât a question, or when he does literally anything else.
You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.
âSo,â you exhale, âTell me more about yourself?â
His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.
âThere isnât much to tell, really. I mean, havenât you already read the papers?â
Such a dry tone.
âI donât really care what the papers say. Surely youâd be a better source, no?â
Mydeiâs eyes flicker, and he looks like heâs about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,
âI think they do quite a good job, actually.â
Only to be let down.
âI see.â you donât mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.
âSo you two are finally working together?â The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.
âYes, Phai, we really are.â you reply, âI donât really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.â
The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.
Youâve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if itâll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if youâre doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. Heâs been kind and he doesnât complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that heâs looking forward to the end product.
Itâs obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.
You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. Itâs a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.
âLike what you see?â you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.
He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, âSorry, it looks nice.â
âDonât apologize,â you lick the juice off your thumb, âItâs you on the paper.â
The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.
Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isnât much of a talker, although youâre sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesnât share, you think.
Mydei keeps to himself. Itâs beenâwhat, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.
Itâs important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, youâre curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, youâve been curious about him.
And when youâre trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.
A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.
Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?
âItâs him?â Phainonâs blue eyes search your face with anticipation.
Heâs enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.
âYeah, heâs asking to meet up.â You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isnât due until three days.
âLike, an actual meet up?â
Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, âA session?â
âYes, thatâs what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I donât really understand why heâs asking for one right now.â You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, âI mean it doesnât even benefit him.â
Phainon snickers, âMaybe he just misses you.â
That earns him a slap on the shoulder.
You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.
Me: our next one is in three days iirc?
Me: but sure!! my scheduleâs empty
Mydei: Sorry if itâs inconvenient. You can come over whenever.
Me: will be there in 20
âYouâre excited,â Phainon jokes, âYou sure this is strictly professional?â
Not really.
âStop it already, oh my god,â you give a look to him, âI just donât have anything better to do, and mind you, heâs the one asking.â
Phainon laughs, itâs a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.
Youâre in front of Mydeiâs apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.
The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasnât opened the door.
Well, that might be because you havenât rang the bell yet, but weâre putting that aside.
Itâs just the thought of showing up unplanned, or letâs say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts youâre supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.
Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.
âOh my gods, Mydei,â you rest your hand against your chest, âYou scared the living crap out of me.â
âSorry,â the blonde purses his lips, âI heard some noises so I thought Iâd check it out.â
âWell, the noises were me.â
Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.
His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything youâve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.
âSorry for asking so suddenly,â Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. âI know we said Friday.â
âItâs fine,â you answer too quickly. âI wasnât doing anything important but, um, youâdid you bake something?â
Mydei doesnât give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You donât really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.
He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. Heâs dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like heâd been running his hands through it all afternoon.
Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. âYou want tea?â he asks after a moment.
âSure.â You answer without making eye contact with him.
He doesnât say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasnât set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.
âYou were practicing before I got here?â you ask.
He hums without turning, âJust some old ones I wanted to remember.â
Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.
You watch all of it in silence.
And when youâre about to ask whatâs the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven andâtakes out a cake?
âHuh, you really were baking.â you tilt your head, âAre you celebrating something?â
The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.
âItâs my mothers birthday,â heâs quiet while filling the cups with hot water.
âOh, is she arriving soon?â You ask with a smile, âWhy didnât you tell me? I wouldâve gotten something on my way here.â
You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because itâs impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. Heâs calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.
âNo,â he breathes, âNo, she isnât arriving. I celebrate it by myself.â
Then he looks at you. Thatâs when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.
You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.
The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.
So this feels⊠different.
âIâm sorry,â you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.
His brows pinch slightly, âWhy are you apologizing?â
âI donât know.â You give a helpless little laugh,
For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisinglyâ
âShe used to make that cake every year,â he points at the counter, âIâve been continuing the tradition, I guess.â
The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most heâs ever spoken to you at once.
Youâre terrified of ruining it.
âSoâŠâ you say carefully, âWhy invite me over today?â
The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydeiâs head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.
You donât know what to feel about that possibility.
âIâm not sure, to be honest,â he laughs to himself, as if he canât believe youâre here either, âI guess I thought youâd enjoy the cake.â
You stare at his face for a good minute, itâs probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.
Mydeimos, from the second youâve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you canât help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still canât help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.
âYeah, I probably would,â you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, âIf only you werenât absolutely murdering that cake right now.â
âIââ Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.
âLet me help. Iâm actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.â
âRight,â he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.
As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.
And you understand it. Itâs not surprising that he would halter. Itâs not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.
Because itâs just frosting. But then itâs not.
Itâs not just sugar, milk and cream. Itâs today of every year. Itâs Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.
The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. Itâs then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.
âIt smells nice,â you mumble, âMade it yourself too?â
âLemon and vanilla,â Mydei hums. Knew it. âShe used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesnât taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, yâknow.â
âWhat was her name?â
âGorgo.â The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.
âThatâs a beautiful name,â you smile, âIâm sure she would appreciate your efforts.â
Mydei letâs out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.
âShe would,â he shakes his head, âThen sheâd slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.â
The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.
Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe heâd go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If weâre being honest, you donât really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you donât know how he is now.
Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.
âShe didnât use pomegranates, but I like the taste.â
âYouâre telling me a lot about yourself today,â and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Youâre sure youâve ruined it now. âNot that I mind or anything of course butââ
âI just think she wouldâve liked you.â
The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.
For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.
Because surely he didn't just say that.
âIâI see,â you purse your lips, âWhat makes you say that?â
Mydei doesnât answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.
Heâs mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe itâs on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe youâre just delusional.
Either way, it doesnât change the fact that youâre holding your breath.
âI have a feeling she would,â he shrugs like itâs no big deal.
Thatâs when you raise your head to protest about how thatâs so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.
Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.
He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.
âYeah,â he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if youâd imagined it. âYeah, she definitely would.â
Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like heâs really focused. On the cake.
While youâre stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.
But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.
end notes: thank you so much for reading this far!! this is of course not the end yet. i have 3 maybe 4 parts planned for this fic but we'll see where the road takes us. and the next part probably won't be up for some time as finals are around the corner :,) but i hope you'll wait for me patiently until then!!!
in their final year of college, a gifted art student and an acclaimed violinist cross paths through a project that was never meant to be personal. but slowly you realize, inspiration and affection can look a lot like each other.
pairing: mydei x f!reader
word count: 10.2k words
tags: modern au, college setting, artist reader, violinist mydei, fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, mentions of other chrysos heirs, made up mydei family lore, nsfw in future parts, i don't know what else tbh...
a/n: i'm so so incredibly excited to share this one with you!!! it's very special for me. even though this fic has been trying to become itself for literal months in my drafts... i really want this to be something beautiful and i'm working on it!! i hope you enjoy reading and find meaning in this work of mine. as always, thank you so much for reading. every comment, repost, like means so much to me!!! and feedback is always much much appreciated!!!
header art by insaneption on deviant art!!
PART ONE | PART TWO
âThe theme is vulnerability.â
Aglaeaâs silky voice fills your ears.
You think it should be easy, youâve always been the type to choose art that prioritizes conceptuality than materialism. Ideas, meaning, or experience over objects or materials. This is your way of expressing yourself after all. Every color, every line, every stroke of your brush holds value across your canvas.
So when you hear it, itâs not a big deal at all. There is time until finals, and you have all the trust in your own abilities. Art comes as easily as breathing to you. As if itâs a limb extending from your body, a part of your very being, and a connection to your soul. Never once did your head hurt when it comes to art. Itâs your language, you way of existing. And it hasnât ever failed you.
There wasnât a beginning of your art, and you know there wonât be an ending either. Art has always been, for you; and you will always be, for art.
The bright fluorescent lights burn into your eyes as your thoughts start to wander, and youâre already sketching out your work progress in your head.
Youâll start with a couple of different sketches, pick one of them to work on, choose your material, pick your colors, maybe change a thing or two as you go, and when itâs finished in no less than a monthâwell, itâs you, it shouldnât be more than thatâyouâll submit it to Aglaea with handsome victory and sweet pride.
And she wonât be surprised. In fact, you think no one would. Youâve made quite a name for yourself over the past four years in this school. Always ending the semester with top grades, never out of time, never out of line. Getting different sponsorships from various studios every other month, and some of your works have even sold out on some small museums.
Thatâs why youâre certain there wonât be any problems with this one either.
When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.
âThat instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.â
She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, âI was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.â
âI am, only when those new things arenât looking like they could come alive any second though.â you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.
âAglaea is out for blood again.â you mumble as you take a seat across from her, âShe has a whole theme for the finals. If I didnât know better, Iâd say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.â
Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, âYou say it like thatâs not the case.â
You huff a laugh. âEither way, itâs not that much of a problem,â and gesture to yourself with confidence, âIâll get it done in no time.â
Contrary to your prior statementâand the belief youâve carefully cultivated with your past achievementsâyou do not, in fact, get it done in no time.
Itâs funny, maybeâor more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.
But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: Itâs not in your favor.
Youâve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks⊠You name it.
You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castoriceâs performances, but alas, nothing came out of itâwhich surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.
You sometimes wonder how sheâd have done as an art majorâand feel a little relieved she didnât, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.
A week passes in futile endeavors. And itâs not like youâre running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasnât any problem to solve, because there wasnât a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.
Just when you were starting to think you mightâve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.
Itâs early in the morning when youâre pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.
Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, heâs next to you.
âOh, great timing.â Phainon smiles in greeting, âI was about to call you.â
You drop your bag to the floor, it didnât want to be carried anyways. âCall me? What for?â
âIâm invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?â
You tilt your head slightly,âConcert?â
âYou havenât heard? Itâs all over the campus bulletin boards.â Phainonâs eyes widen in disbelief, âItâs this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.â he spreads his hands to emphasize, âWe have quite a few joining from our school as well.â
At first, you want to argue. Say itâs going to be a headache and you donât have the time. Which isnât exactly wrong. Youâre all for music and art and performances, thatâs true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, youâre not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.
âIâd love to come, Phai,â you start, already shaking your head in rejection, âBut Iâm working on Aglaeaâs final.â
âWow.â he raises his eyebrows, âUsing art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?â
You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, âUnfortunately, itâs true this time. Iâm kind of struggling with this one.â
He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, âYou? Struggling?â
âDamn, must be a real kicker then.â
âIt didnât seem that bad at first,â you sigh, âBut now I canât even find the proper inspiration to start. Itâs likeâIt just doesnât click.â You shake your head in frustration.
Your dear friend mustâve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.
âTell you what,â he tips his chin, âCome to this performance with me, and maybe itâll help with your process.â
You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.
âYouâre struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.â a confident smile forms on his lips, âA stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.â
And thatâs how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.
The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.
It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.
And then there was you.
The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with itâs reflection.
Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasnât a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess thatâs the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.
Speaking of Phainon, he wasnât there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but youâll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.
The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.
A womanâs flute solo, another oneâs piano⊠It was all so beautiful.
Still, it wasnât enough.
You didnât have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didnât promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you havenât tried before and even if you didnât get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.
But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.
Your pencil stops.
Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like theyâre scared to see whatâs up there.
Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.
You donât get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.
He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what youâve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.
Itâs enchanting, itâs foreignâand you feel yourself drawn to it.
The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyesâŠ
Just what is this?
Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, itâs impossible to miss it.
Hear me, heâs whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?
Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrumentâdelicate, yet present. He seems⊠scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.
Heâs either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.
His gaze stays low, he doesnât look up, doesnât let anything else catch his attention. Itâs obvious. On that stage, itâs just him, his violin, and music.
When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if theyâre all in agreement, all know whatâs happening. Like theyâre conversing, like theyâre playing out a script written carefully.
The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the pianoâs notes fall like feathers.
And at the center of it all, him.
His violin cries.
You donât know how he does it, or what that even means. But youâre certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if itâs at the end of itâs days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.
Just like what you were searching forâvulnerable.
After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.
People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. Thatâs when you knowâ
Youâve found it.
You donât even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.
You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if youâre being pulled after him.
But when you finally reach the place, he isnât there.
Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But youâre only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.
You feel your eyes burn again. This canât be it right? Surely you find him somehow.
Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, andâa hand on your shoulder?
âWhat are you doing here?â
Oh, itâs him.
âPhainon?â your eyes widen, you didnât even realize he was standing there.
âArenât you supposed to be at the main halls?â he asks confused, âDid I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.â
âNo, no. Itâs not that.â you shake your head, âI justâI needed to look for someone.â
âLook for someone?â his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, âWho?â
âThe blond guy with red hair? The violinist.â you search his eyes, âItâs him. I need him.â
âOkay,â he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, âMydei is cool and all butâwow, didnât know you were into that.â
âNot like that!â you snap, then pause, âWait, Mydei? Thatâs his name?â
âYep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.â he tilts his head, âHeâs one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isnât he?â
He goes to the same school as you?
âFrom us?â your eyes widen, âYou know him? Can you introduce me to him?â
Phainon grins knowingly, âFound what you were looking for?â
âYes.â you nod your head firmly, certain and final, âExactly what Iâm looking for.â
It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.
He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didnât get along at firstâlike, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.
âAnd now?â you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, âHow are the two of you now?â
âMe and Mydei?â he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, âWell⊠We definitely arenât like that anymore.â
âAre you close though?â
âYeah⊠I guess you could say that.â
You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of hisâthen it shouldnât be too hard, right?
Wrong.
This guys is impossible to get a moment with.
Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydeiâs contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon letâs you know when heâs most available in his scheduleâwhich feels even more wrongâso you have a chance to catch him around the campus.
But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:
Iâm busy right now. Will text back when Iâm available.
Great. An automated message. And whatâs with the cold tone?
You donât want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely donât want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with himâif you have one, that is.
So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide youâre not just going to sit still and pray.
After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.
No wonder he feels so out of reach.
He started playing when he was very young, but wasnât really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesnât say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.
It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if heâs reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing heâs much more closer to you then you thought.
You werenât allowed to record during the concerto either, so all youâre left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isnât enough to give you what you need.
Despite your attempts, you canât seem to get to Mydei.
Then one morning, when youâre making your way to schoolâkicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you goâyou catch a glimpse of something gold.
Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and greenâand you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.
Could it be?
Itâs only for a short second, and if you hadnât raised you head just at the right moment, you wouldâve missed it.
He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.
You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights agoâout of breath and desperate. Heâs not going the same direction as you, but that doesnât matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.
When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. Heâs wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.
Heâs walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But thenâ
âOw.â
Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.
âSorry,â he says simply, âI didnât realize you were that close.â
He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there arenât any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?
âItâs⊠fine. I shouldnât have gotten that close in the first place.â
He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.
You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that heâs in front of you, you realize you donât really know how to talk to him.
âSo,â he starts, âDid you want something?â
Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didnât allow you to do.
And you realize, heâs handsomeâor beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You canât help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or⊠maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.
His hair catches your attention nextâbright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.
Then you look at his amber eyesâgolden like his hair, but a lot more fieryâthat are staring back at you now, and sayâ
âBe my muse.â
âIâm sorry?â
Mydeiâs face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.
Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.
âOkay, that wasnât what I meant to say,â you wince, âOrâmaybe it was. But not like that obviously!â
Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.
âLook, I know thisâll sound weird,â you smile weakly at him, âBut I promise Iâm not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldnât answer soââ
You take a deep breathâquit stalling, just get to the pointâyou close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.
âI was at the audience,â you look at his eyes directly, âAround a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.â
He nods again, âThatâs great to hear. Did you enjoy it?â
You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.
âVery much so,â you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, âI enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, Iâm here to make an offer.â
Mydei raises a brow,
âEven though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.â You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, âIâm an art major, we go to the same school.â
He turns his head at where youâre pointing, then looks back at you, âI see.â
But itâs clear heâs not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.
âAnd this final Iâm talking about,â you sigh, âIs really taking it out on me.â
âIâve sketched, painted, scrapped, restartedâabout a hundred times. Nothing works.â You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. âBut when you were on stage that night⊠It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.â
His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, âClick?â
âInspiration,â you clarify quickly. âThe way you played, the way the orchestra complimented youâeverything about it. I couldnât stop thinking about it afterwards.â
You hesitate for a second before finishing.
âSo I thought⊠maybe if I actually painted youââ
Mydei blinks.
ââas my muse,â you rush, âNot in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.â A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, âIâm the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.â
âThe best, you say?â
âThatâs my reputation, yes.â
He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like heâs giving it a good thought, or maybe heâs just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope thatâs not the case.
Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
âYou know,â he says, âmost people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.â
Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. Youâre not stupid, heâs rejecting you without being rude about itâ
âIâll do it.â
You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.
âReally?â you ask loudly, âYou agree? That easily?â
Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. Itâs a clear sound, coming from the chest.
âReally.â he nods, âBut I have one condition.â
Condition? Well, it doesnât matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.
âSure,â you beam at him, âWhat is your condition?â
âI want you to paint me with my violin.â
âYeah, he agreed!â You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, âCan you believe? I didnât even have to do anything.â
Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.
âThatâs good to hear,â her soft tone graces your ears, âSo, you have anything in mind?â
You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.
âWe didnât get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.â you sigh, âBut he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.â
Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.
After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the processâwhich would be in about an hour from now.
He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldnât be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.
âI gotta go now,â you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, âI donât have much time left.â
She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.
You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.
Just a painting. Nothing more. Itâll be alright.
Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.
You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.
It probably wonât. But still.
Your phone buzzes just as youâre slipping on your shoes.
Mydei: Iâm already at the cafe. Take your time.
Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?
A second message follows.
Mydei: Well, donât take too much time.
You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he mustâve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.
You type back quickly.
Me: Omw!!
The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You donât know why itâs doing it, but it is. This isnât some important commission or for some big contest either. Itâs just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And youâll manage even if things donât go that well with Mydei.
Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.
When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesnât seem to be drinking.
Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.
âSorry if I kept you waiting.â
He shakes his head, âI arrived early,â then gestures to the chair in front of him.
You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, âYou brought your violin with you.â
âYeah,â Mydei hums. Itâs a sweet sound, you take note, âI come from practice.â
âI see,â you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, âYou seem to have a really packed schedule.â
âI guess you could say that,â
Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, itâs hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.
âBut I like what I do,â he nods faintly, âSo I donât mind it.â
You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because itâs impossible to miss it, youâd need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.
Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.
To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.
After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. Theyâre messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.
âI was thinking something more natural,â you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. âNot too staged. Like youâre just⊠playing.â
He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.
âWhat are you going for exactly?â he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, âDo you have some sort of theme for this?â
Theme. Right. The theme.
You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.
Vulnerability.
For a second you picture saying it out loudâI want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.
Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.
He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.
You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You donât know what it means, you donât know where it comes from.
Would he think you were mocking him?
Your eyes meet with Mydeiâs for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.
âStrength,â you clear your throat softly, âI needed something powerful.â
âPowerful?â
âYes,â you lie with ease, âYour music is exactly what Iâm looking for Mydei. Powerful.â
You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldnât be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasnât how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tenderâvulnerable.
Mydeiâs eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.
Then he nods once.
âI see.â
A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesnât completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.
After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.
The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.
The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, itâs not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so itâs not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You canât say you hate it.
The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.
You canât help but huff a laugh at the sight, âYou can sit wherever youâre comfortable,â
He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.
While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.
You set it up where it wonât block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.
Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayonsâanything you can find, really, even if they donât quite belong together.
The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you wonât need all of this. But the room is awkward, youâre nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.
Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.
You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydeiâs way.
He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. Thereâs no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.
Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, âYou can start whenever,â
Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.
He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. Youâre supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.
This is only your second time hearing him play, and itâs no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if youâll be able to handle a whole month of this.
âIâll be moving quite a lot while playing,â Mydeiâs voice pulls you from your thoughts, âWill you be able to draw?â He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.
Itâs not condescending, heâs genuinely curious.
âIâll be fine,â your pencil finally meets the paper, âI want to capture the moment anyway.â
He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.
Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like itâs instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.
You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.
In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, âWhy did you agree to this?â you meet his eyes, âNot that Iâm complaining, of course, but I didnât expect you to say yes so easily either.â
Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,
âIt was the look in your eyes, I guess,â he says, âIâve never heard someone talk about my music like that.â
You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?
ââŠWhat kind of look?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
Mydeiâs bow doesnât pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.
âJustââ he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, âIt was as if youâre hearing me for what I actually am.â
And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe itâs the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.
You donât have an answer back to it, which doesnât help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydeiâs eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.
The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isnât helping.
It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you donât want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesnât fix it.
You exhale quietly through your nose.
And Mydei shouldâve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, âSomething wrong?â
âOh, donât worry about it.â You wave your hands in the air, âItâs just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.â
He hums like that means anything to him, âAnything I can do?â
Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, âI, uh, I donât think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesnât charge a fortune per hour, I guess.â You sigh.
Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.
Just when youâre thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydeiâs hum brings you back.
âActually,â he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he canât believe heâs saying this, âMy place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.â
Your brows lift a little.
âYou could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.â he says, a little softer. âIf itâs weird, itâs weird. Just figured Iâd mention it.â
A small âOh,â is all you let out at first, âYeah, umâyeah, that would be great actually. You sure youâre okay with this?â
He shrugs, âI donât have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldnât be a problem.â
The idea of going to Mydeiâs houseâto paint him, no lessâpossibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.
For the drawing, obviously.
âAlright,â you take a deep breath, âWhen are you available?â
âHow about,â he pauses, âRight now?â
The walk to Mydeiâs apartment is mostly silent. He isnât much of a talker, youâve realized over the little time youâve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.
âWeâre here,â he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.
You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.
His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think thatâs kind of in character of him.
He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isnât really decorated. Itâs just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, âYour place is nice.â
He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.
âWill this work?â
You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. âYeah,â you shrug, âWay better than the studio.â
A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you donât mention that to him.
âWhere do you want me?â Mydei asks.
You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.
âIt would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,â you hum, âMaybe it could hit you from the side?â
He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You donât have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.
And the silence is back.
Itâs not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldnât mind some more energy in the room. Itâs not the stillness of the moment that bothers youâthe music is enough to move itâbut more so him.
Wouldnât be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldnât be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and thenâlike a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesnât really give an answer but just hums quietlyâeven if it wasnât a question, or when he does literally anything else.
You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.
âSo,â you exhale, âTell me more about yourself?â
His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.
âThere isnât much to tell, really. I mean, havenât you already read the papers?â
Such a dry tone.
âI donât really care what the papers say. Surely youâd be a better source, no?â
Mydeiâs eyes flicker, and he looks like heâs about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,
âI think they do quite a good job, actually.â
Only to be let down.
âI see.â you donât mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.
âSo you two are finally working together?â The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.
âYes, Phai, we really are.â you reply, âI donât really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.â
The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.
Youâve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if itâll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if youâre doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. Heâs been kind and he doesnât complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that heâs looking forward to the end product.
Itâs obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.
You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. Itâs a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.
âLike what you see?â you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.
He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, âSorry, it looks nice.â
âDonât apologize,â you lick the juice off your thumb, âItâs you on the paper.â
The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.
Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isnât much of a talker, although youâre sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesnât share, you think.
Mydei keeps to himself. Itâs beenâwhat, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.
Itâs important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, youâre curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, youâve been curious about him.
And when youâre trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.
A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.
Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?
âItâs him?â Phainonâs blue eyes search your face with anticipation.
Heâs enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.
âYeah, heâs asking to meet up.â You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isnât due until three days.
âLike, an actual meet up?â
Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, âA session?â
âYes, thatâs what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I donât really understand why heâs asking for one right now.â You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, âI mean it doesnât even benefit him.â
Phainon snickers, âMaybe he just misses you.â
That earns him a slap on the shoulder.
You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.
Me: our next one is in three days iirc?
Me: but sure!! my scheduleâs empty
Mydei: Sorry if itâs inconvenient. You can come over whenever.
Me: will be there in 20
âYouâre excited,â Phainon jokes, âYou sure this is strictly professional?â
Not really.
âStop it already, oh my god,â you give a look to him, âI just donât have anything better to do, and mind you, heâs the one asking.â
Phainon laughs, itâs a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.
Youâre in front of Mydeiâs apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.
The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasnât opened the door.
Well, that might be because you havenât rang the bell yet, but weâre putting that aside.
Itâs just the thought of showing up unplanned, or letâs say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts youâre supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.
Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.
âOh my gods, Mydei,â you rest your hand against your chest, âYou scared the living crap out of me.â
âSorry,â the blonde purses his lips, âI heard some noises so I thought Iâd check it out.â
âWell, the noises were me.â
Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.
His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything youâve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.
âSorry for asking so suddenly,â Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. âI know we said Friday.â
âItâs fine,â you answer too quickly. âI wasnât doing anything important but, um, youâdid you bake something?â
Mydei doesnât give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You donât really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.
He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. Heâs dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like heâd been running his hands through it all afternoon.
Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. âYou want tea?â he asks after a moment.
âSure.â You answer without making eye contact with him.
He doesnât say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasnât set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.
âYou were practicing before I got here?â you ask.
He hums without turning, âJust some old ones I wanted to remember.â
Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.
You watch all of it in silence.
And when youâre about to ask whatâs the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven andâtakes out a cake?
âHuh, you really were baking.â you tilt your head, âAre you celebrating something?â
The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.
âItâs my mothers birthday,â heâs quiet while filling the cups with hot water.
âOh, is she arriving soon?â You ask with a smile, âWhy didnât you tell me? I wouldâve gotten something on my way here.â
You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because itâs impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. Heâs calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.
âNo,â he breathes, âNo, she isnât arriving. I celebrate it by myself.â
Then he looks at you. Thatâs when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.
You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.
The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.
So this feels⊠different.
âIâm sorry,â you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.
His brows pinch slightly, âWhy are you apologizing?â
âI donât know.â You give a helpless little laugh,
For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisinglyâ
âShe used to make that cake every year,â he points at the counter, âIâve been continuing the tradition, I guess.â
The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most heâs ever spoken to you at once.
Youâre terrified of ruining it.
âSoâŠâ you say carefully, âWhy invite me over today?â
The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydeiâs head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.
You donât know what to feel about that possibility.
âIâm not sure, to be honest,â he laughs to himself, as if he canât believe youâre here either, âI guess I thought youâd enjoy the cake.â
You stare at his face for a good minute, itâs probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.
Mydeimos, from the second youâve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you canât help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still canât help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.
âYeah, I probably would,â you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, âIf only you werenât absolutely murdering that cake right now.â
âIââ Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.
âLet me help. Iâm actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.â
âRight,â he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.
As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.
And you understand it. Itâs not surprising that he would halter. Itâs not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.
Because itâs just frosting. But then itâs not.
Itâs not just sugar, milk and cream. Itâs today of every year. Itâs Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.
The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. Itâs then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.
âIt smells nice,â you mumble, âMade it yourself too?â
âLemon and vanilla,â Mydei hums. Knew it. âShe used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesnât taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, yâknow.â
âWhat was her name?â
âGorgo.â The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.
âThatâs a beautiful name,â you smile, âIâm sure she would appreciate your efforts.â
Mydei letâs out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.
âShe would,â he shakes his head, âThen sheâd slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.â
The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.
Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe heâd go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If weâre being honest, you donât really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you donât know how he is now.
Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.
âShe didnât use pomegranates, but I like the taste.â
âYouâre telling me a lot about yourself today,â and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Youâre sure youâve ruined it now. âNot that I mind or anything of course butââ
âI just think she wouldâve liked you.â
The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.
For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.
Because surely he didn't just say that.
âIâI see,â you purse your lips, âWhat makes you say that?â
Mydei doesnât answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.
Heâs mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe itâs on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe youâre just delusional.
Either way, it doesnât change the fact that youâre holding your breath.
âI have a feeling she would,â he shrugs like itâs no big deal.
Thatâs when you raise your head to protest about how thatâs so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.
Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.
He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.
âYeah,â he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if youâd imagined it. âYeah, she definitely would.â
Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like heâs really focused. On the cake.
While youâre stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.
But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.
end notes: thank you so much for reading this far!! this is of course not the end yet. i have 3 maybe 4 parts planned for this fic but we'll see where the road takes us. and the next part probably won't be up for some time as finals are around the corner :,) but i hope you'll wait for me patiently until then!!!
à§»êȘ i donât know what iâd do if i canât be with you, in the halls of the xianzhou palace hangs a captivating portrait of a young woman. it has become the bane of your existence, and yet, from it emerges your only light.
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
series tag is [ @ đđđđđđđđ â đđđđđđ đđđ đđđđ ] in case any parts do not get linked properly.
tags âââââââââ mydei x reader & (minor) jing yuan x reader, royal au, attempt at slowburn, not canon compliant. this series will contain angst, violence, major character death ; xianzhou alliance is called the xianzhou empire ; jing yuan is heavily ooc for story purposes only.
đ. still so close, yet so far . . . three chrysos heirs arrive in the xianzhou empire proposing an alliance. amongst them, is lord mydeimos, a man with immortality but not immune to what begins to change in him. word count: 3.8k words.
đ. coming soon . . .
đ. coming soon . . .
notes. iâve had this idea for so long, and i wasnât going to write it because i didnât know how to get it down on a doc. then after a long yap session with my pet axolotl (@aquatik), i successfully managed to write it đŒ <3 now, i want to say this is going to be three parts, but i think it might be a little longer than that, so i went ahead and made a material list. letâs see how this goes !!
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
series tag is [ @ đđđđđđđđ â đđđđđđ đđđ đđđđ ] in case any parts do not get linked properly.
still so close, yet so far . . . summary â three chrysos heirs arrive in the xianzhou empire proposing an alliance. amongst them, is lord mydeimos, a man with immortality but not immune to what begins to change in him. word count: 3.8k
tags âââââââââ mydei x reader & (minor) jing yuan x reader, royal au, attempt at slowburn, not canon compliant. this series will contain angst, violence, major character death ; xianzhou alliance is called the xianzhou empire ; jing yuan is heavily ooc for story purposes only.
You stand before a large painting of a young woman. She is dressed in an extravagant red gown. Her hair had been meticulously styled to represent her high status. The pins in her hair have charms dangling from the ends. It is the symbol of the Xianzhou Empire. Her hands are placed on her lap with her left on top to display a beautiful engagement ring.
She is stunning. The artist had captured her details so perfectly, forever in precise strokes and vibrant paint. Many who walk down this very hallway have to stop and look in awe at this creation. Unable to touch it, they can only move closer to the portrait and examine the flow of the brush.
You, on the other hand, can only stare at the painting with disdain. It is not towards the woman, for she is not the one at fault. The disdain is for the story behind how this painting came to be and how it was hung in this very spot.
The name of the woman in the painting is Xinyue. The ring on her finger was placed there by the creator of the Xianzhou Empire, Emperor Jing Yuan. This overly detailed portrait was a gift from him to her. Itâs to display the beauty and grace of the future Empress.
But that story is why you hold disdain for the painting. Because only months before, another portrait was in this very spot for the same reasoning.
Her painting replaced yours.
Here, in the Xianzhou Palace, your existence is well known. You play an important and occasionally overlooked role in the Royal Court. Politics. The peace treaties between the Empire and other kingdoms were made possible through you. Battles were avoided because of your interference. Alliances hadnât been broken by your influence.
Before Xinyue, you were the future Empress to be. Jing Yuan adored you, he praised you, he loved you. While he was the fighter, you were the tactician. A perfect pair to rule over the Empire.
And so suddenly, the ring was removed from your finger. Another woman began to roam the palace halls with a different ring given to her by Jing Yuan that held the same meaning. Forged to her exact measurements and liking, Lady Xinyue is now the bride to be for the Emperor. He adores her, he praises her, he loves her.
Now your painting is gone. It is stored in a location unknown to you, serving only to collect dust.
He gave you no reasoning behind his actions. Why had he discarded you off to the side that easily? Years of loyalty to each other and it ended abruptly.
âMy Lady,â A voice from the end of the hall directed your attention away from the painting. There is a servant who had been tasked with finding you. She witnessed you intently staring at the artwork hanging on the wall. Knowing your story, she felt a sense of pity deep down in her heart for you. âThe guests from Amphoreus are waiting. The meeting will begin soon.â
Amphoreus. A vast land which you had never been to. It was hard to explain how different things worked there compared to the Xianzhou Empire. But of course, like other country leaders, they were here for the exact same reasoning.
Your eyes flicked over to the painting again and then gave the servant a curt nod as a sign of thanks, âVery well.â
It wouldnât be proper of you to keep the guests of Amphoreus waiting. So, you followed behind the servant woman. The image of the painting lingered in the back of your mind. Unfortunately, with how many times you passed by it since it was hung, you knew it well to the most minute detail.
You arrived outside of the Royal Courts meeting room. All important discussions were held here and away from the prying ears of the servants. Two Cloud Knights stood on either side of the double doors.
Today, behind those doors, were three of the twelve Chrysos Heirs from Amphoreus. Lady Aglaea, Lord Phainon, and Lord Mydeimos.
In recent times, Jing Yuan expressed his interest in having Amphoreus become part of the Xianzhou Empire. This would give him total and absolute control over the region. What that meant is that you would get stuck doing all the diplomatic work. You were very good at what you did, but the Emperor seemed to have a hard time comprehending how impossible it was to sway the Chrysos Heirs.
They werenât bad people. They, however, were extremely intelligent. They knew how to deny whenever something felt the slightest bit wrong to them. After all, it was twelve of them and only one of you.
Regardless, the guards opened the doors for you. The attendees for todayâs meeting were already sitting down at the table. Members of the Xianzhou Royal Court had huddled themselves by the head of the table, the chair reserved for the Emperor. Though you werenât too focused on them.
As soon as you stepped into the room, the sound of two chairs being pushed back made everyoneâs heads turn in that direction. Phainon and Mydei were both standing. It was nice to see that the men of Amphoreus held the utmost respect for women. They at least still stood up whenever a lady walked into the room.
At their side was Aglaea, who continued to remain seated with the others but kindly smiled at you.
âMy Lady,â She then stood up once you drew closer to them, âItâs good to see you again.â
âLikewise, Lady Aglaea.â You said, shifted your gaze to the other two Chrysos Heirs to greet them. Phainon gently took your hand in his and bowed as a sign of respect. Mydei copied his action, more careful with his clawed armor. âGentlemen, thank you for being here.â
âIt's always an honor to be in your presence.â Phainon said, placing a hand on his chest.
The heavy doors creaked, indicating someone else had arrived. There is a shift in the atmosphere in the room. His Grace, Jing Yuan, entered.
Everyone immediately stood up and turned to bow. His boots clicked against the floor. But there were a second pair of footsteps that followed. He hadnât arrived alone, and you werenât expecting him to. He had his betrothed, Xinyue, following behind him. Your brows slowly narrowed despite trying to hide your expression.
A frown settled on Aglaeaâs face, but she covered it up by clearing her throat and placing the back of her hand over her lips. Neither Phainon nor Mydei were pleased at this turn of events. When the Emperor suddenly broke off your long term engagement, the news spread across the lands. His actions were considered an abomination in the eyes of Amphoreus, a sign of ultimate disrespect towards you.
âGreetings,â Jing Yuan stopped once he reached the head of the table. He noticed that amongst everyone in the room, you werenât looking at him. As per usual, you were being cold towards him. âMy apologies, I havenât had time to properly address the three of you since your arrival at the Empire.â
âYou donât need to apologize, Your Grace.â Aglaea said, âYouâre a busy man. We understand.â
And everyone, in unison responded the same thing, âOf course, Your Grace.â Because no one could be opposed to it. So they had to accommodate and made room for Xinyue. She took the first chair, sitting on the left side of the table. It forced the Royal Court Members to all move one chair down.
You realized you wouldnât have a place to sit. Thatâs until you felt a hand gently touching your upper arm to get your attention. The ownerâs hand was recognizable by the feel of armor.
âMy Lady.â Mydei held onto the back of his chair. He was offering his seat at the table up to you. You glanced at the open chair before walking over to it. You tucked your dress comfortably as you sat down. He then carefully pushed the chair closer to the table. This left you sitting directly across Aglaea and Phainon. A much better position since you would be doing most of the talking with the Chrysos Heirs.
âThank you,â You said, though not sparing him a second glance. You could feel Jing Yuanâs gaze focused intently on the interaction. And not only that, Mydei remained behind you as if he were your most trusted guard, tasked with protecting you. His lingering presence was⊠Soothing, in a way. âLet us begin,â
The meeting proceeded. It dragged on for hours. Although on certain occasions, Feixiao and Yao Guang left their input, you had most of the control at the table. It was a back and forth between you and the three Chrysos Heirs. They were not easily persuaded by your statements.
Where Jing Yuan wanted them to see it fit that they join the Empire, they were more towards leaning into an alliance. You werenât necessarily objecting to that idea, but you knew youâd hear a handful if you didnât try to negotiate harder with them.
âAmphoreus has prospered under the rule of the Chrysos Heirs.â Aglaea explained, âOur people are happy. Theyâre content. Weâve avoided many conflicts with other countries. That is what matters most to us.â
The Heirs took their sworn oath to protect their people seriously. You were actually against trying to convince them to give up their rightful thrones. Except, you were a servant who had to fight for the Emperorâs desires. As soon as you were going to speak again, a new person decided to chime in.
âBut why have twelve separate rulers, when you could be under the control of one benevolent ruler instead?â Xinyueâs voice rang from the front of the table.
You were baffled, immediately turning over to her. It silenced the others at the table. They looked amongst each other. No one wanted to say it, but they were all thinking the same thing. Xinyue wanted to play your role, and she would fail miserably at this game.
You wished you could say none of this was her fault. Since she knew of your history with Jing Yuan, she was attempting to prove herself. This was her way of saying to you that she was better, and once she became the Empress, you were no longer going to be needed. Her issue was that she had a closed minded attitude, always believing that the Xianzhou Empire could do no wrong.
âUnder the control of one benevolent ruler?â The deep voice from behind you said. Mydei held back a scoff at her ignorance. Aglaea had to give him a stern look to remind him who he was speaking against. Though, it was ignored when he continued, âThe people of Amphoreus donât need history to repeat itself. We have only recently been released from Nikadorâs grasp.â
Xinyue grew silent. She didnât know of Amphoreusâ extensive history like you or other members of the Royal Court. In fact, she wasnât very knowledgeable about the reign of the different lands either. It was unfortunate she struck a nerve in Lord Mydeimos with her comment.
You immediately looked over at Fu Xuan, retainer of the Emperor. When your gaze met hers, she instantly knew what you were trying to say. She was forced to intervene, âWhy donât we put this meeting on hold for today? I think thatâs enough discussing this matter. We can continue tomorrow.â
âYes, I do agree.â Aglaea said, her hands letting go to gently push her chair back.
You exhaled lowly in relief. Fu Xuan had leverage with her position in the Court. Ending the discussion for the time being was better before someone ended up making matters worse.
The meeting room emptied.
Everyone went on their separate paths and attended to their own matters. You had gone with Aglaea, escorting her to the guest wing where she was staying during her time here. You spoke with her, catching up now that you werenât forced to talk about anything politically related.
Eventually, you decided to say your goodbyes so she could rest.
You wandered through the halls, heading to that same hallway from early this morning in order to return to your chambers. You arrived, only to find out you werenât alone.
In the distance, Mydei is before that painting and examining it in silence with his arms crossed over his chest. Heâs sharp enough to know someone else is in the hallway with him. You had no intentions to stop and talk to him. Your heels echoed through the empty hallway as you walked with your head held high. Just as you passed him, you were forced to stop.
âLady (Y/N),â He called out to you. His gaze remained fixated on the painting of Xinyue. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. This meant you had to face him, otherwise, it would be improper. He asked the very question you were dreading to hear come from a guest. âWas your portrait not here before?â
How embarrassing.
âYes, it was.â Your response was short. As expected. He glanced over his shoulder at you. He watched your reaction closely. He motioned to the canvas.
âAnd⊠Where is it now?â Mydei asked. His newest question left you puzzled. Your eyes narrowed slightly and your head tilted to the side.
âWhere is what?â
âYour portrait.â He elaborated. âWhere is your portrait now?â
That made you stop and think about it for a brief moment.
Jing Yuan commissioned the painting as a gift. He wanted everyone to see the beauty of the woman he was going to marry. He was a prideful man, you were his greatest treasure. With everything that happened, you never once wondered where your painting disappeared to.
Why did Mydeimos care? Was he trying to make fun of you? You, who once held the Emperorâs affection and wore his ring on your finger, didnât even know where the painting dedicated to you had gone.
âI do not know.â You said in a defensive manner. The faintest hint of snark didnât go unnoticed for the Kremnoan. âWhy not ask a servant for its whereabouts?â
He chose to remain silent as you left. Perhaps it was a mistake to ask such a blunt question. He could have worded it differently. It wasnât his intention to upset you. But you were gone now, and he couldnât apologize.
His eyes went from the right end of the hallway to the left where you originally came from. Mydei stood there for a moment longer, before making up his mind. He turned the other way with the objective of finding the closest member of the Royal Court.
âYou wish for me to go to Amphoreus?â
âYes.â Jing Yuan nodded his head. He reclined in his chair while you stood across from his desk. He laced his hands together, âThatâs exactly what I said. I want you to go to Amphoreus so you can see why they donât want to join the Empire. Simple as that.â
It had been two months since the three Chrysos Heirs departed from the Empire. The meeting, as you assumed it would be, was unsuccessful. Not a single one of the offers made swayed them. They didnât bother dwelling on it, and continued proposing an alliance.
It only made the Emperor more insistent. You couldnât disobey. You lived in the Xianzhou Empire and held a position in the Royal Court. Obeying his direct orders were your every day command. Thatâs why he chose you to do every diplomatic duty for him, no matter what it was. This is what you had studied and trained for since a young age.
You werenât fond of the idea of traveling. You truly never liked it and viewed it to be a hassle. With the change in season, the heatwaves would make your experience worse than usual.
âPerhaps they donât see it fit to join the Empire.â You said. Jing Yuan raised his brow before a smile spread on his face and he let out a short chuckle.
âDonât be ridiculous,â He said. âIt doesnât matter. Iâve already sent a letter. Once itâs discussed with the Chrysos Heirs and theyâve given permission, youâll take your leave for Amphoreus immediately. Do you understand?â
If you had to argue with Anaxagoras, you might lose your mind. Instead, you exhaled and nodded your head.
âAs you desire, Your Grace.â You bowed.
âNow then. That is settled. Moving on,â Jing Yuan crossed his arms over his chest, âHave you reconsidered my proposal?â Your gaze darkened for the briefest moment. But he was an attentive man, and the shift in your eyes didnât go unnoticed.
âMy answer was no the first time and it will be no each time you ask.â You said with a sharp tone. The corner of his lip twitched downwards. He placed his hands on his desk, pushing himself up from his chair.
âAnd why is that? You refuse to tell me your reasoning.â He walked around his desk with slow steps. He stood in front of you and reached out, his fingertips grazing your jawline. They came underneath your chin and lifted your head to meet his gaze. âIs it really such a detestable life to become my concubine? All I desire is to keep you at my side.â
âYou used to go about that in a better manner.â You held his gaze. Your words silenced him.
His proposal was like a slap in the face. He replaced you with Xinyan. And you, with an aching heart, had to accept it. Then he turned around and asked that you become a concubine once he married. His only concubine, he said. Your feelings didn't matter to him. Gone was the man you once loved.
He dropped his hand from your chin. He couldnât find that same love and devotion in your eyes anymore. Did he miss it? The Emperor himself didnât know.
âYou are dismissed.â He flicked his hand.
His temper flared at how quickly you left his study. You had to keep your composure. You refused to show any sign of weakness in front of Jing Yuan, no matter how much you were aching inside.
Xinyueâs painting taunted you as you walked by it. It was beginning to get harder to not place the blame on her. None of this is her fault, you reminded yourself. She wasnât the one you were engaged to and she wasnât the one who suddenly broke it off. She believed he loved her, just as you believed it once.
What about you? Didn't you have a right to be angry at this young noble woman who appeared in the palace overnight?
There was no reason to fight over Jing Yuanâs affection. If he took it away so easily, it was never there to begin with.
The Cloud Knights patrolling your wing pushed your chamber doors open when you arrived.
Qingque was inside. Your lady in waiting is adjusting three boxes stacked on each other. She placed a vase of blooming flowers right beside them. She looked in your direction when the doors shut behind. A bright smile formed on her face, âMy Lady!â She exclaimed loudly, careful to not bump into the table.
âWhat is this?â You asked.
âYou received a gift all the way from Amphoreus!â She plucked an envelope from the top box. She held it out to you, âThey sent flowers from here.â
âAmphoreus?â You repeated.
The wax seal on the back had the symbol of the Romance Titan. Aglaea. You examined the boxes. Qingque practically bounced on the balls of her feet. She seemed more excited about your gifts than you were. Maybe because she knew this was one youâd accept.
Jing Yuan, probably to cover whatever little guilt he might feel if he felt any at all, had been sending gifts to your chambers regularly. A cruel thing to do, youâd simply send them out to noble women, passing them off as your own.
As you carefully ripped the wax seal apart, you gave Qingque permission to open the boxes. You read the letter written in Aglaeaâs elegant handwriting.
My dearest Lady (Y/N),
In my years of being a dressmaker, I have been commissioned by many different people. Each of the dresses that I have crafted are woven with love and dedication. The day you read this letter, it is an honor to present to you my own creations. These are creations that I believe are long overdue.
But, I must mention that the dresses you will find in these boxes were made at Lord Mydeimosâ request. When we returned to the land of Amphoreus, he paid a hefty amount for the finest silk and materials. He constantly came to look over my progress and made sure that they would be to your liking.
Though, after I finished and prepared for the gifts to be sent over, I asked if he wanted to write a letter or a note. He became rather shy, and said I could take care of that part as well.
I believe youâve long ago entranced our Mydeimos with your lovely presence.
Sincerely, Aglaea.
âLook how beautiful they are!â Qingque said, holding one of the boxes in her hands. The other two were left on the table with the lids off. Any piece created by Aglaea was absolutely stunning. The dressmaker had a true talent.
You touched the white silk, soft under your fingertips. They were the toga dresses worn in Amphoreus. Aglaeaâs signature style, no matter where she went. In another box was a red dress, and the other held a light blue.
So these were made at the request of Mydei. The brief interaction you had with him months ago in front of Xinyueâs portrait resurfaced. Now you were regretting the sharp tone you used. You folded the letter and tucked it into the envelope again.
âQingque.â You placed the envelope down on the table by the flowers, âI expect to leave for Amphoreus. When I do, I would like these dresses amongst my wardrobe. In the meantime, please keep them in the boxes.â
She nodded her head, and quickly went ahead with the task to get it out of the way. Not only would you thank Mydei in person, youâd have to apologize for the way you spoke to him.
series material list | part two, coming soon . . .
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
notes. everyone say thank you to michael jackson for the name đŁïžâŒïž vale had told me to not to call it this đ€š hater alert !! anyways, glad iâm finally getting this idea out of my head. and itâs been a while since i posted up here but iâm finally getting back into writing 𫥠letâs see how long it takes me to post part two of this, hopefully not long
à§»êȘ i donât know what iâd do if i canât be with you, in the halls of the xianzhou palace hangs a captivating portrait of a young woman. it has become the bane of your existence, and yet, from it emerges your only light.
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
series tag is [ @ đđđđđđđđ â đđđđđđ đđđ đđđđ ] in case any parts do not get linked properly.
tags âââââââââ mydei x reader & (minor) jing yuan x reader, royal au, attempt at slowburn, not canon compliant. this series will contain angst, violence, major character death ; xianzhou alliance is called the xianzhou empire ; jing yuan is heavily ooc for story purposes only.
đ. still so close, yet so far . . . three chrysos heirs arrive in the xianzhou empire proposing an alliance. amongst them, is lord mydeimos, a man with immortality but not immune to what begins to change in him. word count: 3.8k words.
đ. coming soon . . .
đ. coming soon . . .
notes. iâve had this idea for so long, and i wasnât going to write it because i didnât know how to get it down on a doc. then after a long yap session with my pet axolotl (@aquatik), i successfully managed to write it đŒ <3 now, i want to say this is going to be three parts, but i think it might be a little longer than that, so i went ahead and made a material list. letâs see how this goes !!
synopsis â [ 1.7k words ] you keep saying it's the last time, keep on saying that you're over, but in the end, you still wake up in his bed and he still lets you. you both know that it's wrong, that you shouldn't keep doing this, but you both keep coming back for more.
content: implied NSFW. please take note of the content you consume. exes to lovers, repeated cycles of toxic situationships (wait how does that work if they're exes ?), smut (read at your own discretion and be responsible, im not gonna say mdni cuz yall r gonna read it anyway), college au, they're both allergic to feelings.
usagi's note: hello hello is this mic working? did u guys miss me? here's a fic to get things started while i work on the other fics next week. it's pre-finals, so it's hell week. send prayers.
The laser lights cut through the smoky haze like they were trying to carve the night itself into pieces, flashing pinks and greens across the packed floor.Â
The bass wasnât just musicâyou could feel it in your ribs, your teeth, your throat, thundering with every drop as if the DJ had the entire room on a leash, the people moved like one heaving organism, dancing sweat-slick and alive, chasing the next chorus.
âAre you guys back together?â Hysilens asks suddenly, her words slicing straight through the noise.
You nearly choke on your vodka cran, sputtering, âWhat? No.â
Her brows pull tight, âThen why is he making eyes at you from across the room?â
âSame eyes he used to when you guys were together, by the way,â Castorice adds, cool and nonchalant, like itâs just a fact of life, as she takes a slow sip of her rum and coke.
Against your better judgment, you follow Hysilensâ gaze. And there he is.
Mydeimos.
Clad in all blackâ his black shirt tight on him, jeans the same color, and golden rings glinting when the light hits just right.Â
Your ex.Â
And true to their words, his eyes are pinned on you even as he raises his glass for a lazy sip of JD and coke.
You tear your eyes away with an eye roll, forcing your attention back to your friends.
âWe are not together,â you say firmly, maybe too firmly. âI am not getting back with him. Itâs been months, Iâve moved on, and if he hasnât? Thatâs on him.â
The girls trade looks, and then Hysilens smirks like sheâs just won a bet you never agreed to.
âWanna bet?â
âOh, screw you, Hyse.â
Her laughter disappears into the swell of the music as she slams back another shot, then grabs both you and Cas by the wrists when the DJ slides into the instrumental of Only Girl in the World.
âYou gotta dance, girl, câmon!â she hollers, pulling you out onto the floor.
And you doâbecause itâs easier to laugh and sway and drown yourself in the lights than to think about his stare burning through the crowd. You were here to enjoy yourself, after all.
It takes at least four more songs and a countless drinks before Cas leans into you, complaining that sheâs dizzy, and you shout that youâll grab her water, then wait for Hysilens (whoâs also swaying on her feet) to usher her back into the booth before you leave.
You weave towards the bar, skin damp from the heat, throat parched, ordering three waters over the music blaring from the speakers.
Thatâs when it happens.
A hand slips around your waist. Firm. Familiar.
âHey.â
You don't even need to turn your head to know who it is, his cologne gives him away.
You let out a deep sigh and he quirks a brow.
âWhat? Not even going to greet me now?â
You shift your weight to the leg farthest from him, âNot here, Mydei.â
âRelax, Castorice and Hysilens are too busy dancing to even see,â he insists.
You stare up at him in disbelief, but under the strobe lights, his eyes are moltenâsteady and unashamed, like he already knows how this night will end. The bass vibrates up your legs, matching the restless beat in your chest.
The bartender sets your order down with a clink, âThree waters,â he says.
You grab it quickly, âSo? What about it?â you throw back, but it comes out weaker than youâd like.
Mydei just watches you, head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. You squirm under his stare, shifting from his hold, pretending not to feel how his fingers brush your hip when you move past him.
You slip away before you can cave, weaving through the crowd until the dance floor opens up again. Cas and Hyse are there, drenched in the flashing red lights, arms thrown around each other as they scream along to whatever remix the DJâs playing now.
âWater!â you shout over the noise, raising the glass.
Castorice grins wide, hair sticking to her temple, âYouâre a saint!â she slurs, then promptly almost trips on her own feet before Hyse steadies her, she looks at you, exasperated.
âI think weâre done,â Cas says, voice raised but slurred with exhaustion, âIâm definitely dizzy.â
You donât even try to hide your relief, âGood. Iâll go with you.â
Cas waves her phone in the air, âNooo, Iâll book it! Everyone calm down, I am sober enough for an Uber!â
âSure you are,â Hysilens chuckles.
It takes her three tries to type in the address, but somehow she manages. You wait with them by the clubâs entrance, the music still thudding behind you, the air outside sticky and loud with traffic.
Cas is giggling about somethingâprobably nothingâwhile Hyse leans into her shoulder, muttering about hangovers and morning classes on Monday.
âDriverâs here in a minute,â Cas says, eyes squinting at her phone like itâs trying to fight her, âyou better text when you get home, or Iâllâ Iâll punch you tomorrow,â she slurs.
It makes you laugh, âYeah, yeah. I will.â You know theyâll forget to check anyway, and youâll just say you fell asleep the moment you got home.
The car pulls up, headlights sweeping over the sidewalk. Hysilens grabs Cas by the elbow before she can wander off, âCâmon, champ.â
She hugs you suddenly, hard and clumsy, âDonât miss us too much,â she teases before the brunette shoves her gently into the car.
You wave them off, the taillights fading around the corner, the noise of the club dulling behind you.
For a moment, itâs quietâalmost peaceful.
Then a low, familiar engine revs from behind you.
You donât even have to turn to know who it is.
And despite every nerve in your body telling you to walk awayâyou donât.
âŠ
You feel the aftermath before you see it.
The dull ache settles into your bones before your mind even catches up. Every nerve feels tender, worn thinâthe kind of soreness that hums quietly under the skin, more memory than pain.Â
The sheets beneath you are still warm, the air heavy with the scent of him, citrus, that cologne, and something thatâs just so⊠Mydei.
You shift carefully, turning your head to the side.Â
Heâs still asleep beside you, chest rising and falling in that unbothered rhythm of his, hair a mess across his forehead.Â
Even now, thereâs that same faint furrow in his browâlike heâs dreaming about something that pisses him off.
You stare for a second too long before forcing yourself upright, wincing when the movement pulls at your thighs, a painting of red and yellow scattered all over them.Thereâs a bruiseâmaybe a bite mark?âblooming near your collarboneâfresh, right over the pulse he loves to find.
Of course there is.
Mydei was always a biter.
You slip quietly from the bed, the floorboards cool beneath your bare feet. His shirtâno, your shirt, you took it from himâlies halfway under the couch, tangled with his jeans, a casualty of the night before. You gather your pants in a silent sweep, not daring to look back.
His bathroom mirror greets you with harsh honesty. The fluorescent light flickers once, then steadies, revealing everything you didnât want to see. Your hairâs a mess, your lipstick smudged to the edges of your mouth, your neck painted in shades of red and purple.
You press your fingers to one of the marks. It stings.
For a second, you think about taking a bathâmaybe even blow-drying your hairâbut you stop yourself, because it feels wrong, too familiar. Like staying too long.Â
You make yourself look presentable anyway by washing your face and combing your hair down.
Your eyes drift to the hook by the door after. Hanging there is one of his sweatersâblack, soft, probably one he wonât notice missing right away. You pull it on anyway. Itâs loose on you, the hem falling to mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing your hands whole. It smells like him.
You hate how comforting that is.
With a deep breath, you move around the apartment, collecting the last of your thingsâyour purse on the nightstand, your earrings on the coffee table. You make sure not to wake him or his roommate, Phainon (who probably wasnât even home), when you grab your shoes from beside the couch.
The city outside is still half-asleep when you book the Uber, the blue glow of your screen lighting up the dark living room.Â
Estimated arrival: four minutes.
You stand by the door, hand on the knob, staring at the floor. Thereâs an empty can of a redbull on the kitchen counter, a half-crumpled shirt of his from god knows when, and the faint echo of laughter from a time you canât bring yourself to remember.
You twist the knob and step out before you can think twice.
The door clicks shut behind you and your phone pings to let you know the driver was already outside. You sigh as you get in the car, and for the first time all night, the ache in your chest hurts more than the ones on your body.
It wasnât always like this.
Mydei used to smile when youâd talk about nothingâtracing lazy circles on your thigh, nodding like every word you said meant something only he could understand.Â
He used to pick you up from class when it rained. He used to fall asleep with his arm draped over you, heavy and safe. He used to kiss you like he meant forever.
Now, when you try to remember how it all fell apart, itâs like sifting through static, your ears ring whenever you try to recall.Â
You donât even remember what started the fightâsomething stupid, probably. Something about missed calls, or plans forgotten.
But you do remember how his voice wasâraised, sharp around the edges.
(âWhy do you always have to make everything about you?â
And yours, breaking.
âIs it so bad that I want to actually let you know how I feel?â
Then more wordsâoverlapping, cutting, neither of you were listening anymore.
A hand through his hair, a bitter laugh.
Your throat felt raw.
The sound of a door slamming.
And thenâquiet.
Just the echo of what he said right before it shut:
âMaybe we should stop pretending this still works.â
You donât even remember what you said back. Maybe nothing at all. Just standing there, staring at the space where he used to be.)
Before you knew it, the taxi you were in tells you youâre at your destination, and you disassociate during the whole interaction, running on autopilot, only snapping back to reality when the lock of the door clicks behind you.
âI really should end it, huh?â
masterlist.
taglist is open!! comment on the MASTERLIST to be added! red means u can't be tagged: @crystalkat6747 @ssetsuka @eilaazzz @emilettew @firefliesoul-corner @violetisreadinghush @fantasyloverisa @iruanmey @mydeilver @milkhalo @pe4rlple @evclipsesstuff @honeyochii @castomeii @lyambdaa
usagi's note: i hate college. this semester has been a fever dream and not even in the good way. anyway i AM making a comeback because i will get to have like three or four weeks off when april starts and i figured now would be a good time to post rock bottom cuz it's essentially where i am right now warahel.
also i didn't write any smut for this. CUZ HELLO ITS THE FIRST CHAPTER. and also because i... am a coward. IM SORRYYYY. there will be some sort of smut in here, because its like rlly connected to the plot, what am i kidding it's LITERALLY the plot. but not now, maybe um... maybe next chapter idfk ive only written the ending and the start LOL anyway yea see u after this week cuz oh my goodness i might actually fucking die my calendar is red because of all the deadlines i have. send your prayers.
@usagiarchive 2026. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!
It's easiest to fall back into bad habits when you hate yourself.
You think they might drown you this time.
Mydei won't let that happen.
CROSS-POSTED ON ao3 !!!
Pairing: Mydei x non-gendered reader (can be read as anything)
Warnings: Mental health issues. Low self-esteem. Can be read as a mix of depression, anxiety, or other mental illnesses/general low moods, it's non-specific. Slightly OOC? Very self-indulgent. I HAVE NOT PROOF-READ THIS, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Word Count: 1897
You promised yourself that it wouldnât happen again. After your terrible sleep schedule during finals, and if you were being honest with yourself, all throughout the last term, your lack of regular sleep was really starting to get to you.
Youâd tried to fix it, you really did, but nothing ever really stuck. It was a dangerous combination of exhaustion and continuous low moods that you couldnât quite escape.
Now that you didnât have any morning classes to get up for, it had only gotten even worse. It was a vicious cycle, going to bed at six in the morning, and waking up a few hours later so you could get to work on time.
It wasn't even as if you had a good reason for staying up, either. You did nothing, literally nothing. Sometimes you would mindlessly scroll on your phone. Other times, you just stared at the ceiling, feeling so empty that you couldnât do anything else.
And of course, because you ended up going to bed late and sleeping in, you rarely had the time or energy to do anything. So youâd tell yourself, late at night, just one more hour. Youâd only stay up another hour, to get something done, but you were so tired. So so terribly tired, and once more, the cycle repeated.
It was sometime past six, and you hadnât slept. Some video was playing on your phone, but you hadnât been paying attention, not really. You think it may have repeated once already, youâre not sure.
You see a notification pop up, and you feel your heart drop. You click on it, and your messages open.
â
Mydeimeow <3: Good morning. Will you be busy today?
Message Seen
Mydeimeow <3 is typingâŠ
Mydeimeow <3: Youâre up early, feeling okay?
Message Seen
You: Yeah
You: not really busy, no
Mydeimeow <3: Okay. Iâll come over after my run, I want to see you.
Youâre typingâŠ
You: ok
Message Seen
Mydeimeow <3 is typingâŠ
â
You turn off your phone when the little typing icon disappears abruptly, and you sigh, only feeling worse than before.
It had been weeks since youâd had your boyfriend over. Admittedly, once things had begun to pile up, and you felt all too incapable of digging yourself out of this hole, youâd started making excuses as to why he couldnât come over. Iâll just come over to your place. Iâm too busy today. Some other time?
If he noticed, he hadnât said anything.
You look around your room, and gods, itâs awful. Thereâs clothes and trash everywhere, and you know the rest of your apartment isnât any better.
Mydeiâs coming over, you realize. Your perfect Mydei, whoâs always so on top of things. Your Mydei, who has never known anything other than the discipline that he puts into every aspect of his lifeâŠschool, work, you. Your terribly wonderful boyfriend, who was the type of person to enjoy running at six every morning just for the mere fact that it was good for him.Â
And then thereâs you. And sure, youâre not always like this, but you have been for a while, and heâs going to come over and see you and your filth and you donât know what heâll think. Itâs embarrassing. You donât want him to know that youâve been struggling, that things arenât going well, because you should be better than this.
Maybe thereâs still time to fix this- some small part of your brain speaks up. Maybe you can fix things up just enough to keep up this act, just enough to hide things away until he leaves.
You know, realistically, that any effort you might make would be futile. It would probably take a couple days of work at your fullest energy for you to get everything in order, that was how bad it had gotten. And right now, when you were anything but fully energized, there was little hope. Still, you stood up, stumbled over the mess on your floor, and searched through your closet for a laundry basket.
You threw in a few items that needed to go for a wash. Not a lot, but some. You stop when you hear your phone ding again.
â
Mydeimeow <3: I love you.
Message Seen
You: ily too
â
You stare at the screen for a moment. Gods, just what kind of crappy partner were you? Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment, and then you quickly throw in a heart emoji for good measure before letting your device flop onto your mattress.
You donât know why, but that really does it for you. You look over and see a pile of crumpled papers on the floor by your desk, and you know that thereâs no point to it. So you give up, sinking to the floor instead as tears begin to fall down your cheeks.
You think you stay this way for a while, but you're not sure. Your sleep-deprived mind is nothing but foggy, only leaving you feeling more useless than you already did.
The front door opens at some point, but you donât really register it. You already know heâs coming, anyway. You faintly hear his footsteps, and then the hesitant knock on your bedroom door. Thereâs no point to it. Itâs already open.
He must see you, you know that he does, but you donât let yourself look back. If anything, you turn your face more firmly towards the side of your bed, like maybe you can avoid facing him if you wish him away.
He exhales once, slowly, and then you hear the soft crumples and rustles that come with navigating your space. Heâs careful not to step on anything breakable, but the lack of exposed floor makes it a little awkward.Â
Once heâs close enough to you, he makes space on the floor beside you- handling your items with more care than you had managed in the past few weeks. He lowers himself next to you, thighs and shoulders pressed together, but he doesnât speak. Not yet.
He stays like that for a while, next to you, quiet. He doesnât push- youâre not even sure if youâd want him to.Â
It takes you a while, but you eventually pull your tear-dried face out from where you had kept yourself hidden. You look at your boyfriend, and he looks nothing but at peace. His head is tilted back- eyes lazily shut like heâd fallen asleep that way.
You watch him, letting your eyes trace the junction where his ear meets his jaw, the soft blanket of lashes that cast shadows over the high of his cheek bones- and you wonder, and you wonder some more.
Why is he here? Why are you dragging him into this? Why did you feel this way? Why why why why why.
You donât find any answers, but you didnât expect to anyways. Looking away crosses your mind, but Mydei catches you before you get the chance. He peeks his eyes open, slowly, one brow arched like heâs asking what exactly it is that youâre looking at.
You blink once, twice, and you feel so stupid under his gaze. His eyes feel heavy on you- on your skin that crying must have left patchy, on your hair that hasnât been properly washed in so long. You know youâre gross, you know he must be able to see it, too.
And Mydei looks good- really good. His hair is pulled back like he does when he just wants it out of his face. Heâs wearing his glasses, the ones that make him look ridiculously adorable and that he only ever remembers to wear half of the time. Heâs so effortlessly beautiful, and it only makes your heart hurt more with feelings of inadequacy.
When you sniffle, he opens his arms, and tilts his head towards you, a silent invitation that you only hesitate a moment before accepting.
Itâs a little harder than it should have been when you crash into him, but itâs nothing he canât handle. Heâs more worried about your face, if anything. He wraps his arms around you- not too tight. You almost wish heâd hold you tighter, but this is nice too, with your head tucked underneath his chin.
You cry into his shirt, and he rubs circles into your back. You only cry harder.
This is too good, you think. Too good for you. Heâs too good. You feel so terribly undeserving, when he hasnât left and youâre still a mess.Â
âSorryâŠâm so sorryâŠâÂ
He doesnât answer right away, and it scares you. You want to look up, but you donât. Itâs easier to hide your face against him, rather than to look up and see the disappointment that youâre sure will be there once heâs finally realized what youâve known all along:
Youâre not worth it.
âYou shouldnât be.â Itâs gentle, itâs quiet, but itâs certain. He lifts a hand up to your hair, and you sigh into him.
â...sorryâŠIâm just really tiredâŠâ You sniffle, but your tears arenât so heavy anymore.Â
âDid you sleep yet?â
â...No, but itâs not just that. Itâs- Iâm always tired, Mydei. Iâm sorry.â
He pulls back to look at you, and you tilt your head up. Thereâs a line on his forehead in the same spot that one appears when heâs concentrating. Something about it is disarming, though, when itâs you heâs so focused on.Â
His thumb swipes along your cheek, rubbing away a loose tear. He nods once. âOkay.â
You try not to show the wobble of your lips, to not make it obvious that youâre working overtime to hold back your tears. You think he might know anyway.
â...Okay?â He nods again, and it's sure, like heâs never been more serious than he is now.
âOkay.â He repeats. âWeâll pour you a bath. Iâll make breakfast. We can put something on the TV after, and weâll figure this out.âÂ
Youâre not sure if itâs the look youâre giving him, or if Mydei just knows you well enough to recognize the need to ease your doubts, but either way, he speaks again, more firmly this time.Â
âWeâll figure this out.â
You know youâre going to cry again, so you lean back into him, seeking the warmth that youâd come to know so well. He accepts you with no hesitation. It helps a bit, to still be wanted like this.
Your boyfriend presses a kiss on the top of your head, and you feel him lift your arms around his shoulders so he can pull you up with him.
âCome on,â he murmurs, leading you over your things and out of your room.
You accept.
âOkay.âÂ
You know this wonât be the last time you feel this way, because it's not the first. Youâre not okay, and maybe thatâs okay. Because youâll work through it. Because as much as it hurts, youâre alive, youâre breathing, and anything else can be reversed.
Youâre not okay, but youâll learn to live through it, to manage and to cope and to know when youâre not able to.
Youâll have happy days, and youâll certainly have sad days. Theyâre all equally yours, and that alone makes them worth fighting for.
And Mydei, yours as he is, would rather go through hell than to not be there for all of it- for all of you.
years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mydei are forced back together for a reunion tourâand the public canât get enough of your chemistry. on stage, youâre electric, but backstage itâs all snide comments, heated arguments, and mydei slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. youâre not sure whatâs worse: how much you still hate him or how much you donât. 16.7k words.
â pairing lead guitarist!mydei x lead singer!fem!reader
â tags romance, angst, smut (angry sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, wall sex), exes to lovers, rockstar!au, alcohol consumption, profanity, smoking, mildly toxic relationship, fellow band members castorice/phainon/hyacine, everyone is emotionally constipated, etc. section titles are all from olivia rodrigoâs song, get him back! not beta read.
â a/n slowly reposting all my old fics as i work to regain my love for writing (for myself, and my enjoyment) :) i hope youâll stick around! âĄ
i). wait, is this the song with the drums?
Your first instinct, when Anaxa drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.
âAbsolutely not,â you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Anaxa simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.
âItâs not a request,â he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. âItâs happening whether youâre on board or not. Your contractâs airtight.âÂ
âThatâs impossible,â you scoff, folding your arms defensively. âI specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.â
âYeah, well, when youâre in a band that makes millions, the label doesnât exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?â
âI canât do this, Anaxa. You know what heâs like. Heâs gonna make this a living hell for me.â
Your managerâs eyes soften just enough to make you look away. âLook, I know itâs not ideal. But itâs just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you donât want to.â
You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. Youâd thought youâd buried that part of your lifeâleft it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydeiâs name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someoneâs mouth.
But the label wants it. The fans want it.Â
âSo, whatâyou just expect me to pretend we didnât break up in front of the entire world?â you snap, though thereâs less fire behind it this time.
Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. âPretend, donât pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as youâre both on that stage together, the crowdâs going to eat it up.â
You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydeiâs right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.
âIâm gonna kill him,â you mutter.
Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. âTry not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.â
You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you canât seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.
Mydei.
Youâve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldnât keep his hands to himself before a show. You donât let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely donât think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was overâwhen you didnât have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore youâd never sing again.
With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but itâs done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions.
The rehearsal studio feels too small. Itâs ironic, reallyâafter spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, youâd think it wouldnât bother you. Youâre the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didnât show up on time), and because you donât know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.
Itâs stupid. You know itâs already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your bandâthe Chrysos Heirsâwas at its peak. Thereâs a familiar, musty smellâstale air and old fabricâand it makes your chest ache just a little.
Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songsâone that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.
âKiss me once and call me baby,Lie to me and say Iâm crazyâCanât believe I let you take meââ
The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.
Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you canât move. Itâs like being punched in the gutâseeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and thatâs what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didnât bother shaving before showing up. Typical.
He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesnât give away muchâjust a calm, uninterested look, like he couldnât give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. Youâd spent months convincing yourself that youâd moved on, that he didnât matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good.Â
He doesnât say anything, just drags his gaze over you like heâs sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You canât let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and thereâs a flicker of something in his eyesâannoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You donât know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesnât say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.
The way heâs ignoring you grates on your nerves. Youâre tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goesâhow heâs always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. Youâre not giving him the satisfaction today.
You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though thereâs nothing to fix. Itâs something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you canât stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights tooâor if heâs just moved on completely while youâre still stuck in the aftermath.
The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.
âHi,â Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. âEverything okay here?â
You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. âYeah. All good.â
Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.
You canât help but glare at him, half-hoping heâll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if heâd just stop pretending like youâre invisible, you wouldnât feel like your chest is caving in. Youâre caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.
Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. âAlready at each otherâs throats, huh?â he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.
âNah,â you bite out. âNo oneâs dead yet.â
Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. Itâs forced, yes, and you know heâs just trying to lighten the mood. It doesnât help much. Mydei doesnât even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like heâs deliberately tuning you out. You look away.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âChrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour â Behind the Music. Episode One.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.
CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I knew it was gonna be awkward, butâwow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didnât even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought Iâd have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]
HYACINE: Honestly, I wasnât sure if theyâd even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in⊠(Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]
PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydeiâ(snorts) he just acted like he didnât give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]
MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didnât I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didnât say anything. Didnât feel like arguing. Didnât feel like⊠dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. Thatâs what matters.
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]
YOU: I didnât think heâd actually come. And when he did⊠(shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didnât even look at me. We used to be⊠I donât know. Better than that. He didnât say anything to me, and I wasnât gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]
CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back thenâget the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]
HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followedâstubborn assholeâbut it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]
PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. Thatâs just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didnât say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. Itâs weird how that works, huh?
[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]
MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasnât⊠terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like sheâs got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess thatâs one thing that hasnât changed.
[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]YOU: The music was the only thing that didnât feel different. Thatâs the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I donât know how to feel about that.
ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.
The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasnât changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesnât matterâtheyâre all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your bandâs name like a war cry.
To your left, Hyacineâs fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. Heâs got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when heâs deep in the music.
Youâre trying to focusâkeep your voice steady, keep your hands from shakingâbut itâs hard when you know heâs right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear heâs doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like heâs got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.
You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.
âHey, everyone,â you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. âFeels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?â
The crowd roars. You can feel itâthe way theyâve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. Youâve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. Heâs right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.
The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.
âBite your tongue âtil it bleeds,
Hide the bruises on your knees,
Say you never caredâ
I know youâre lying through your teeth.â
Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.
âBittersweet vendetta,
Carved your name into my skin,
Kiss me like a secret.
Make me wish Iâd never let you in.â
You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowdâs response is instantaneousâvoices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydeiâs lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like heâs daring you to acknowledge him.
He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.
âShe lies like she means it,
Fake love on her lipsââ
You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you donât miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. Thatâs not the original line. Heâs never changed it beforeânot in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.
The audience reacts immediatelyâsome laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that itâs working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.
You donât look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.
âCut me down with your clever words,
Always knew how to make it hurt,
Fake your way to heaven,
But Iâd follow you through hell first.â
You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothingâs wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you canât tell if itâs fury or something uglierâsomething that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.
The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything youâve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.
âSwore Iâd never write about you,
Guess I lied again somehow,
Made my bed on broken promises,
Tell meâare you happy now?â
The crowdâs roar almost drowns you out, but you donât let up, spitting out the words like theyâre poison on your tongue. Youâre breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.
When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesnât look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.
You force a smile and wave to the crowd.
The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, youâre off. You donât bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breathâyou just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heartâs pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.
You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of himâsmirking like he didnât just pull that shit on stageâmakes your stomach twist with rage.
âWhat the fuck was that?â Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you donât care.
Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like heâs confused about why youâre yelling. âWhat was what?â
âDonât play fucking dumb,â you snap. âYou changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what Iâm talking about.â
He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. âOh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.â
You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. âYou donât get to do that. You donât get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?â
âYouâre really gonna get this worked up over one line?â He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. âCome on, itâs not that deep.â
âNot that deep?â You laugh, but itâs humourless and cold. âYou made it sound like Iâm some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?â
âMaybe if it wasnât true, it wouldnât bother you so much,â he says, leaning back against the wall.
Your jaw drops. âExcuse me?â
Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. âYou always were good at faking itâfeelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.â
Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesnât stumble, but his smirk falls for just a secondâjust enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.
âFuck you,â you spit out. âYou donât know a single thing about me.â
His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. âDonât I? I know you lie like itâs second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like youâre the one who got hurt. But we both know youâre just as guilty as I am.â
âYouâre a fucking asshole.â Youâre breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. âYouâre the one who decided to leave the band first. Iâm not the one who bailed.â
âYeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. Youâre impossible to deal with. Always have been.â
âYou think Iâm impossible? Youâre the one who picks a fight every chance you get. Itâs like you canât stand if Iâm not miserable,â you shoot back. âNewsflash, Mydeiânot everythingâs about you and your bruised ego.â
âSays the girl who canât stand it when someone calls her out,â he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. âMaybe I hit a nerve because you know Iâm right. Youâre so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.â
You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesnât moveâjust stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. âGod, I hate you,â you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.
âFunny. Didnât sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.â
You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darkerâsomething desperate and bitter. âYou think youâre so fucking clever, donât you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. Youâre pathetic.â
âYouâre one to talk,â he grits out. âStill hung up on shit that happened years ago. Iâm pathetic? Youâre the one still singing about heartbreak like itâs gonna make people feel sorry for you.â
You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.
âAdmit it,â Mydei murmurs, low. âYouâre pissed because I called you out, and now you canât hide behind your lyrics like a coward.â
You wrench your hands free, but you donât move back. Youâre too close, breathing hard. âYouâre such a fucking asshole,â you whisper, voice tight.
His eyes bore into yours. âAnd youâre a goddamn liar.â
Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. âSeriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didnât think youâd try to kill each other on night one.â
You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like youâre trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesnât look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.
Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. âGod, you two are like feral cats. Canât we just chill for five seconds?â
âWeâve got interviews in ten minutes,â Phainon pipes up from behind her. âYou guys need to get your shit together.â
Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. âI donât care what personal shit youâve got going on, but donât pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you donât change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. Youâre both being idiots.â
Neither of you says anything, but youâre still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself youâre just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âOpening Night â Sold Out.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]
CASTORICE: Okay, look, Iâm not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesnât do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that weâre all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didnât do us any favours.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]
HYACINE: Theyâre pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that theyâre not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isnât just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers weâre talking about.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]
PHAINON: Yeah, itâs real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each otherâs heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, theyâre both stubborn as hell, and itâs not like we didnât see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and itâs like throwing a match into gasoline.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]
MYDEI: Itâs not my fault she canât handle the truth. Weâre supposed to be putting on a show, arenât we? Guess whatâdramaâs a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, thatâs on her. (Shrugs) Iâm not gonna apologise for making it real.
[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]
YOU: He didnât change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. Thereâs a difference. Itâs not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse heâs telling himself. Itâs about control. He just couldnât stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was⊠fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]
CASTORICE: (Sighs) Youâd think that after all these years, theyâd have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. Weâre not in high school anymore. Weâre on tour. If one of them messes up, itâs not just their mess to clean upâitâs all of ours.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]
HYACINE: Itâs exhausting. Weâre just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit theyâve got going on. Half the time, I feel like Iâm babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]
PHAINON: Honestly, if theyâd just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]
MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. Iâd rather set my guitar on fire.
[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]
YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydeiâs done in a while.
iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess itâs up and down.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âThe Foundersâ Cut.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]
INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the bandâs early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?
YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were⊠just kids, really. Weâd meet up after school in my dadâs garageâhim on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasnât anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.
INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?
YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didnât plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. Weâd play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud andâfun. We didnât think much past that.
INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?
YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thingâsaid she was the only drummer heâd met who wasnât full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.
INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?
YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didnât want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasnât mean about itâjust honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldnât really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.
INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?
YOU: They came later. Weâd been playing these tiny, shitty bar showsâbarely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just implodedâsome drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.
INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?
YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gigâhe was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like heâd been with us the whole time. We didnât even have to teach him the songsâhe just⊠knew. It was weird, but it worked.
INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?
YOU: Incredible. We werenât perfect by any meansâweâd f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didnât care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. Weâd get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.
INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?
YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasnât really something we talked aboutâit just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.
INTERVIEWER: What changed?
YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhereâtouring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didnât have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just⊠go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didnât know how to handle it. We didnât talk. We just fought. About stupid shitâlyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasnât about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting thatâs what we were doing.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]
INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?
MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasnât⊠one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like thereâs one big reason I just up and left. But it wasnât. There was justâtoo much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasnât in the right headspace to deal with it.
INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?
MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didnât really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldnât keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.
INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?
MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got⊠complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasnât ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like oursâlike mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.
INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?
MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of itâsaid I was being impulsive and throwing away something weâd built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didnât say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didnât say anything at all. Just kind of⊠stared at me like Iâd betrayed him or something.
INTERVIEWER: And _____?
MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didnât take it well. She said I was running awayâlike I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasnât just about the band at that point.
INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?
MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasnât something I expected. I thought theyâd keep going without me, honestly. I didnât think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything.Â
INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?
MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didnât say much, just that theyâd decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasnât working. She didnât blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that Iâd screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I donât know if he was angry or justâdisappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.
INTERVIEWER: What about _____?
MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?
MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to herâmore than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart⊠I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that.Â
INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?
MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was goodâdifferent, but good.
The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when thereâs a giant lens pointed right at your face; you canât help but agree. Itâs been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.
Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. Heâs staring at some fixed point behind the photographerâs head, looking like heâs seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious heâs being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, itâs almost insulting.
Castorice throws an arm across Phainonâs shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.
âAll right, good! Thatâs enough for the group shots,â Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. âEveryone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.â
You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.
Mydei hasnât moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.
Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. âAll right, you two. Letâs lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and rawâlike the worldâs finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.â
Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesnât react at all.
âFace each other,â Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. âMydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like youâre caught between fighting and kissing.â
You almost laugh at the irony. Thatâs practically all youâve done since he showed up againâhovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.
Mydeiâs hands settle on your waist, and itâs as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like heâs not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.
His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like heâs seeing something he thought heâd lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.
âCloser,â Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. âMydei, lean in like youâre about to say something youâve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin upâgive him that look, like youâre angry but imploring.â
You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like heâs trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look âedgyâ brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.
When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. âCloser,â she says again. âI need to see that longing.â
You donât bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, âMaybe itâd be easier if he didnât look like heâd rather be doing literally anything else.â
His eyes snap to yours, defensive. âSorry Iâm not putting on enough of a show for you,â he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.
âMaybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldnât feel like pulling teeth,â you hiss.
He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. âThere you fucking go again. Acting like youâre the only one who cares about this.â
You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. âOh, forgive me for thinking you donât give a shit. Itâs not like you havenât disappeared for months without a word.â
âYou think I wanted to leave?â
âYou didnât exactly try to stay,â you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. âYou left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now youâre back, and youâre acting like none of it mattered.â
âYou didnât want me to stay,â he says, barely more than a whisper. âYou didnât even ask.â
The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. âHow was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?â you fire back. âYou made it clear that I wasnât worth staying for.â
His expression hardens, like heâs trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. âThatâs not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didnât care.â
You want to scream at him for being so obliviousâfor acting like you didnât spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. âGuess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.â
Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaeaâs voice cuts through.
âYes! Thatâs it!â she crows. âKeep it up. Mydei, cup her face.â
He doesnât move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like itâs muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.
You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like theyâre glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distantâjust noise behind the thunder in your chest.
When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydeiâs arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You donât look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âThe Membersâ Cut.â
The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]
PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. Youâd think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I donât think Iâve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]
CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydeiâs hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didnât matter how hot it wasâsheâd be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydeiâd just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. Theyâd go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtimeâjust the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]
HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just⊠clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard âAfter Midnightâ, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tellâevery word, every noteâthey put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]
PHAINON: But, yâknow, things got complicated. Like they always do. Theyâre both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still⊠(Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyoneâs gonna be okay.
iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.
Youâre sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagorasâ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.
You pick up and press the phone to your ear. âYeah?â
âDonât sound so enthusiastic,â Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. âIâm just checking in.â
âFantastic,â you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. âPhotoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.â
âGreat Kephale,â he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. âAre you two still at each otherâs throats?â
âItâs kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,â you snap. âAglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. Itâsââ You break off, clenching your jaw. âItâs annoying.â
Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. âYouâre letting him get to you.â
âYeah, no shit.â
âThen stop it,â he says, as if itâs that easy. âYou donât have to like him, but you do have to get through this. Itâs one shoot and a few public appearances. Youâve handled worse.â
âThatâs the problem. Itâs not supposed to be worse. Weâre supposed to be professionals, but heâsâheâs making it impossible.â
Anaxa doesnât answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. âLook, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You donât have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and donât give him the satisfaction of knowing heâs pissing you off.â
You hate that heâs right. âYeah. I know.â
âYou want me to handle anything?â
âNo,â you say quickly, shaking your head even though he canât see it. âIâll deal with it.â
He doesnât bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that itâs still gnawing at youâthe frustration, the hurt, the way Mydeiâs indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.
You tell yourself itâs fine. You can handle it. Youâve been through worse.
A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes againâmore impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasnât improved because of Anaxaâs call.
You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but itâs Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.
âWhat do you want?â you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.
He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. âIâ Just wanted toââ
âOh, please,â you interrupt. âLike you fucking care.â
âDonât start.â
âIâm starting,â you snap back, âbecause you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now youâre playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?â
âMaybe I do care,â he tells you, and you cut in again.
âYouâre the one who looked like heâd rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.â
âItâs not thatââ He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. âYou donât get it.â
âThen explain it to me!â you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. âYou canât just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?â
That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. âMaybe if you didnât act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldnât feel like Iâm losing my mind around you,â he spits out.
âYeah?â you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. âMaybe if you didnât keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldnât be stuck in this stupid cycle!â
He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. âIâm not running.â
âYes, you are,â you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. âYou always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, itâll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesnât.â
He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and youâre so sick of itâso tired of dancing around whateverâs been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.
Itâs not soft or carefulânothing about it is gentle. Itâs teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.
Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like heâs terrified youâll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.
âYouâre an asshole,â you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.
He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. âYeah? Youâre not much better.â
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesnât even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate himâyou hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.
You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like heâs trying to erase every insult youâve ever thrown at him. Youâre just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.
He eases you down when you moanâembarrassingly loudly, but you donât give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you donât stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assaultâevery touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the angerâbut you donât pull away.Â
You hate him. You love him. You need him.
His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. Youâre wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.
âYou always have to have the last fucking word, donât you?â he grits out.
You scoff. âSomeoneâs gotta knock you off your high horse.â
He huffs a laugh, but itâs rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.
You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesnât waste any timeâheâs ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.
âMydeiââ you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.
âShut up,â he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.
âGod, youâre such an asshole,â you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.
He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. âYouâre still running your mouth,â he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. âWonder if I can make you shut up.â
He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like heâs starved for it.
Your fingers tighten in his hair. You canât help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.
When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. Youâre barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you canât stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. âYou done being a brat now?â
You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. âFuck you.â
His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, heâs pressing his mouth against you againârough, merciless, relentless. It doesnât take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.
He doesnât stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like heâs addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, âYouâll give me one more, wonât you?â
Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until itâs bunched under your arms. Youâre still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.
He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lipsâsweet and dizzying all at once. Youâre still recovering from your climax, but it doesnât matterâhe kisses you like heâs making up for every second he hasnât touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.
His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You donât even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.
You donât even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you canât resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.
He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. Youâre about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.
âThought you were gonna give me attitude,â he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. âGuess you can be good when you want to.â
âShut up,â you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.
Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.
âQuit teasing,â you pant. Mydeiâs eyes flash with something dark and hungry.
He doesnât bother replyingâjust scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You donât have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.
He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you donât miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.
âAre you sure?â he asks, eyes roaming over your face.
You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. âIf you donât fuck me right now, I swearââ
You donât get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.
âFuck,â he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of himâthick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.
Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. Youâre clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.
âFuckâso tight,â he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. âYou feel so fucking good. Sâlike you were made for me.â
You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You canât stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.
âYeah? That good, huh?â he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.
Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didnât even know you could make.
His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. Youâre so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.
âFuckââ Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesnât let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. âI canâtâfuck, Iâmââ
âGonna come again?â he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. âYouâre gonna come all over my cock, arenât you? Thatâs it. Good girl.â
His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where theyâre locked around his waist.
Mydei doesnât slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. Youâre dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.
You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.
His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like heâs not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. Youâre still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.
For a long moment, neither of you moveâyou just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.
âStill think Iâm running my mouth?â you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.
Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. âMaybe,â he says, a little bit hoarse, âbut at least I finally shut you up.â
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âChrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour â Behind the Music. Episode Two.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]
CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. Itâs like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us⊠well, itâs complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Donât even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]
HYACINE: Thereâs definitely still some⊠uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but weâd always make up eventually. Now? I donât know. Itâs like everyoneâs got their guard up. Phainonâs doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesnât notice, but Mydei and _____⊠(Pauses) Itâs like walking on eggshells around them.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]
PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one anotherâfriends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasnât just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now itâs like⊠weâre all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothingâs changed, while Mydei and _____ act like theyâre on opposite sides of a war zone. Itâs exhausting.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]
MYDEI: Iâm not gonna sit here and pretend everythingâs fine. Itâs not. The band breaking up after I left? Iâm sure that wasnât just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like weâre one big happy family again, but she knows itâs not that simple. Phainonâs always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I donât know.
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]
YOU: Itâs frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacineâs just⊠tired. Phainonâs stuck playing mediator, and Mydeiâ(shakes head)âhe still looks at me like itâs probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasnât just me who made it boil down to this.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]
CASTORICE: Weâve always been a mess. Thatâs kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like weâre just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each otherâs heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]
HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like weâre playing pretend. Like weâre trying to convince ourselves that weâre still friends when weâre really just⊠people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyoneâs just waiting for someone to break the silence. I donât know. Maybe itâll get better once weâve been on the road for longer.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]
PHAINON: I think everyoneâs just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, itâs like weâre scared of stepping on each otherâs wounds. Mydeiâs carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no oneâs talking about the elephant in the room. Weâre good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]
MYDEI: You donât just come back from something like that. You donât go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. Iâm not saying itâs all her fault. (Hesitates) Iâm just saying that itâs easier to be mad than to admit I mightâve messed up, too. Thatâs why I keep my distance. Itâs just⊠easier that way.
[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]
YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I donât know what I expectedâa clean slate, maybe? But it doesnât work like that. Weâre still carrying the past with us, and itâs dragging us down. I guess⊠I just wish heâd talk to me. Even if itâs to say he hates me. At least that would be something.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]
CASTORICE: Whatever happens, Iâm not giving up. Weâre stuck with each other. Thatâs just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, weâre gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? Thereâs still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]
PHAINON: Theyâll figure it out. Weâre not just a bandâweâre more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. Weâll get there.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]
HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I donât know. But I do know thisâon stage, weâre still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.
v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.
When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold.Â
Itâs lateâpast midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. Thereâs no trace of Mydei. Itâs as if he was never here, didnât fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didnât lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.
You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.
Itâs stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. Thereâs a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing.Â
The words should be flowing by nowâanger and frustration always make for good materialâbut tonight, theyâre stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.
It shouldnât feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fightâmade your chest ache. Youâre not surprised that heâs gone. Youâre not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.
Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.
You look at me like Iâm your only song,
And I play the part even when it feels wrong.
Weâre always dancing on the edge of a goodbye,
But Iâd risk the fall just to feel you by my side.
You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. Itâs better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.
Weâre tangled and twisted and never the same,
We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain.
Youâre poison and honey and everything wrong,
And I hate that youâre still the one I want.
The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least theyâre honest. Maybe thatâs why itâs so hard to write them downâbecause admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound youâve been pretending doesnât exist.
You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But itâs not that simple. You donât just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldnât breathe. You want the Mydei who didnât always look at you like youâre a problem he canât fix.
You know youâre being unfair. Heâs not the only one whoâs changed. Youâre not the same eitherâtoo guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if youâre just setting yourself up for disappointment because itâs easier than admitting you still love him.
Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.
You look at me like Iâm the one youâve been missing,
Kiss me like Iâm the dream you keep wishing
Would come true when the lights fade awayâ
But you never stay.
You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.
You told yourself you wouldnât do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starvingâlike you were something he couldnât resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.
You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that wonât heal.
The truth is, youâd let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant heâd look at you like that again. Like youâre the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you donât know how to be anything else when it comes to him.
Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âThe Foundersâ Cut.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]
YOU: Writing with Mydei⊠God, it used to be so easy. We didnât have to think about it. (Smiles softly) Weâd just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartmentâbarely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacineâs place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.
INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?
YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didnât even talk before starting a song. Iâd be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and heâd be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes Iâd hum something, and heâd justâpick it up. It was like we were reading each otherâs minds.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]
MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. Sheâd always overthink the wordsâhad to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didnât care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.
INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?
MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. Iâd stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didnât say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but⊠I guess that was our way of making up.
[CUT TO: YOU]
YOU: We never talked about it, you know? Weâd write all these songs that were practically confessionsâabout each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldnât stand being apartâand then weâd just⊠move on. Never acknowledged it.
INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?
YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.
[CUT TO: MYDEI]
MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of⊠bleeding out whatever she couldnât say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And⊠yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didnât need anything else back then.
[CUT TO: YOU]
YOU: Itâs funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant conceptâsomething that happened to other people. Never thought weâd end up writing about each other.
vi). i want to get him back (and then?)
The rooftop is quiet at this hourâtoo early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.
The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.
Thatâs when you notice him.
At first, itâs just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know itâs himâknow it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.
You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leaveâpretend you didnât see him, pretend you didnât spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.
But you donât.
Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesnât look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.
âWhyâd you leave?â you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.
Heâs quiet for a long time. You wonder if heâs even going to answer.
âI didnât want to wake you,â he says eventually, still not looking at you.
You huff a breath. Itâs not quite a laugh. âYou didnât want to be there.â
He doesnât argue. The silence stretches again, but itâs not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He noticesâalways noticesâand shifts just slightly so heâs blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.
âYou looked peaceful,â Mydei says. âI didnât want to mess it up.â
âYou think not being there was better?â
âI didnât know what to say.â
You nod. You donât push. Youâve learned not to with him. âItâs not just about tonight,â you say quietly.
He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. âI know.â
The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. Itâs beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something youâre scared to touch because you know itâs too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. Thereâs a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like itâs stuck. The way mornings come anyway.
You look at Mydei again.
Heâs tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But heâs here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didnât leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but wonât let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.
He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. Itâs a brief touch, barely there, but itâs enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.
You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. Itâs the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You donât even know what.
So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. âI should go.â
He nods too, but he doesnât move. Doesnât stop you either.
You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You donât notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You donât notice it, because youâre too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.
He doesnât move for a while after youâre gone.
Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakableâyour quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.
He reads it once. Twice.
Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.
The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slowerâdimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You canât see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.
But Mydeiâs there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.
Heâs adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.
Itâs the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?
The crowd doesnât know what theyâre about to hear. Most of them donât even know the song, youâre pretty sure. Itâs some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldnât speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.
Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.
The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like itâs your first breath of the night.
âI told myself I wouldnât care this time,
Said your name like it didnât still taste like goodbye.
But you look at me like you never learned how to let goâŠâ
Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You donât look at him, not yet. You can feel his presenceâlike gravityâbut you donât turn your head.
Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.
âI said we were fire meant to burn out fast,
But I keep finding you in every song Iâve written last.
You donât ask me to stay, and I donât ask you to tryâŠ
But weâre still standing here, pretending weâre fine.â
His voiceâGod, his voice. Itâs rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. Heâs not just singing. Heâs looking at you like heâs saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.
Your heartâs pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching.Â
The chorus crashes over both of you.
âSo lie to me, baby, say itâs still love,
Say the ending never mattered, that this beginningâs enough.
We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start,
But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.â
Mydei steps closer. You do, too. Itâs instinct, not plan. You donât even realise it until youâre nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.
You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like heâs trying to remember the shape of youânot just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.
âMaybe weâll break like we always do,
Maybe weâll forget this in the morning too.
But for nowâGod, for nowâ
You still feel like a home I never knew.â
The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.
You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years agoâbarefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.
The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.
âAnd Iâd sing this with you a thousand times⊠if youâd let me.â
You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a momentâjust a momentâthereâs silence. Just you and Mydei.
He doesnât move. Heâs staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.
You turn away first. Your heartâs already too full. One more second and it might burst.
The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: âThe Membersâ Cut.â
[INT. STUDIO â DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]
CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didnât say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, weâd be in the middle of a song, and Iâd be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us couldâve vanished into thin air, and they wouldnât have noticed.
(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)
CASTORICE (CONTâD): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, youâre in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, yâknow⊠it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isnât something you fake.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]
HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, youâd be tuning your guitar, and theyâd just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they werenât literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song theyâd performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.
(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)
HYACINE (CONTâD): They made you believe in that kind of love, yâknow? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldnât watch them and not feel it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]
PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one showâMydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I donât know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.
(Shakes his head and scoffs.)
PHAINON (CONTâD): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didnât just love each other, they showed it. And thatâs rare. You donât get that kind of honesty on stage very often.
(His smirk fades just slightly.)
PHAINON (CONTâD):  âŠThatâs why it was so hard when it ended.
vii). âcause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.
The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just⊠like theyâre expecting something. Like they know something you donât.
You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up nextâthe same one youâve done every night for years. Itâs not your most popular song, but itâs yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.
You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.
But when you hear the first notes, theyâre not yours.
Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. Itâs not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.
Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei standsâguitar in hand, face calm. Heâs adjusted his mic, and heâs⊠smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like heâs doing something that matters to him more than heâs ready to admit.
âThis oneâs not on the list,â he says into the mic, casual, like this doesnât upend everything. âI wanted to try something new tonight.â
Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once.Â
Mydei starts to sing.
âYou look at me like Iâm your only song,
And I play the part even when it feels wrong.â
It hits you like a punch to the ribs.
That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you werenât proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. Youâd thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.
Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking youâlike a normal person wouldâhe set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.
âWeâre tangled and twisted and never the same,
We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain.
Youâre poison and honey and everything wrong,
And I hate that youâre still the one I want.â
Itâs a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasnât sure that youâd hear itâor worse, that you would.
He doesnât look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush thatâs fallen over the audience, like they know this isnât just a love song.
You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesnât play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like theyâre ready to jump in if needed, but they donât. Neither of you do.
This is his moment, and your words.
âYou look at me like Iâm the one youâve been missing,
Kiss me like Iâm the dream you keep wishing
Would come true when the lights fade awayâ
But you never stay.â
You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if youâre standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words werenât just lyricsâthey were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.
No. Singing them.
Your fingers curl into your palms. You donât know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved.Â
He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they eruptâwhistling, cheering, screaming. Itâs a standing ovation for something they didnât even know was a story.
And still, Mydei hasnât looked at youâuntil now.
He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You donât smile. You donât clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.
Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heartâs racing. You donât know what happens after this; what this means; what youâre supposed to say.
You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, itâs his, too.
The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzingâcrew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydeiâs voice as he sang your lyrics.
His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.
Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.
You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.
âHey,â he says, not turning around yet.
You stare at the back of his head. âDonât do that to me.â
Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. âI figured youâd be mad.â
âMad?â You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. âYou think Iâm mad?â
âYou look mad.â
âI am mad,â you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. âYou sang a song you werenât supposed to have. You didnât even ask me, Mydei. You justâjust stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.â
âIt didnât mean nothing,â he says. âThatâs why I sang it.â
Youâre both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until itâs almost unbearable.
âYou couldâve told me,â you say finally, voice hoarse. âYou couldâve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you donât. You never do.â
Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like heâs bracing himself. âI didnât know how.â
You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. âThatâs such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now youâre justâstanding there, acting like itâs some impossible thing.â
He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, heâs not the cold, distant version of himself heâs been for months. Heâs just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.
âI didnât know how to say I missed you,â he admits. âSo I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.â
You donât want to forgive him. You really donât.
But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way heâs looking at youâlike youâve always been the only person in the room, and heâs just been waiting to see you again for real.
You take one shaky step forward. Then another.
When your lips crash into his, it isnât careful or slow. Itâs everything youâve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until itâs just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.
You part, breathless.
Neither of you speaks at first. Youâre still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips.Â
Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, âI want to get you back.â
Mydei doesnât hesitate. âYou already have.â
It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside youâsomething small and soft and long-buried. You almost donât realise youâre crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.
You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. âIâm still mad at you.â
âI know.â His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. âYouâre allowed to be.â
You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he blinks.
As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocketâfolded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You donât notice, but Mydei does.
He kneels to pick it up after youâre gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.
He reads the first line. Smiles.
He doesnât hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.
[CUT TO BLACK]
Text appears on screen: âChrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.â
Synopsis: On a bright, sunny day, the hero of Amphoreus and the most beautilul princess of the east were meant to become each other's in holy matrimony. Petals piled high on the streets, trumpets roared and the crowols waited in anticipation for the words âI doâ to unite two pure hearts. That is, until, the monster arrived.
Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Yandere Themes, Abduction, Isolation, Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Heavy NSFW, Dubcon â Consensual Sex, Corruption Kink, Size Difference, Age Gap Relationships (Older Male x Younger Female), Flame Reaver's Shadows, Dubious Morality, Mentions of Blood, Infidelity, Fluff (Kind Of), Slight Knight!Phainon x Reader, Mentions of Human Experimentations, Unreliable Narrators. MDNI.
Words: 13,528 (I am so sorry)
⥠Note: I usually write Flame Reaver as that burnt out exhausted Phailing so, I wanted to write sinister Flame Reaver out of sheer personal indulgence for once â did I mention that this fic is very self-indulgent? I do apologize.
ă Artwork Credits ă ă Read On AO3 ă
That lone Cecilia at the dip of the cliff has wilted.
Or at least, you think it has, given the distance. The winds and the clouds have relentlessly tested the limits of your vision, just as they tested that flowerâs strength.
But you have scant sympathy for its ending. The flower may be no more, but it was free, it shed its last petal on the soil of its home.
Home. Has it been a week since you have been away from yours? Two weeks? A month? A daunting task to measure the time from a cloud-kissed fortress, but you try anyway. It's either that, counting the ridges in the bricks under your nails, or pacing like an ant at the cusp of death ; which, youâd rather not tease after just narrowly escaping it.
So, you sigh as though the world were hurled upon your shoulders, even though it was far, far away from the peak of the tower.
There are only apparitions of stars up here, crescent moon shining at the cusp of twilight twice a day, and boredom. Boredom that has coated your being like a tipped inkwell upon a paper, and no matter how anxiously you attempt to remove it, it sticks, it bleeds into the ivory of your wedding dress, plunging it in ruin like your fateâ
âThinking about escape plans again, princess?â
Ah, and there's him, too. The monster.
You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.
If you had any clue that heâd entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.
You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.
What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.
You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.
Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.
You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it â almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.
It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.
That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.
âIf I am?â you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.
It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.
Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.
He does that a lot, as youâve observed.
What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.
Typically, heâd deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior⊠you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.
âWell,â human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged â you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.
The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, âWe both know how that ends, don't we?â unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.
As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairwayâ
âY-you came back early todayâŠ!â you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaverâs nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.
You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.
âAre you upset?â your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.
If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.
Thisâ this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.
It infuriates you.
You want scream and break a few things.
For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?
(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)
Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.
It's hard to pinpoint the monsterâs expression due to that mask â if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.
âYou are.â he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.
You cross your arms across your chest, âAm not.â your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.
And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.
Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.
Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.
âWhyâŠâ you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, âWhy does it matter to youâŠ?â
The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, âCan it not matter to me?â the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.
Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.
How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?
âIâIâm cold!!!â
If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.
It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.
You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.
A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.
Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.
The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.
You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.
The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what youâd expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.
The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.
He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.
You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, âThank youâŠ?â
You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaverâs shoulders seem to loosen.
The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.
Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.
âHmph.â he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.
You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.
It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.
Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.
So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself â in the cloak of your captor, no less.
The fact that there are blankets at armâs reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.
It chills you more when the events thatâd preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.
Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed â those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.
Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times itâs heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.
Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort youâd received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.
Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagorasâ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver â how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?
He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror heâd endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.
The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the centuryâs most anticipated wedding.
You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if heâd been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.
Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.
Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.
And perhaps, that is the ⊠problem.
âSee that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?â you recall him pointing once in one âdateâ, and youâd followed his eager finger with all your trust.
âThat is called a Sousourada.â the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.
Your mouth forms an âOâ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, âItâs so cute.â you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.
If possible, Phainon's smile widens. âRight?â he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.
âBack in⊠Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.â he leans back against the bench, smile softening.
âThe new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I supposeâŠ!â his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.
âTheyâd keep the air alive with their songs all day long,â his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.
âAnd I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps⊠though Snowy would always sniff me ouâ ah! I'm extremely sorry, my ladyâ I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.â
A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.
After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry â not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.
You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.
âWhat do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?â your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, âIâd like to formally mourn the departed with you.â
Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.
Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. âUhmâŠâ you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.
Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.
âAre you certain that you⊠want to do that with me, my lady?â Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.
There's no way you could say no to that look, âMhm, I am.â you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.
A trembling breath leaves the heroâs lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.
Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.
âPatience, my lord?â you loosen the press of your hand.
The gold in Phainonâs eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.
âOf course â! I apologize again, Iââ he grips your hand before it could slip away, âI don't know what came over me there, it's just thatâŠâ he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.
âUgh⊠excuse me, I was just being an idiot.â he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.
When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. âIâll be as patient as you order me to be,â his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, ââ For as long as you want me to be.â he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.
Yes, you are the lucky woman whoâll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.
Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.
There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.
âAre you planning on luring it to you with that bread?â the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.
You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say â what if I am?
The Flame Reaver huffs, âAre you aware that they're carnivores?â
That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, âI know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? Iâll give it meat after!â
The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.
âFoolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predatorâs meal is the thrill of the hunt?â
You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.
âAhh, or perhaps,â your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, âYouâre leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that bratâs skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.â
âDonât speak of my fiance like that.â this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.
Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. â⊠Or else?â
âOr⊠or else Iââ you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. âIâllâŠ!â
Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.
âHm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?â
You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.
âI don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?â
Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.
You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.
A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.
You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.
One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.
There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.
Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.
âWhat?â he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadowâs grasp, âShall I get you a bib as well?â
Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.
âDonât touch me!â you recoil in the Shadowsâ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.
The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, âIâm warning you Iââ you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.
Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.
The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.
No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.
Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, âUh, Flame Reaââ
âKhaslana.â
Right. Youâd nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title heâs known by, one which youâll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.
âAhem, uhm, I was wondering â! Are these⊠do these clones of yours have free will?â you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.
â⊠Why do you ask?â you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.
Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.
You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, âIâm bored.â
âWhat?â the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.
It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, âBoreeeeeed! Iâm so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!â you clench your fists, dodging the Shadowâs attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.
A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, âYouâre eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?â there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.
âWhat do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics ofâmmph!â the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.
You push through to make your point anyway, âLeevewing! Baysics of leevinh!â
The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.
He forces out an annoyed sigh, âAlright then, princess.â crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. âWhat is âentertainmentâ?â
The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, âLike! Reading! Books!â
A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, âWhile eating?â
âYes!â
âThatâs childish.â
âWhoaââ you lean back as though scandalized, âHave you ever tried reading a good book while eating?â
The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, âI don't need to eat.â
He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.
You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.
âThatâs⊠quite sad.â your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.
Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.
All the indignation thatâd lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.
You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.
You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.
âCome down after youâve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.â
â
You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.
It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.
Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.
Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory â were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.
It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.
When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the âDelivererâ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.
âWhich part moved you the most?â sheâd asked in that terse tone of hers.
You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). âThe part where⊠the monster's past was revealed.â
âOh? Do elaborate.â
âUhm,â it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, âIt was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.â
The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, âAnd what did you think about the Deliverer?â
You stared at the painted sun on the bookâs cover for a second, and then shrugged. âHe was okay.â
That took her visibly by surprise.
âHuh. What an odd child.â
The books that filled the âlibraryâ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books youâd read back at home.
Since your arrival â or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place â youâve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.
The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholarâs secret study.
And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.
The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.
It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.
You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled âbasics of meteorologyâ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.
A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.
You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as â if not more â emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think itâd be them.
It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.
Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.
With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise â the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.
A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.
He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.
Youâve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.
Which he meets.
You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.
He copies it.
You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.
And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.
âHey, can youââ your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.
The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.
The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.
When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.
You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.
His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.
Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.
When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap â you didnât even realize itâd fallen from your hands.
When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.
âThere lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus â we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.â
âAnd the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.â
âLady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia⊠and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun whoâll bring dawn to this world one day.â
You remember the edge of pride on your governessâ face as sheâd introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.
Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.
On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his houseâŠ
Steam cloakâs the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.
The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.
Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath â you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.
For the past weeks, youâve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.
But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.
In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.
Though it doesn't last long.
You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.
Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.
The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.
A sting shakes you awake.
The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.
At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.
Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.
Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.
The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot â from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.
Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.
By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.
On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.
Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.
You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.
You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.
Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.
It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.
A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.
Steam cloakâs the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.
The waterâs heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.
Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. Youâve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.
Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.
⊠His Shadows.
You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.
There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.
The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.
Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.
A faint tremble seizes your body.
What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?
And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?
Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.
You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the âlibraryâ â without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.
Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.
If breaking your ankle the last time youâd tried to escape wasn't bad enough, theyâd decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.
Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.
As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously â he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.
But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things youâve been taught your whole life to loathe.
The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.
You're scared to even observe it for long â and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).
Your confidence in that bratâs skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.
Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.
You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where heâd reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.
The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadowsâ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?
Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.
You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinetâs door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.
The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.
A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.
You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.
Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.
You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.
⊠But the prospect of finding out how heâd react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.
Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candlesâ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.
The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.
You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274
âą LIGHT CALANDER â 4894, MONTH OF JOY âą
The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. Oneâs location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called âKhaslanaâ. ⊠Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.
âŠ
ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY âą
Admittance of subject âNeikos496â. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.
Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of âbrother Phainonâ. Further observation required.
âŠ
ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM âą
Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.
..
ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING âą
Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.
..
ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING âą
Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..
ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE âą
Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth⊠Form growing distant from that of⊠umans⊠Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -
âą LIGHT CALENDER â 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT âą
Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash⊠Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.
Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The towerâs defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. â
âI thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?â
Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.
You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.
The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek â not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.
His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.
âAnswer me, princess.â youâre yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.
The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.
You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, âWhatâs wrong?â condescension drips from his words and into your ear, âYou weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.â
âIâŠâ you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. âIâmââ
Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.
âAre you about to apologize, princess?â he moans against your cheek. âSave me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.â
That makes you blink as some clarity returns.
Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.
âIâm sure you know where my interest is in.â you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated â at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.
âBut the question is,â his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, âAre you brave enough to indulge me?â he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.
You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.
You know what he's pushing you towards.
Phainon â you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and youâd wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.
âYouâŠâ you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. âYou should stop touching me like this. Iâ I'm betrothed to someone else!â
In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.
But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.
âOh? Betrothed you sayâŠâ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.
âBut did you remember that the past few months?â something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, âOr, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?â
You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.
You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely â so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.
The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, âIâm curious, princess,â
He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, âWould your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself youâve given to me already?â he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.
âEven now,â he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, âYou don't tell me no, not even once.â
That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance heâd illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.
No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride â if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.
So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?
The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. âI have a proposal, princess.â
âInstead of living like a prize on that bratâs shelf,â he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, âWhy don't you become mine instead?â
Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.
Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it â enjoyed it even.
And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver â Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss heâs only been teasing you with touches and words.
Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?
There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.
It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea â in his eyes.
His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.
And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.
When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.
Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.
Until, the mad researcher asked, âDonât you want revenge?â
Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.
At his silence, the scholar urged, âFor your ruined hometown? For your family?â
That, thatâd struck him.
Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.
That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.
But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.
âThe pain and the anger are your life forces.â heâd been told, âNurture it, cling to it and wield it.â
But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much heâd asked.
Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.
âFor the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!â Lygus had exclaimed in delight, âAnd youâ you⊠will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!â
Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.
Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. Heâd be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.
But of course, why would it be so kind to him?
âHave you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!â
âThe Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!â
âHe must be defeated!â
âOff with his head!â
âDeath to the monster!'â
âBURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!â
Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.
As such, heâd used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khasâ Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.
And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate âheroesâ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.
⊠That was until, he came.
Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides â every bit the hero from those stories heâd read with him in childhood.
A mirror of himself, if heâd still retained anything of his former image.
Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.
Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory â but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.
And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's âfavorâ.
You were one such âtreasureâ, the beloved princess of Stygia whoâd been hidden since childhood from the world.
Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The centuryâs most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!
How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.
It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.
So easily? Just like that?
The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.
The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames â now that was pretty.
And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.
Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.
Youâd looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.
So, he took you.
Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.
In the beginning, heâd been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.
But something had stopped him, something⊠yes, that ruffled look on your face, how youâd scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.
He thought it was amusing â and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.
So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.
The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.
See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.
So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.
Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.
It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.
And that brewed a new plan in his mind.
He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.
Until youâre so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.
And you will play right into his hands.
Heâll make sure of it.
Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.
When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.
Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.
Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.
With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.
Youâd tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.
Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? Youâd even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.
But what can you do? Youâve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance â and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.
Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?
Let alone cherish?
The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.
An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.
âWhat are you doing?â he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.
Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.
But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.
The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, âYou said,â your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, âThat you could make me forget it all.â
You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. âBut I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.â warm breath mingling with his.
The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.
âCorrection, princess.â he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. âI offered you to become mine.â
Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.
You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.
âBecome yours without even seeing âyouâ?â you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.
Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. Youâd only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.
(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle thatâd brought to your mouth.)
His sigh makes you blink, âYouâre an impulsive creature.â he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.
âDoes it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?â his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.
You purse your lips in confusion, âIs your face radioactive?â
The taps pause, âWorse.â he says breezily.
âHow worse?â you push closer.
âEnough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?â there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself â is uncertain.
You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. âTry me.â
A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.
The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.
It's enough permission for you.
Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.
A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.
Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than youâve ever dared to venture.
Khaslana turns his head away â in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.
It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.
You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands â and kiss him.
Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.
His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.
You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.
It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.
You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips â
âPRINCESS [NAME]!!!â
A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.
âLADY [NAME]?!!â
Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, youâve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altarâ
Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.
âAhhâŠâ he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, âLooks like your heroâ no, your fiance is here to pick you up.â
Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and thenâ him.
A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).
âWell then? Princess?â your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, âWhat will you do now?â a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.
You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.
It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows â you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.
âŠ. However.
âI don't want to go.â your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the heroâs armory, those silver strands â ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.
It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.
ââŠWhat?â
You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, âI don't want to go baâ oofâ!â
A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.
âI don't believe you,â he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.
You keep on searching for it though, âTell me what will make you believe then.â
He sneers, âThis is just a game to you.â
âIt is not.â frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.
But he doesn't listen, âYou don't even understandâ you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to youâ!â he tugs at his hair.
You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, âYou naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?â his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. âThere is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do thatââ
You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.
Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything heâs dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.
His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.
Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.
His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself â and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.
âYouâll leave me.â he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.
Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.
Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. âYouâll abandon me at the first chance you getâ like him, like everyone ââ
Your nails dig into his shoulders, âNever. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.â
A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.
âTell meâŠâ his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. âTell me to stop, princess.â he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.
Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, âDonâtâ don't stop, Khaslana.â
A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.
âCould you⊠kiss me again?â you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, âSo that I know this isn't a dream?â
He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, â⊠Please?â
If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.
This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.
Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.
The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face â though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.
The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.
Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, youâd caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop â till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.
Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.
When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears â you feel lightheaded in the best way.
âHahâŠâ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. âSick of me already?â
At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.
It makes him croon.
Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.
âYouâre one greedy princess, aren't you?â your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.
You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.
His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.
His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.
âWhatâs wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?â he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh â but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.
He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.
âWell,â he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. âIt doesn't really matter to me either way. BecauseâŠâ
He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one â he dives in.
You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.
Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.
Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.
Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.
He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.
Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.
You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaiseâs surface.
The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve â no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.
The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.
But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.
Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.
He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.
âBeautiful.â he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.
The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.
But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.
It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.
You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold â and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.
You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.
âPrincess,â he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback â mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.
âYouâve given yourself to me so sweetly.â your heart thumps at the praise, âSo,â he presses his forehead against yours, âWonât you let me give myself to you, in return?â
You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten â perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability heâs offered.
You nod, âY-yes,â wrapping your arms around his shoulders, âAll of youâ I want all of you, Khaslana.â
Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, âLast chance, princessâ if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.â
Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, âGood.â
This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.
Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.
Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.
Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.
One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.
Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine â your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.
âTskâŠâ Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, âI thought the Shadows had loosened you enoâ ughâŠâ
Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.
Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.
And then, a chuckle escapes him â snapping you out of the numbing jolts.
You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.
In all honesty? You feel the same.
â[Name], [Name], [Name]âŠâ he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.
âKha..asâŠâ!â you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.
âShhhâŠâ Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. âI know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.â
You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.
With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.
In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.
Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together â your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.
If he died right here, he thinks, heâd die a very, very happy man.
The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.
Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.
Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.
Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.
And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where youâve always yearned to be at.
â
Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.
When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.
It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.
Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that heâs spent all night in that position.
For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him â at his unmasked face.
Tenderness dusts the porcelain edges like the brushworks on a beloved painting, the burgeoning dawn makes his silver hair sparkle.
He reaches to take your smaller hand in his, his thumb traces circles on the faint swells on your wrist, before he leans down to press his lips against the mark on your ring finger.
You don't flinch, or recoil, rather, you relax in his hold and it makes his whole soul preen in victory.
You chose him, you chose the monster instead of the hero.
Youâve decided to stay with him instead of his brother, youâve become his and youâve accepted him in return â all with a smile.
And really, what better revenge than this?
⊠So, youâve made it this far, huh? Have this badge đ of the Freaklingsâąïž
The base of this fic is taken from a very old brainrot I shared when Flame Reaver was first leaked and the âtwistâ is taken from a Phantom of the Opera au I had in my drafts (featuring Phainon and Flame Reaver as well). But I kind of lost interest in that project, so, I decided to use it here instead đ
This is very, very different from my usual works, I knowww. The objective of this fic was really only to dump all of my Flame Reaver thirsts in one place because oh my god, they were driving me CRAZY every ovulation season and I just really really needed to get them out somewhere once and for all.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading<3 Iâll now go reconnect with nature đż
Synopsis: In the ruins of Okhema, you fall in love with a man you can never keep.
HSR Masterlist
Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader
Word Count: 3.2k
Content Warnings: spoilers for 3.5, set entirely in 3.5, angst, mydeimos the lance of yearning, vague mentions of body horror wrt the soul-splitting ceremony??, mydei probably is ooc sorry idgaf he is being a good boy for the (nonexistent) plot, krateros glazing, eurypon is a good dad as he canonically Was in that one cycle, coping mechanisms and relationship dynamics many would considerâŠinterestingâŠ, light smut (not really described but theyâre basically naked in like every scene so mdni please!), the majority of this was written on a vibe so itâs very incoherent and plotless
A/N: hi the posts about the soul splitting ceremony haunted me too much i had to get my thoughts down somewhere . donât expect greatness or comprehensibility okay thank you <33
Krateros liked to tell you that Okhema was once the heart of Amphoreus â a Chrysos Heir in its own right, as stalwart and gleaming as the ones who loved it â but now, it was little more than a witching town, empty and devoid of life barring those few remaining ghosts that steadfastly defended the formerly holy city. He was one such ghost, heâd often remark to you and Mydei when the three of you would break bread together, and then heâd wince, because inevitably Mydeiâs gentle expression would fall at the reminder that of you and Krateros and his parents, not a single one had his vitality, his eternal, golden-blooded youth.
It was the king who fell first, that lion-maned man who resembled Mydei so greatly. You remembered how proud he had been when the Kremnoan Legion marched into Okhema, his wife at his side and their prince behind him, how assured and incredible he had seemed, how certain and levelheaded. His back was to the sun, to better disguise the shadows and lines already gathering in the hollows of his face, for it was not their manner to falter, and so he did not until the very end, when he keeled over with an arrow in his heart that was meant for Mydeiâs back.
He had come to you that night, Mydei, although he did not cry. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall in silence, and you waited for him to move, to tuck himself into your arms or beg for you to comfort him, but he did no such thing. He just sat there, and then, with a hollow laugh, as empty as Okhema itself, he shifted, ever so slightly, and smiled at you.
âMy father always told me,â he said, âthat if I am to weep, lilies will bloom from my sorrow.â
âIs it true?â you said, too frightened to touch his face as you mightâve, were it any other time. He shrugged halfheartedly.
âI do not allow myself to weep, so I cannot say,â he said. âWhat is the use? Mourning is not our custom. We bury our grief on the battlefield and kill it before it can kill us.â
âBut you cannot outrun it forever,â you said, and somehow, you mustered the strength to place your hand on the place where his undying heart still beat, would forever beat, long after the rest of you had departed. âIt will catch up to you eventually, wonât it?â
âThen I will fall, just as my father did,â he said. âAnd how glorious it will be.â
His expression was so terrible, so serious, that before you knew it you were leaning forward and embracing him, your cheek to the curve of his neck, your tears slipping freely, readily, cold against his warm determination, hot against your frigid horror. You didnât want him to speak of such things, of glory and grief and lilies and dying, and you told him so in a tremulous, wavering voice.
It was then that he pressed his lips to your hairline, and it took you by enough surprise that you paused. There had always been something between the two of you, a small, quiet, blooming thing, but you had never really expected anything to come of it, and based on the way he stilled against you, you doubted he had, either. How could it? In these dusty remains of the Marmoreal Palace, surrounded by the meager resistance that he was the only one left to lead, there was no time for these lingering thoughts, which were as prone to souring as overaged honeybrew. There was a danger to the way he kissed you again and again, along your face and against your mouth, a bell tolling in that old refrain from the Okhema of before â a farewell, a countdown, a warning.
He held you to his lap that night, tender yet unyielding, and then he did as his people always did, burying his grief deep within you. His breaths came harsh and ragged as his forehead fell to your collarbone and he whispered secrets against your skin, fervent and feverish, making promises he could never keep while the bells in your mind kept ringing and ringing and ringing in an unceasing clamor.
When his mother died, that sweet, vicious queen who could only be cowed by the combined efforts of an entire wave of the foul tide, he came to you again and told you about Styxia, which had fallen just as Gorgo had, to the Black Tide and its commander. Then there was salt on your tongue and you wondered if the drowning taste resembled that famed, bloody sea; his eyes were wild but his touch along your jaw was kind when he told you to spit it out so that you did not choke on it. You supposed that meant it mustâve.
Nobody ever asked you what you meant to the prince, not even Krateros himself, though you could tell he always wondered. But it was the closest thing to kindness that he could muster, always sitting with his scarred eye facing you, so that he could pretend he did not see the shattered bone of Mydeiâs hand holding onto your own as though he might be lost without it. He was silent in his own way, dear Krateros, and you did not know what he made of it, of you, except that in his blindness â feigned or not â he never found cause to chide his charge, and on those nights after particularly difficult campaigns, he forbade the rest from searching for him until it was time to don their armor and take to their spears once more.
âI wish I had known you before,â Mydei told you, the evening before he would set out again, as he always did, as he always would. His armor and his lance leaned against the door to the dim room, but beside you he was bare, save for the red ink curling around his muscles and marking him as a warrior. âI wish I had known you in the Imperatorâs time, or even earlier.â
âIn the Imperatorâs time, you would still have been the prince of Kremnos,â you said, âbut I would have been any other girl from Okhema. We wouldnât have met, let alone known one another.â
âWe would have,â he said, rolling over onto his side so that he could brush your hair away from your face. âMy father wouldâve sent me here to learn the ways of that tyrant, and I wouldâve ran from the palace to meet you on the rooftops instead.â
âKrateros mentioned that Okhema once had a market,â you said, fighting back a snicker at the image of the infamous and long-dead Imperator doing something so domestic as fostering another kingdomâs royalty, especially a royalty such as Mydei, who was as mild-tempered as she was known to have been cruel. âIts merchants sold everything, even goods we cannot hope to imagine anymore. Maybe we mightâve met there, then. If you are so determined to believe that we wouldâve.â
âYes,â he said. âI wouldâve bought you something. I wouldâve bought you anything, if it was what you wanted.â
âHm,â you said, nuzzling closer to his chest, because suddenly you wanted to hide and you could think of no other place but him, your blanket high over your shoulders, your eyes closed and your breathing slowing to match his. âYou wouldnât have had to buy me anything.â
âI know,â he said. âBut I still wouldâve. If it were you, I wouldâve.â
Yet this was not the Imperatorâs time, and Okhema was a witching town. The rooftops were treacherous at best, the tiles slick and crumbling without anyone to maintain them, and there was nothing for Mydei to buy when there hadnât been a market in over a century, so his words meant little. Soothing and pretty and sweet, yes, but ultimately and completely meaningless. Still, you kissed him for his efforts, and then you told him that if Cyreneâs stories of the Deliverer and their cycles were true, then surely there had been at least one where the two of you had done exactly as he described.
After Kraterosâs death, word came from Mydeiâs beloved Sage, Anaxagoras. It was cryptic even to you, but Mydei seemed to understand, for he folded the paper and set it aside, nodding to himself with the sort of certainty that made your heart leap to your throat. You blinked from where he had wrapped you in his blankets, the scent of him overwhelming, dizzying, and you waited for him to explain, but for a while he did not.
âMydei?â you prompted when he remained so still. He did this every time, he retreated into his mind and buried his grief with callousness; you were sure, suddenly, that one day, maybe even today, he would bury himself and his own eternal heart along with it. And how glorious it would be.
âIt will be done,â he said, as if he were your king and you, his subject. âTomorrow.â
âWhat will?â you said, and then your stomach dropped. âIs it what Trianne warned you against?â
âYes,â he said. Trianne, the little prophet, who had as of late been distraught, bursting into tears whenever she looked upon Mydei â you had asked her what it meant, but she told you she wasnât allowed to say, nor could she dissuade him. âAnaxagoras will arrive in the morning. We have delayed long enough.â
âI donât understand,â you said. Finally he turned, and his expression was just as his fatherâs had been, with the light to his back so that he could better disguise the sickly, rancid terror rolling off of him in waves, so evident despite his calm.
âI will become a titan,â he said. âIn this world, which has no use for Strife, I will take up the mantle of that great fury in the sky, and I will â I will ââ
âWhat will he do to you?â you murmured, but he was resolute, his chin tilted up and his jaw clenched. How fierce. How proud. You almost told him the king would admire him for it, but you knew better than to speak of the Kremnoan dead, lest they haunt you for the rest of whatever life you had left to live.
âI will defend our forsaken city,â he said. âWith everything that I am, with every piece of me that is left, I will defend it.â
âMydei,â you said, and then you cast aside the blankets, standing and taking his hands in between yours, looking up at him as beseechingly as you could. âThe Sage. What will he do to you?â
âIt was my own idea,â he said, closing his eyes. âI only took his counsel to ensure it was possible, and he said it was.â
âWhat is it?â you said, guiding his palms so that he was holding your face, clutching his wrists so that he could not escape as you knew he wished to. He sighed through his nose and then leaned forward, forward, until his lips nearly brushed against yours and he became the one holding you in place.
âHeâll split me apart,â he breathed, and you could all but taste him, sweet like pomegranate and fiery like pepper, impossible to escape either way. âA five-pointed star, one for each corner of Okhema, the final to remain in its center and defend it until my bitter end.â
âYou donât meanââ
âI do,â he said. âHe will cut me along the seams of my body, so that his scalpel may reach the lines of my soul and cleave it into the fragments of Strife. It will leave me in the eternal agony Trianne is so saddened by, but it matters not. Pain I can endure. Pain I can become.â
âHe will cut you,â you said, and you were horrified into a sort of numb blankness. You could not fathom it, the indomitable Mydeimos stripped so savagely, his strong, perfect body rendered into sparkling little puzzle pieces, into the golden shards of a man-turned-titan. âHe will cut you, that wretched, despicable Sageââ
âYou mustnât blame him,â Mydei said, cutting you off with a swift press of his thumb to your lower lip. âDidnât I tell you? It was my own idea. This is the best way for all of us.â
âHow can that be? You said it yourself â you will suffer eternally!â you said.
âBut maybe you will live,â he said, and he always spoke so simply, straightforward and honest as he was, but unlike every other time when you considered it a blessing, today you cursed him for it. âMaybe Amphoreus will survive until the Delivererâs return. The suffering of one man is meaningless to that.â
You knew, then, why Trianne had said it was futile to convince him. His mind was made, and if Anaxagoras agreed with him, that finicky blasphemer, then this really was the only way forward. It would be done, then. Tomorrow. The Sage would arrive and he would take that body you had learnt so well, for so long, and then he would cut it, he would rip it and rip it until Mydei turned into something far beyond recognition.
He took your hand, then, holding it up to the candlelight and admiring it before placing it on his right shoulder, allowing your fingertips to skim along the slope of his arm, the arc of his muscle. The entire time he watched you, but you pretended you did not notice, because you were consumed with this old knowing, this new memorization.
âThe first,â he murmured, his voice low in the back of his throat. âCourage. And the second will be the left. Honor.â
He took a step forward, bidding you to sit on the edge of the bed, and then he allowed you to lean your cheek against his stomach, your nails digging into his hips as he stroked your hair in that way of his, so idle and careless that it could only be orchestrated with the utmost of consideration.
âTenacity and Sacrifice,â he said. âA leg each. And the finalââ
âEnough,â you said. âEnough, I donât â you are not yet a titan, so lie with me as Mydeimos, as Mydei, donât let them cut you apart before you must ââ
He fell atop you then, graceless and relieved, and you wanted to tell him that he ought to cut you apart, too; you mightâve, if you thought it would inspire anything but disgust in him. Pull me into pieces, you wanted to beg as his nimble fingers worked through laces and ties and fabric, too much fabric, pull me and tear me and let me bury my grief in you.
You would never be used to him, to that weight heavy within you, to the silken locks that brushed against your skin, to the burning fingertips which maneuvered you and toyed with you easily, so easily. You loved him, that was what it was, you would love him in the Imperatorâs markets or on the Goldweaverâs rooftops or even here, in this palace left for witches and waifs, silent save for your pitiful, helpless whining.
âI wonât be afraid,â he said when he lay his head against the swell of your breasts, though it was hard to believe when his voice was so choked with something entirely foreign, entirely unlike him. âI will face it as my mother and father taught me to.â
âYou can be afraid,â you said, combing through his hair with your fingers, your own tears long since dried and gone and ensconced somewhere far. âI should not judge. Who would? If anyone in the world can be afraid, it is you.â
He pressed impossibly closer to you, for once the one hiding his face from the world. âBut thatâs not true. I more than anyone must remain unafraid, and so I will stay on my feet until the end.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI will. And I wonât cry, either.â
âOkay,â you said, because you were far too exhausted now, far beyond arguing with him. âYou wonât cry.â
âYou shouldnât, either,â he said. âIâm luckier than most. This âdeathâ is not the end for me; it isnât even a death in the first place. I will still be with you. I promise that as well.â
âBut not like this,â you said, a stubborn prickling along the back of your eyes rising once more, curious and detestable and impossible to win against. âNever like this. You wonât be Mydei.â
âNo,â he said. âI suppose I wonât be.â
You will be a titan, not a man. You will be a five-pointed star, not a prince. You will be Striife, not Mydeimos. I will love you and you will not even know me. I will love you and you will love the world more, and never can I blame you for it.
You did not know what more to say, what else to say without sounding achingly, consumingly selfish, so you were silent, and you supposed at some point you mustâve fallen asleep, for when you next awoke, the pillows and blankets were arranged neatly around you how you always preferred, and there was a letter written in a childâs handwriting on your bedside, right next to a vase of white lilies.
Friend,
Dei asked us to write to you, because he canât anymore and we are the only ones left who can understand the tongue of the titans. Itâs funnyâŠhe still sounds so similar, still speaks the exact same, the way any good Kremnoan might. We wish you could talk to him yourself, but since you canât, this will have to do.
He has taken on the Coreflame of Strife, and the Soul-Splitting Ceremony is complete. Courage, Honor, Tenacity, and Sacrifice have left for the four corners of Okhema, where they will make their stands against Lygusâs forces. We made sure to light his way; we promise that as long as there is some of us left, his every path will be free of obstacles.
Oh, he is as impatient as he was when we were his tutors, in those memories little Reney showed us. We are writing too much for his tastes! He wants you to know that he apologizes, but he could not help himself from his weakness, and that he hopes you do not think less of him for this proof of his mortality, when he is meant to be invulnerable. He did not weep, he maintains this, but in the end he did lie on his side instead of standing as his parents had taught him, and he hugged his knees instead of facing Anaxagoras in the way of a warrior king.
But he also wants you to know that in exchange for this promise which he has broken, there has been another that he has kept, that he will continue to keep: his final fragment does not march forth to the battlefield alongside its brethren. Here it remains, in Okhema with us. With you.
âI am not Mydei,â it says. âI am only his heart, his Reason â but I will stay with you. In this empty city, even if there is nothing and no one else left to defend, I will stay with you.â
There was once a great garden on the roof of the Marmoreal Palace. Nothing grows there anymore, but we are sure that if you look for him where the lilies used to bloom, you might find him waiting.
LET MYDEI HIT PLEASE MIRA M1CKEYB3RRY OHMYGOSH â @saetiate
ââ THE BLOOD OF THE SEA
Synopsis: The concept for the original ending of Part Two of Threefold; this doesnât really fit neatly anywhere in the plot so think of it as an alternate universe or something !!
Threefold Masterlist
Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader
Word Count: 2.3k
Content Warnings: there is a fair bit of sex going on so mdni (virginity loss, oral f!receiving, fingering, p in v, itâs not really that detailed though tbh BUT YOU KNOW I WILL ALWAYS WARN), mentions of blood/violence/coercion (kremnoan stereotypes + readerâs husband mentioned basically), this is threefolddei not mydei idk if theyâre the same guy LMFAO, you will probably have no idea whatâs going on if you donât have basic threefoldverse knowledge EEK SORRY, intimacy written by a young lady who refuses to talk to men
A/N: hi cora anything for you beloved <33 also i have no idea how this ended up over 2k LMFAOA omg i need to learn how to stfu IâMCRYINGG also i wrote this heavily sleep deprived and in between exams so if itâs buns that is definitely a contributing factor
âMydeimos,â you said to him, that night in the cellar. âYou told me once that you do not have a wife.â
He hardly glanced up from the grains of rice he was chasing around his plate with a fork when he answered: âYes, thatâs right.â
âI thought so,â you said. At this he did grace you with a furrow of his brow, peering up at you and tilting his head. The mannerism was not unlike one of your husbandâs hunting dogs, whose company you found you preferred far more than their masterâs, and you wouldâve smiled at it if you were not so preoccupied.
âIf you wish to ask me something, then you should just ask. You should know by now that I will answer,â he said.Â
âMy husband,â you said. âHis cousin. His advisors. The empire itself. They are all growing impatient.â
âFor?â he prompted, albeit with a sigh, and it was so good of him to do that you nearly wept then and there, even if he did not seem particularly interested in the topic. But you had spent so long without any sort of solace that even this bland formality was the sort of lifeline you could not help but cling to, and so you curled your fists around it and held fast.
âFor me to bear him a child,â you said. âA son, preferably. Tall and wise and just, to lead the empire after his eventual departure.â
âAh,â he said, and maybe it was just the dim candlelight, but it seemed as though his cheeks grew pinker, his eyelashes lowering and his chin tucking closer to his chest. If you didnât know better, youâd say he was shying away, yet you dismissed the idea as soon as it came to mind. After all, what cause would he have for it? What sort of prince did not speak readily and gamely of such things? And especially one of Kremnos, no lessâŠ
âI am frightened,â you said when the silence stretched on without end. You didnât know why you were telling him, only that you suddenly wanted someone to know and he was the only one who would not scold you for it. âEvery time I return to my chambers, I wonder if it will finally be the night when he grows tired of my reticence, my hesitation. Will he be waiting for me? Will it hurt very much?â
âIt wonât hurt,â he said.
âWhat?â you said, taken aback by his bluntness, his quickness to reply. He pursed his lips and shrugged; his plate was empty now, but he pretended like he was entirely fascinated with its inspection, as though there were many great mysteries contained in its blank porcelain surface, each worthy of its own unravelling.
âAs long as he is gentle and pays careful attention to you, it wonât hurt,â he said. âYou shouldnât worry about that.â
You gave him an incredulous look, and then, because it was so absurd you could not help it, you burst into laughter. Now there was no denying that he was flushed, and the longer you laughed, the more he cringed away from you. You did regret it a little, faced with his chagrin, but then again how could he say something like that so seriously and not expect you to mock him? Only a fool would think that the man who had stolen you from your father and your home might then afford you gentleness and attention in that second pillaging, and Mydeimos was many things, but you were beginning to realize that a fool was not one of them, so he really ought to have known better.
âItâs strange, hearing that from you,â you said. âThey tell such stories about your people, I wouldnât think youâd know what either of those words mean.âÂ
âStories?â he said. âDid they tell you stories about me, too?â
âOf course,â you said, and his quiet pleasantness drove you to an unprecedented candor. âI was always a little scared of you and your father.â
âWere you?â he said, leaning a little closer, close enough that you shouldâve moved back but found yourself utterly unable, pinned in place as you were by the force of his presence alone, which despite his newfound fragility always had such strength, such nobility to it. âBut not anymore.â
âNot anymore,â you agreed.
âWhy is that?â he said. âWhy do you trust me so much? Am I not exactly the beast from your peopleâs stories? You donât know how many ways I have considered killing you, dear lady. From that very first day, I have been considering it. How easy it would be. How effortless.â
âI donât know,â you said, and before you could continue, one of his hands was covering your eyes so that you were forced to close them.
âSo simple,â he said. âIll as I am, I could still kill you with nothing but that fork you give me every night, could tear you from stomach to throat with it if I so choose. Or my chains, these infernal, damned things, I could wrap them around your neck and use them to crush it with one hand. Are those the sorts of stories youâve heard?â
âYes,â you said, finding no point in lying when both of you knew the truth. He sighed, and then he removed his hand from your eyes, leaving you to blink rapidly, your vision adjusting to the sudden influx of light, faint though it was. âThatâs what they would say. You would come and you would take me and you would kill me when you had wrung what pleasure you could out of me.â
He looked suddenly and totally exhausted. âI see.â
âThey were wrong, though,â you said. âI donât think you would do that at all. I think that you would be, ah, gentle, and you might evenâŠpay careful attention to meâŠI supposeâŠâ
You had begun earnestly, but when you noticed his eyes widening slightly, you trailed off, your mouth suddenly dry, your tongue heavy from something other than the weight of your cursed wedding vows. Though of course you hadnât meant it in any way but to reassure him, you could not help but picture it, the image springing to your mind unbidden and unwanted. His hands, so coarse and rough, but they would be as kind as they must have been when he raised his little elephant Verax, and his body, so enormous, but possessed with the kind of enduring patience that you were so sure your lovely, fineboned husband could never muster.
âI would,â he said. âI would make sure it wouldnât hurt. I would try very hard to make sure of it.â
âCan you?â you said, and then tears were welling in your eyes, your legs pressing together until the muscles of your thighs protested from how they ached. You didnât want anyone else there, you didnât want your husband or anyone, only him, you could not explain it but it was true. For all the warnings you had been given, they had never bade you be careful of this, this rotten, infectious desire that threatened to consume you the longer and longer you looked upon him. Was it because it was not his sickness but yours, and therefore it had been impossible to foretell? You did not know. You did not think you knew anything, except that you wanted him with an urgency and a fierceness you could never have anticipated. âPlease, can you?â
âThis is no place for it,â he said, but he was already lying you back on that blanket you always brought for him, the one with the lions and the trees embroidered upon it. âIf we were in Kremnos, I would take you to my bed, not a dirty cellar floor.â
âIâd rather this, if it is you, than the finest of furnishings with that â that ââ
âYou neednât speak of him,â he said, brushing the hair off of your forehead and kissing the lines of your deep-set scowl until they softened into nothing. âYou neednât even think of him.â
âMydeimos,â you said when he kissed you again, this time along your cheekbone, and slid his hand so that it was cradling the back of your head gingerly. âHave you ever loved someone?â
âYes,â he said, his lips at the corner of your mouth, his other hand playing with the fastenings of your nightgown, tugging on them without any real force. âA very long time ago.â
âHm,â you said, a little disappointed. âWhat were they like?â
âI donât know,â he said, and then he leaned down to kiss you properly, fully, in a way that left you breathless and wishing he would return the moment he pulled away. âI never met her.â
âThen how did you love her?â you said, indignation sparking deep in your stomach, right alongside a different sensation, the both of them threatening to combine and blaze into something you doubted you could ever douse. You felt him smile against your neck, and this only irritated you further, so you clicked your tongue. âFine, then. If you donât wish to tell me, then donât! I was only asking.â
âDo you really want to talk about this now?â he said, his voice fond, exasperated. âIt was only her name.â
âHer name?â you said, the chill of the night washing over you as he pulled your night gown down, down, lower and lower until the fabric bunched at your hips and your torso was left entirely bare to him. How shy it made you feel, the way he looked at you, and you almost moved to cover yourself, but then he was humming in approval and it was all you could do to gasp as he traced his calloused fingers along the curve of your breasts.
âWhat a beautiful name,â he said, and he did not linger for as long as you wouldâve liked, his palms brushing your waist as he continued his path down past your navel. âOnly one friend of mine ever guessed the truth, and he always teased me for it, always told me I had no chance of ever even meeting her, let alone taking her home with me.â
âNo chance â you?â you said. âBut youâre the prince of â oh!â
He lapped against you, and you thought you might faint, for your own curious, fumbling fingers could never compare to the searing brand of his tongue burying between your legs. Your breaths came fast and short, and when he finally pulled away, replacing his tongue with his finger teasing at your entrance, you let out a strained, mumbling plea.
âMaybe so,â he said, and he was so painstakingly slow, so completely focused, that you really considered telling him to hurry up, which was the exact opposite of how you had expected your first time to go. âBut a prince is nothing compared to an emperor.â
âAn emperor?â you said as he added another finger and began to move both, still slowly, still carefully, watching you with those keen eyes of his, golden and aquiline and amused. âWhat are you talking about?â
âDo you really want this?â he said instead of answering, withdrawing his fingers from you, hesitating over his waistband. You nodded rapidly, spreading your legs impossibly wider to accommodate him, having long since forgotten about your husband and your vows and the empire and all of it.
âYes,â you said. âI want it â I want it to be you, I want it to be yours, Iâll tell everyone itâs my husbandâs but I want it to be yoursââ
âNo one will believe it,â he said, though he obliged you, holding your face and guiding himself into you, unflinching when you dug your nails into the muscle of his back and sucked on the delicate skin of his neck to avoid yelping at the unprecedented stretch, which even his fingers could not have fully prepared you for. âDear lady, you know no one would ever believe it.âÂ
âI would make them,â you said. âI would have them executed for treason if they suggested otherwise. No one would know, the blood of Kremnos is strong, but the blood of the â the blood of the ââ
Before you could cry from frustration of your vows once again choking your throat â and at such a moment, too! â he kissed you, punctuating it by rocking his hips into yours, your groan tapering off into a moan.Â
âThe sea,â he whispered. âThe blood of the sea will be stronger, because you are the most beautiful girl it has ever whelped, because when you were born the monk-seals were your motherâs midwives and the whales could not help themselves from singing.â
âHow did you know?â you said, half awed, half bewildered. âMydeimos, ah, Mydeimos, how did youâ?â
âI loved you then,â he said, a sort of tragic, panicked desperation to his expression, as if he could not even fathom what he was saying but needed to say it nonetheless, needed to spit it out before it killed him. âI loved you as soon as I heard your name, dear lady, but now we have finally met, and what am I? A prince-turned-prisoner from a nation you hate, I can give you nothing, I can only defile you in this cell of mine and leave you so changed. You should spurn me.â
âYou know who I am,â you said, and then you were sobbing as he continued to hold onto you, to press into you, deeper and deeper with each successive stroke. âYou know who I am, you know who I am, I could never spurn you â donât go, donât go, please, finish inside â I love you, too, you are mine and I love you ââ
âI know,â he promised. âI know. Donât cry, donât cry. I know.â
ă the winged insect and the funeral pyre ă - part ii
Mydei clambers into the nest after, hands reaching for you with a mindless urgency. You laughâshort, faint, bemusedâas he settles you against a pile of cushions. The muggy warmth of him is like a drug. His scent renders your limbs heavy and your muscles into liquid as he drops his head into the plushness of your thighs. Your mouth runs dry when he presses his face down and breathes in like the scent of you is his sedative.
"Can't wait until it's my turn to do that."
Your head snaps around. You stare at Phainon.
✠relationship: phainon/reader/mydei
✠words: 11k
✠content warnings: smut, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics, threesome, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, anal sex, phainon is a bit of a sadist and reader is horrified (and aroused) that they clocked him, mydeimos is emotionally carrying this three-way relationship
part i | part ii | part iii
Read on AO3 or below this cut.
Sunlight streamed through thick-woven forest canopy, limning the spacious courtyard in various resplendent shades of green and gold.
You inhaled the sweet scent of golden dust roses, thick and heady in the air, and basked in the warmth that made your limbs slow and unwieldy during the third quint of Descent Hour. Students often napped in this area of the grove, heads pillowed against their arms or satchels bulging with scrolls and overdue submissions.
Honestly, you couldn't blame them. The idea was tempting; you hadn't had a moment to yourself in the past week, buried in assignments as you were. But you considered the particularly persistent student who had been hounding you, with his big and beseeching blue eyes, and held the thought.
He'd tire of you, sooner or later. No matter how much he trailed after your haunts, a bemused Maiden of War at his heelsâand a new question on his lips, Phainon of Okhema was better-suited among those who shone as brightly as him.
Not you. You kept your head low, a polite distance between yourself and the other students.
There were more interesting people at the Groveâwhy not stick with the professor, who seemed to have a soft spot for him and Lady Castorice?
And yet here you ended up, seated on a bench at the Courtyard of Storge. Phainon beamed at you from where he sat, looking frustratingly put-together for a man who was buriedâup to his neckâin heaps of remedial work for a certain professor. You scowled at the stubborn cowlick swaying to and fro among his artfully messy moon-touched locks.
Your fingers twitched with the urge to fix it.
Maybe the heat was affecting you, the Aidonian in your blood drying up like a river fish during drought? But Okhema was much warmer than this, and you never made bad decisions (that you know of) during the heat waves.
"You won't get passing marks for this," you began. "Professor Anaxagoras won't even read past the first paragraph before he fails you."
"Harsh, but a proven pattern in the past couple months." He groaned, but the smile that seemed ever-permanent on his lips widened. Stubborn. Does he ever stop? Propping his chin on his palm, he nudged the essay further in your direction. Guileless. Sheepish. Utterly befuddling to encounter, for a sleep-deprived scholar. "Can you tell me where I went wrong, if it's not too much trouble for you?"
You shot him a look. Not even trying to be convincing, was he? He haunted your steps since the very moment you had run an errand for Sage Anaxagoras of the Nousporists. Helping the sage grade his students' essays was just one of your ways to earn coin.
"Remember your answer to Kephale's Lamb?" You decided to humor him. "If you continue to answer like that, then the professor is going to find your answers boring. And that's the worst sin to him."
His gaze lingered on you, resting heavy on your skin. He tracked his fingers along the edge of the scroll. "Is it worse to be found boring, or seen as pitiful?"
You flushed, reminded of your first-ever encounter with the Deliverer. Why did you do that? Professor Anaxagoras could have done it himself. With great enjoyment, at that. Would that your big mouth had a better filter. Maybe you wouldn't be in this position, then. His newest fascination, his favorite pursuit; little old you, with the evasive smiles you wore like a shield, and exhaustion wrapping your shoulders like a well-worn travel cloak.
"And I still stand by it," you tapped your fingers along the wooden bench. "There is no world or 'collective many' deserving of the sacrifice of one or the few."
Truly, you loathed that one thought experiment. Why was it even popular?
There must always be a lamb framed for the sins of this world. Would you sacrifice it to save the countless, those crying out for deliverance?
While you weren't the heretical maverick that Professor Anaxagoras was, you found this question to be particularly facile. You weren't unfamiliar with the eroding state of the world; though the Grove considered itself to be a bastion of the clear-eyed amidst the gullible massesâshaking their heads at those who sought their salvation at the bottom of a wine chalice, or through sublimating their individuality into prayer and communityâthere was still the occasional 'forward thinker' who would come forth and claim that there was merit to be found in abnegation.
Phainon stared at you, his face unreadable. "Even if it's willing?"
Especially if it's willing, gods damn it.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you stared long and hard at him.
"I just think it's sad." How utterly rational of you, to admit this out loud. The words tasted as bitter as the dicentra you grew in a pot, tucked away in a corner of the room that your brother paid for with his soldier's wages. And his blood, but you don't talk about that at home. "To build yourself a funeral pyre and merrily throw yourself into it."
You sucked in a deep breath, then laughed. Sharp enough to cut. "What about the people who'd mourn you, afterwards?"
(Are you still talking about the thought experiment?)
Phainon blinked, silvered lashes catching in the afternoon light. His stillness unnerved you; this man had never stayed put in class. "That's not very Aidonian of you to say." The curve of his smile, it seemed⊠fixed. It didn't reach his eyes, the distance between them as vast as the oceans now claimed by the black tide. And you didn't know what to do, why you were a witness to it. Why he let you see⊠this.
Your jaw tightened. "Wouldn't be the first time I heard that."
The jut of your chin and the look in your eye dared him to prod at you further.
Had he been any other alpha, perhaps Phainon would have bristled.
You knew enough of the posturing, the tomfoolery between puffed-up egos. And you knew exactly where to poke and deflate them, a well-placed needle. In a place like the Groveâwhere one's pride and ego was on the line, and scholars liked to pretend they were above such human foibles, those pesky weaknesses of chemical signals and biological instinctsâthe cool neutrality of a beta was a valuable resource.
Instead, his smile softened. "You're kinder than you look."
He spoke quietly, with a certainty that you've never allowed yourself to feel. Not when it came to yourself. Not when it's nothing that could be substantiated through trial and error. Certainly never when it acknowledged the soft parts of you that bruised easily.
Is this is what it feels like? To have the sun melt the snow off the peaks of the high mountains that bordered your homeland?
"And you're kind to everyone but yourself," you uttered before you could stop yourself. "Is doing good its own reward, or do you believe that you're repenting? For what, Deliverer?"
Phainon's gaze lowered, something fragile winding through those eyes of his.
And you immediately felt like the most awful person in Amphoreus. How dare you.
No answer came forth. Nothing that could pass for words, that is.
The breeze caught his hair; in the next breath, you coughedâthick was the scent of ashes, so vivid you could taste it in the back of your throat. You're sobbing your lungs out in a wide open field, watching as everythingâyour world, your loved onesâis razed to the ground. A burnt-out funeral mound, still smoldering with embers and char, once home to the countless beloved you've piled. One on top of the other, until you've forgotten all but their names.
Grief, hope withered black in an abyss.
That was enough of an answer in itself.
You felt your lungs bruise with the abruptness, the sharp hacks leaving your chest throbbing. Your vision blurred with the repressed fatigue. Several nights of relentless work, of throwing yourself into toil had sharpened your tongue. And all the while made it looser. Walked you into dangerous territory with a man who saw far too much.
And who let too much of himself be seen.
"I think⊠breakfast is in order." The man who wore his grief as an open wound that never healed, who smiled as if it didn't weigh him downâhis hands steadied you, palm against your back. Held you like he could bear any weight but his. He looked at you with a face full of too much understanding. Too little self-regard.
(Pot, meet kettle.)
"Just what are you on about?" You croaked when he moved back, reaching for your waterskin.
Phainon watches as you drink, eyes drifting to the movement of your throat. Probably to make certain you don't choke. "Someone wasn't at the student brunch earlier."
Your breath left you in a gusty sigh. You wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. "I'm good, I'll have something later."
Funds were tight this month. Your brother hadn't been able to send anything, and living at the Grove wasn't exactly⊠cheap. But you didn't dare send a letter. The front lines must have been busy.
"You're not denying it," Phainon took his turn to shoot you an unimpressed gaze, eyes flicking up and down your form. He examined you with such seriousness that he could have found more useful facing his teachers. It was the same focus you'd caught glimpses of in the library, his head bent over history books that had little to do with his focus topics.
"I don't need to deny anything," you scoffed, leaning back on your palms. You inspected the verdant canopy above.
Your breath caught in your throat when he leaned in your space, trailing a thumb under your eye and against your cheek. The fluctuating golden-green light from the forest's surrounding verdure cast a ring of hazy brilliance around his head, his face shaded from where you sat gawking at him. It melded into the edges of his starspun hair, tingeing pale silver into the barest sliver of gold.
The very color of the sun as it peeks out of the horizon, after the darkest of nights.
Oh, fuck no. You're not doing this.
You were in dire need of sleep. Since when did you sign on to be a part of those wishy-washy Venerationist students?
Phainon let out a little hmm, tilting his head.
"You don't eat enough to keep up with your workload. You've got some nasty deadlines, I get that," he pushed, the skin of your cheek dipping under his finger, "But you'll burn out at this rate."
The bluish shadows under your eyes had been darker and darkening, lately. Cheeks losing their fullness from the stress. You didn't even have it in you to be offended at the audacity.
Too close. You blinked up at him, mouth a thin line and gaze flat. Detachment, as a way of concealing your growing unrest.
"Hah. Some of us don't have your endless reserves of student funds from Lady Goldweaver, Phainon." Your retort came out without any real bite to it, an automatic response to his proximityâthe instinct to deflect, to laugh it off as you batted his hand away. And the way you rolled your eyes? Performance, all of it. "I'm sure you have better things to spend it on. People who'd appreciate it."
You didn't. Of course you didn't.
(⊠the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again.)
As that disturbing nursery rhyme of your childhood haunted your conscience, you raised a brow at him. You feigned a smile. "But if this is your roundabout way of telling me that you'll buy me some meat skewers in exchange for a bit of tutoring, then I'll graciously accept. You'd be hopeless, elsewise."
Phainon's hand reached for you again. You regarded it the way you would a trap, watching as he plucked a leaf out of your hair. Your heart thumped inside your ribcage, a trapped little beast.
"We have a deal." He smiled, lopsided and entirely too unaffected. An air of self-assurance about him, seamless if his eyes hadn't sparked with elation. You resolutely ignored both.
Of course he planned this.
Whatever this is, whatever he wanted from you of all peopleâŠ
If you reframed it as something transactional, perhaps you'd be able to bury the urge to scream at his every showing of kindness. To refrain from asking him why, among all the others who yearned for even a passing glance, Phainon's blue eyes never wavered from yours.
And they never did, even years later, down the different paths you walked.
Mornings at their home always had a way of leaving you unguarded.
You want to hate it, staring at the bowl Phainon set down in front of you like it's a portent of your oncoming doom.
The steam rises from a bowl of lentil soup, fragrant with the generous addition of ground coriander seed. There is a faint whiff of cilantro, sweet and herbal. The surface is golden with the olive oil drizzled on top of itâyou recognize the good stuff served on the tables of wealthy merchants. Liquid luxury. You could never have afforded this, back then. When you raise the spoon to take a tiny sip, the mint and honey mingle like lovers in your mouth. Perfectly blended into the soup, just the way you taught them to make.
It cools your skin from where Mydeimos's hovering leaves it warm. You are aware of his solid grip around your midsection, his arm curled around you with gentle pressure. A warm exhale rolls along the nape of your neck; you can almost pretend that you've grown used to it, but your face isn't that thick. Being embraced like this, any drowsiness you feel from your productive night has fled.
He is half-caught between dreaming and wakefulness, your prince with the lion's untamed mane. Fresh out of bed, freshly-fucked. Devastating to smell, all crocuses, honey, and spice.
And most certainly still caught in the grips of an intense heat.
You and Phainon's combined efforts have gotten the lion to reluctantly emerge from the shelter of his nest for a late breakfast. The price is one rather stickyâneedy, unbearably and adorably needyâMydeimos refusing to let go of you. You bear his nosing with as much dignity as you could afford, clad in nothing but a chiton you yanked from the pile of blankets and cushions.
It is not a lot of dignity.
What are you, a comfort blanket he never realized he needed?
You're only indulging him because of his heat. Yes, this is the story you'll stick with.
Seems he still has enough presence of mind to ask you, however. "You like it? He made it for us."
You know what Mydeimos means to say.
Impressive, since the haikas almost managed the feat of burning our kitchen down while trying to make honeycakes last year.
You were there during that particular incident. Both you and Mydei had decided, then and there, to stick Phainon to salad-making duty for the rest of your stay. At least he made pretty good salads, even if it seemed to be the only thing he could make at the time. Teaching him about forageables had simultaneously been the best and worst thing you've done as his tutor. Being a fast learner, it had only been a matter of time before he got the hang of cooking.
Phainon has come a long way. Breakfast in bed, as if he was trying to spoil Mydei into oblivion. Like any good alpha should.
Aware of the cerulean eyes trained on youâwatching, waiting?âyou hum. "You remembered to nix adding any rue." Phainon begins to smile, relaxing from where he sits across the two of you. At peace with the fact that Mydei has draped himself all over your back like a fashionable, if heavy, blanket of leonine design.
"That's what you emphasized in the heat-safe recipes you sent us."
"I'm glad you did." You're mumbling. They're watching you like this and you're mumbling. "There was a recent study from the Grove about its adverse effects on omegas in heat. Correlated to pregnant folk also being advised to avoid it in their foods."
Phainon chuckles, soft and immeasurably fond. Sticky sweet in a way that clings to you. "Yeah, I know. I took notes."
"You didn't have to make this." You blink hard and stare intently at the breakfast spread between you. "But thanks."
(It's not for youâa voice, yours, cries like a tall overgrown child; a self you try to ignore and yet still lives on.)
It should be below them, really. You know what the Okhemans say of certain dishes, holdovers from a culture you could no longer openly embrace within perfection's gilded walls. Walls that never made you feel welcome. A culture you're not sure if you could admit to loving, but is intertwined with every aspect of your life like clinging ivy.
"I wanted to," Phainon says, without missing a beat. "It's nothing like Mydeimos's cooking, but you've done so much for us."
You poke your spoon into the bowl again, swirling its contents. Pretending, once again. "It was just one night. Nothing worthy of this special treatment, I'd imagine."
Besides, you already demanded lunch as part of the payment.
You shouldn't ask for more.
A dark cloud flickers across Phainon's gentle sunshine grin. He studies you, the way you couldn't hold your own against his eyes for long.
"Sometimes, I wish you would let yourself see the way we see you."
When he replies, it's quiet. The way he would speak to you in secrecy, when the hush of the grave and winter's icy fingersâyour heritage, your guiltâmake your smiles scarce and scarcer. He is known to you whether you like it or not. In between the silences where you're trying to hold yourself together, you know the cadence of his voice better than you know yours.
You know him too well.
It's his scentâalmost faded, something stolen and not at all meant to be yours, from an old shirt he forgot back when you were studentsâthat you nestle into, curled inwards on yourself.
After every parting. Every little disappointment that sinks like burrs in your skin when you try to reach for something nice, but much too good for an outsider looking in. Every single one who walked out on you, and all you could do is hold on to that stupid shirt like it's a lifeline in the aftermath. Until you learned to be the one to walk first instead of looking at their backs.
(Despite the way you've kept some of your exes' old clothes.)
You'd recognize him even if you were to one day go blind, the stars of Amphoreus's eternal night blotted out until all that's left is the truth.
(And you'd still lie to your dying breath.)
A dull throb makes itself known behind your eyes. The truth behind the hollow in your ribs aches, it stings something fierce like everything in you is fighting against the claws long sunk deep in soft and vulnerable parts. You want to dig the heels of your palms against it, claw this stuffy feeling out of your chest before it has a chance to take root.
(But it's too late, isn't it? You planted the seeds, watered them, nurtured them.)
You need toâSo instead of acknowledging whatever that is, you clear your throat. Your reach for the half-asleep omega slumped over your back, fingers curving around his jaw with a gentleness that betrayed you.
His face softens. As you nudge him to sit straight, you pitch your voice low. "Mydei? You need to eat."
Mydeimos grumbles under his breath, arm tightening around your waist before letting go with punctuated reluctance.
As you dip your spoon into the bowl, his eyes crack open just a sliver. He accepts the spoonful you bring to his face without complaint, lips closing around the utensil. Your traitorous face burns again.
Shouldn't Phainon be the one doing this?
The irksome man looks upon the two of youâhis mate, and his⊠apothecaryâwith a gleam in his eye.
You frown at him. "You should eat, too."
Considering what you know of those hours (or days) long 'debates' on Dawncloud, Phainon hasn't eaten since before the meetings began.
The elders of Okhema thought the Chrysos Heirs above a mere mortal's bodily needs. But Phainon bleeds. He bumps his head into low archways. He stays up late until shadows carve a place under his eyes, the way you found him more than once at the Grove.
He overeats himself into a stomachache because he was dumb enough to take a half-hearted dare seriously.
⊠You didn't expect him to accept it. All the dromas-related incidents in your life can be attributed to him, and not the prince who owns one. Who tries to out-eat a dromas?
Phainon complies, easy smile on his lips, leaning over to pluck up his own spoon and digging into the bowl you're all sharing. "Don't mind if I do."
Your breath catches when he eats without comment. Something snagged taut in your chest dislodges itself, and you're left blinking rapidly to disperse the pressure building behind your eyes. Stupid. It's senseless, how you react like this is the first timeâyou've shared bread, broken fast with Phainon countless times back in the day.
And Mydei has had you over for dinner. You've cooked together, argued over what sorts of vegetables and herbs would be the healthiest to include in the lunches he makes and sometimes leaves at your shop.
You're a fool for veering awful close to crying.
"Are you alright?" There is a hand at your shoulderâuncovered by its usual gauntlet, fingers curving around it in a way that steadies you.
Mydeimos's scent sharpens; the sweetness recedes into sour milk and something harsher, brassier. Like sweat-slicked hands grasping metal, feet stamping across a blood-soaked battlefield. Feral and protective, as if he's preparing to fight. And Mydei, as you've learned in the years you've known him, has only ever fought to protect.
As a bulwark. Not as the ruthless conqueror he will go down in history as, if his elders got their way.
It's not something you expect in relation to yourself.
It puts the steel back in your spine. Before you know it, your grip firms around the spoon.
He'd be battling the one thing he couldn't protect you from. His gauntlets could rend a titankin to shreds, but not the memories that keep Phainon up at night. Not the thoughts that continue to lurk in the neglected dusty corners of your mind. You both know this.
The offer is painfully sweet, if a mite ridiculous. It shouldn't make you soâ
Mydei's strife-tinged scent only dissipates, evening out into pleasant sun-lathered pomegranates and figs, when you feed yourself in turn.
For a short while, the three of you tuck into the simple meal. You feed Mydei bites and spoonfuls in between feeding yourself. The small block of ice in your breast, numb yet forever aching, melts as they eat. Vanished under the warmth of their quiet companionship.
Again, eating like this with someone has a way of disarming you.
It's why you usually slip out before anyone decides you've overstayed your welcome.
The food you eat is considered peasant fare. Associated with the stragglers who made their way into the eternal city, made from rations begrudgingly given to the likes of Kremnoans and Aidonians.
Or worse, to the Okhemansâ'those thieving Dolosians'. Their people have suffered the most, of the outlanders.
To them, it meant shame and poverty. To you, it meant warmth and a full belly. Survival, if it had a taste. Cold evenings spent huddled together in front of a hearth, fingers sticky from the hard bread you dipped into simple broth.
Lentils boiled in water. Sometimes salted. More often than not eaten by itself.
Simpler times, though not quite happier.
Phainon and Mydeimos have convened to make a feast out of it. A soup like this would be considered luxurious. Becauseâyou take another sip, was that defrutum they added to the broth? Horrendously wasteful, by your mother's exacting standards. Your brother would have adored this, the way it fills up your stomach. The hint of sweetness to suit a childish palate.
He'd have asked what spices were added, spices that Aidonia didn't have. Couldn't grow on mostly-frozen soil.
Precious spices, all wasted on you.
It's an indulgent version of the familiar concoction that you used to choke down for sustenance. Back when you couldn't afford little more than lentils. And more lentils. And then, would you look at thatâeven more lentils. Joy of joys. Boil them, mash them, stick them in a stew.
When there was little choice to be had between survival and starvation, the Aidonians⊠had to make do. Pride was a mere afterthought.
And yet, something close to it wars with the dregs of your past experiences as you watch Phainon dip a piece of bread into the broth. The delight in his eyes as he pops it in his mouth and realizes that he cooked something to perfection, for once. It's getting harder and harder to remember why you're doing this.
There's a crumb on his lower lipâhe's too far across for you to get to it. You clear your throat, drawing his gaze to you.
"Phainon?" You bite the inside of your cheek.
He added antila blossoms, the exact same way your brother used to do itâ
He looks at you like he'd wait on your every word. Your cheeks color. Tapping on your lip, you murmur, "You have some food here."
Though he probably didn'tâmaybe he did, damn himâintend to show it, Phainon droops like a sad little flower. One that you spitefully chose not to water.
Almost inaudible, your next words come forth like water from a dammed up river. Painstakingly dragged out between the cracks that have formed. But hey, it's there. "This is really good."
It tastes like love in every bite. Like the seafood stew that your brother used to make, back when he earned his first paycheck and splurged on the ingredients.
The two of you ate yourself sick. Giggled over the ridiculousness of tasting octopus for the first time in your lives, up until you looked at him with such horror when he claimed that he'd fish one up for you himself. Your brother was always good at that. Impossible promises, wrought with a will to ground bedrock into dust; when you were younger, he had once convinced you he'd change the world and make them look.
He had promised you the sea, onceâ"One day, I'll bring you a whale. You'll see. We'll have to find a way to cut it all up, but we could feed our family and everyone else!"
"Next time, I'm adding tomatoes to this," Mydeimos muses to himself, as you polish off the last spoonful. Neither of you are the type to waste a drop or crumb. "The old grandmother from the vegetable stall taught me how to dry them on the roof."
Phainon makes an insulted noise in the back of his throat. "You could have asked me."
"Tell me that the next time you use the last of the tomatoes in yet another colorful salad, Deliverer."
You snicker at this, a smile curling your lips as natural as breathing. It doesn't feel like you're pulling a mask on your face. Because you aren't. Your regrets lie docile underneath the warmth of new memories blanketing the old.
Phainon and Mydei exchange a look.
You catch the way blue eyes flicker to a spot just behind you, the softness and care in them. And you feel the answering huff behind you as it tickles your shoulder, the quiet relief. The speechless communication between them is fluent: a bond forged from years of protecting each other's backs, made unbreakable by instincts that you don't share.
A language that you couldn't speak, even if you can understand some of itâit's not the first time, so why should it sting? It doesn't.
To never have is effortless. Right?
So you pretend you don't notice, snatching the last piece of bread from Phainon's plate to mop up the any remaining broth.
"Hey, can I take a quick wash after this?"
By the third quint past Lucid Hour, Mydei's heat has surged back with a fury more urgent than last night's.
A controlled blaze of one, but nonethelessâwatching Phainon react to that first keening noise to escape his throat, you'd think you just saw dry wood catch some sparks and set an entire sleepy forest aflame. The three of you find yourselves back in the nest, your plans to slip away once Action Hour begins looking more and more like a distant dream.
You make one last half-hearted attempt, anyway.
"Right, so you two will need your time together. I'll just get my things readyâŠ"
Phainon pins you with a look that has you lowering your chiton back into the mess of pillows and blankets.
For someone who's a beta, you very nearly lie back and present your underbelly to him.
What the actual fuck.
Mydei clambers into the nest after, hands reaching for you with a mindless urgency. You laughâshort, faint, bemusedâas he settles you against a pile of cushions. The muggy warmth of him is like a drug. His scent renders your limbs heavy and your muscles into liquid as he drops his head into the plushness of your thighs. Your mouth runs dry when he presses his face down and breathes in like the scent of you is his sedative.
"Can't wait until it's my turn to do that."
Your head snaps around. You stare at Phainon.
He undresses himself, undoing the clasps holding pale fabric together atop his broad shoulders.
Phainon likes to wear simple, short chitons when enjoying the comforts of home. And in his dorm room at the Grove, where he paraded about with a brazen confidence you could only shake your head at. You've been pointedly, blatantly avoiding letting your gaze stray in the direction of his thighs. The smug tilt to his mouth earlier told you that you failed. Miserably.
(You've seen this before, you'll see this again when you treat him, this is no different.)
The sight of him should be common to you now. He is loved by the light and fire itself, the soft radiance of the lamps cradling each and every dip and curve and flexing muscle like a painter's masterstrokes. Highlighting the faint map of scars, each one telling stories you'd burn to read to the very last page.
He smiles, slow and devastating, as he drops his chiton on the floor.
You glower. "You're doing too much."
A laugh, low and knowing. "I'm doing just enough."
So what if he's beautiful? The sun is gorgeous, that's a fact. And so is the foregone conclusion that you'll go blind if you stare at it for too long. This is how you survive: you could simply just ignore it as you go about your day.
Your gaze lingers on the golden ink cradling the side of his pale throat.
The urge to sink your teeth into something becomes a tangible ache, your fingers tightening and twisting in Mydei's blankets.
"Hold him for me," Phainon settles in behind Mydei. He runs a palm along the curve of a red-inked back, tracing the fiery marks. His voice dips into velvet-scraped granite, making the back of your scalp tingle. "We'll take care of you, Mydeimos." His gaze meets yours. "Or ruin you, if that's what you want."
He punctuates this with a sharp smack against Mydei's ass. Both you and the writhing man in your lap jolt.
You're left swallowing, pressing your thighs together as Mydei whines into your lap. His irksome mate doesn't lose that dastardly smile on his face as he ruts against the omega, blue eyes gleaming with sharp amusement as you both hear the needy sounds spilling from parted lips. Both of you aware that the omega between you didn't need any preparation, slick coating his thighs and flooding his entrance.
"J-just put it in, haikas," Mydei hisses, out of breath. "Or I'll ride you myselfâ"
The silver-haired menace reaches around to grab his cock, giving it a few firm pumps. "You'll take my knot when I'm good and ready, and not any sooner."
Mydei looks at you, pupils blown wide.
Because it's you, you crumble, hand cupping his cheek, tracing its familiar curve with your thumb and brushing away a stray tear. You feel more than hear the purr that rumbles through his chest. He rubs his face against your palm, then lower, nose pressing against the scent gland in your wrist.
When you feel the wet suction of his mouth on your skin, your brain just about stops functioning entirely. "Mydeiâ"
You both hear the chuckle behind him when Phainon finally finishes bullying him. Bullying both of you, more like. The sound his slicked-up entrance makes as his alpha's cock slowly pushes in is obscene. He jerks, a cry spilling out from a mouth stained red by the pomegranates you've been hand-feeding him for the past quint. As he shakes apart against you, you swear under your breath.
"Fuck, Mydei," you breathe, cradling his cheeks in your palms, "Did you justâŠ"
He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, breathing like all the air in his lungs had been torn out.
Mydei just came. From Phainon simply pushing in, stretching him out on a cock whose likenessâthe fullness, the girthâhad already unraveled you half to madness at first taste.
You've never seen him like this before.
You never want to not see him like this from now on.
"Not even entirely inside this greedy hole and you're already creaming around me," Phainon breathes, satisfaction curling thick in his voice. Fresh heat pools between your legs, your cunt throbbing like a second heart. He grasps Mydei's hips, leaning down low enough to breathe in one flushed ear. "So wrecked, I'm almost suspicious. Putting on a show for someone, aren't you, princess?"
He nips at Mydei's skin, "Or are you really this excited, this eager to have us both?"
The utter impudence, the infuriating charmâ
The worst part of it all is that you predicted he'd be like this.
That of course the sappy and loving idiot would be into nasty, disrespectful sex.
Rotting gods.
Your horrid, horrid imagination somehow knew Phainon's subtle mean streakâwhich you shouldn't find so brainrottingly attractiveâwould make him a force to be reckoned with in bed.
The moan Mydei lets out when Phainon sinks himself to the hilt would haunt you for days. Straight into fucking bed. Your arm is going to be sore, your little toy collection disappointing, and it's all this man's fault.
Your fingers twist in red-tipped, flame-kissed golden hair, carding through it soothingly as you meet Phainon's gaze. He holds it, something unspoken in the soft and restrained hunger in his face. Meant only for youâif only you knew how to accept softness when it's offered.
The reedy quality of your voice makes the smile fade from his lips, the mirth ebbing at the look that must have crossed your face. "Am I really still needed for this?"
It's a miracle worked by KephaleâTitans, maybe Zagreusâthat your gaze doesn't waver. Not a single bit.
But it's not Phainon who replies.
A growl freezes you in place, like a deer caught in a hunter's sights.
"Youâ ngh, don't be foolish⊠we want you here."
Mydei's fingers curl around your waist, searing into your skin and through all rational thought. They dig into the soft, yielding flesh with a restraint that's fraying with every panting breath. Less a statement, more a demand. Any further words die in your throat. Though the slow, sharp thrust of Phainon's hips makes his back bow inwards, you feel his gaze scorch into you like a brand.
Even through the tears welling up in the corner of his eyes, even as his mate fucks into him with the sort of unhurried cruelty that would topple lesser men, he maintains the eye contact.
He drags his hands lower, hooking his thumbs into your undergarments.
You don't speak.
You can't speak.
"Take them off for me," Phainon murmurs, a rumble of something akin to thunder cutting through the liquid smoothness of his voice. The air thickens; you drown in their combined scents. They're inferno and summer and abundance personified, the blazing sun beating down on you as crocuses bloom in your throat and pour out of your mouth.
He slows his rutting down to a snail's crawl, gaze intent as Mydei groans and takes your smallcloth off.
It tears in the prince's grip.
He's not in full control of himself right now.
"You're dripping," Mydei groans, sinking his grip into your thighs and spreading you apart. You bleat out a shaky denial, only to shut up as he laves a broad, wet stripe along your seam. "Please," he breathes your name against your cunt like prayer, "Let me have you." His eyes shine with hunger as he looks up at you, you feel yourself gush more slick, andâyour resolve has always been weak for him. "I'll make you feel so good."
He'sâhe's asking. For your permission. As if he didn't eat your soul out through your pussy the night before. Because only Mydei would be like this. Even half-addled by heat, even when his need should surely eclipse yours.
Phainon raises an eyebrow at you. "You won't deny our sweet prince, will you?"
You consider flinging one of the nearby pillows at his head, fingers gripping it tight, only to squeal as Mydei seals his lips around your clit and sucks. Your thighs clench around his head, so hard it could hurt him if it wasn't for that absurd body of his. Your vision blurs as you stare at the ceiling. Titans above. He swirls his tongue atop your bud, chasing your irritation away. "Yes! Yes, you can have me!"
"How about a challenge?" Phainon snaps his hips forward, burying himself in Mydei's heat.
When Mydei whimpers, you feel it vibrate against your clit and dig your fingers in his hair. As you yank at his fiery locks, unsure of whether you're tugging him closer or dragging him off, Phainon continues, "I wager that I can make Mydei come before he makes you."
Oh, for the love ofâ
Mydei pulls away from your cunt to growl, "I accept."
You mutter, "D-do I get a say in this?"
"Nope," Phainon quips, then stutters, a punched-out gasp tearing through his so far ironclad composure. He throws his head back, hands spasming around Mydei's hips. "Mydei, that'sâahhâcheating! Don't⊠ngh, don't tighten on me like that without warningâ"
The crown prince radiates pure hedonistic satisfaction as he locks eyes with you. You catch the smile playing across lips that glisten with your slick, the sort of cheekiness that shines through his regal features every time he gets in a rather good zing against Phainon. Which is rare, since he is not a man of verbal sparring.
Not usually.
He purrs out his next words, "What'll happen if you come first, Deliverer?"
"Nghânot sure if we can manage that," you groan as Mydei's mirth rumbles against you. "I'm not built like you two."
Laughter, wild and reckless. The sound of a man so utterly besotted, even as it crackles at the edges with dangerous anticipation.
"You're both just raring to go, it's adorable," Phainon chuckles, though the usual airiness of it is now shot through with a faint breathless quality. Slowly but surely, even his control is unraveling, caught in the simmering spell of hunger between the three of you. When he sets his sights upon you again, you swallow thickly at the foreboding glint in those forget-me-not blue depths.
He snickers. "If you don't come again first, thenâ"
A choked scream rips from Mydei's chest with Phainon's next thrust. He dives back down on your cunt, and with a desperation that you both feel, sinks his tongue into your sopping folds to drink you in like he's a man dying of thirst and you're the last true oasis after countless false mirages in the desert.
Your head tilts back against the cushions. Curses caught in your throat, incoherent babble slipping from your lips. You buck your hips, crying out as your cunt quivers under the unrelenting hunger he devours you with.
He doesn't move with the purposefulness of last evening. No, he doesn't savor you with the contentment of one who already glutted himself on you. Mydei's heat strips the prince of what remains of his restraint. Gone is the eloquent weight writ in silence and ancient duty, gone is the composure that holds like an unwavering beacon even through the most hopeless of skirmishes. Only the need remains.
You're not faring any better than him, limbs reduced to soft and useless weight draped along his sides.
"You'll get to take our beta while I knot you," Phainon murmurs, bending down to press his chest to Mydei's back. He drops a kiss against his shoulderâpart reverence and part mockery, entirely himself. "Am I not generous? You already had a taste last night, you greedy lion."
('Our' betaâ)
You gasp as Mydei doubles his efforts, back arching taut as he works you with lips and tongue. "OhâMydei, pleaseâ"
Mydei moans against you, his hands squeezing your thighs as Phainon sets an unforgiving rhythm. For a while, there's nothing but the sounds of your debaucheryâbetween your mewls of Mydei's name; his own whimpers as his mate sinks in deep; and Phainon's hoarse moans as he tries to hold onâthere is no room left for thought nor hesitation. Only animalistic craving.
Your orgasm doesn't build slowly. It's too much, too sublime, too fierce. Between Phainon and Mydei's relentless effort, the heat building in your belly turns into boiling magma coursing through you.
Release shudders through your body with such force that you're left gaspingâfists white-knuckled in Mydei's hair as he drinks you down like a man starved, the rough drag of his tongue against your clit ruinous in his appetite. Gluttony if it had been in the form of a golden-haired warrior. You go limp under his hands, the breath ripped out of you and leaving only the burnt ashes of your earlier hesitation.
A few seconds later, he follows you over the edge with a cry that he muffles by pressing his mouth against you.
"Too muchâ!" A sob rips from your throat, dragged up from somewhere deep in your chest. You writhe to get away from the overstimulation, letting out an utterly pathetic noise.
A guttural sigh follows behind him, Phainon's breath growing ragged and making heat coil in your gut again. As you open your eyes, you see just in time the sight of him. And it is lethal, taking with it more of your sanityâhead thrown back; hands trembling on Mydei's hips; perspiration glistening off of a body more finely crafted than his greatsword.
You stare as Phainon comes apart, his eyes closed and lips parted. Mydei's body jerks against you, his full-bodied moan sparking sharp sensation in your clit until you whine and swat at his head.
He noticesâeven wrung out, shivering himself, so red you'd worry he caught feverâand pulls back to press his lips against your inner thigh in apology. You (stupidly) melt all over again, patting his cheek.
"You did well," Mydei says. Why is he praising you? You are little more than dead weight so far.
You should be doing more for them, earn your place in this bed (in their hearts and in their memories please Titans don't leave me alone)â
Mydei notices. He always does. He kisses your leg again. Devoted like a man swindled into worshiping false, dead gods. And again, as if the action soothes him more than it soothes you. "Coming for me before he claims another victory."
You blink at him, eyes wet and bleary, too spent to muster the wit and say anything clever. "You're⊠welcome?"
Phainon giggles behind him. "He really put his all into it, you should be thanking him."
The pillow you hurl at him misses by a generous margin, not helped a bit by how your limbs haven't stopped shaking.
The room is quiet afterwards, as heaving breaths slow and Mydei mouths at the soft skin of your thigh.
At first, you don't feel it. It's just barely a pinprick, a drop in the bucket reallyâthen, a sharp sliver of sensation makes you gasp. That's new. You mumble a curse as his teeth catch on the skin, voice hitching as his canine digs into the scent gland there. No one you've bedded before has ever touched the scent glands on the insides of your thighsâthey're useless.
You've long realized that you're sensitive there, and you quake as Mydei suckles one into his mouth between his teeth. The pulse in your throat beats fast, prey animal running from its pursuer. "Wait, pleaseâ"
And then came a light tsk.
"Greedy, greedy lion." Phainon watches it over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded and assessing. As he sees the edge of overwhelmed panic in your face, his gaze softens. He sinks his fingers in Mydei's hair, hand brushing against yours, and gently tugs him away. "C'mere, I want a taste too."
He turns Mydei's face towards him, pulling him into a filthy kiss.
Manipulating his strife-forged body with ease, as if all that carved muscle weighed nothing, he sits back on his haunches and hauls Mydei atop his lap. Back to his chest. Still buried deep, still knotted. You clench around nothing as the wet, open-mouthed kiss elicits soft whines and rumbling growls between them.
Phainon all but devours Mydei's mouth, licking inside as if he could scrape out every drop of your come with his tongue alone.
And Mydei lets him.
To watch Mydei yield to his greed, highborn grace sundered to pieces at his hands, sends a guilty little thrill through you.
The Kremnoan prince's face is a wreck when he's doneâlips all bruised and bitten with a smudge of golden blood at the corner, blushing skin slicked up from your release, and eyes so fucking dilated he looks drugged. For all you know, Phainon's scent probably has him intoxicated.
Your stomach flips when Phainon rolls his hips upward, punching a breathy gasp from Mydei.
"Get over here," Phainon's grin is wolfish as he looks over Mydei's shoulder. "We're not done until I say we're done."
Enough of your wit returns to you.
"We'll see about that." You wobble a bit when you rise to your knees. It's a touch embarrassing how easily they've made you weak and loose of limb. But they are Chrysos Heirs, and you⊠are not.
You settle atop Mydei like snow blanketing a hot furnaceâmelting, shaking and gasping as soon as you sink down. Your eyes threaten to flutter shut; he fills you in a way that forces you to accept him. Accept this. Though you took him the night before, the stretch still knocks the breath out of you. A little hiss slips between your clenched teeth as you work him in deeper, willing your trembling hips to cooperate.
Below you, Mydei groans like a man being gutted, head falling back against Phainon's shoulder. Caught between you and Phainon, there's little he could do but feel.
"You take him so well." Celestial blue eyes, wide and alight with something unholy, feast upon you. You can't even deny it anymore, he's watching you with avid raptureâyou shudder as Phainon whines, as if he's the one being split open.
Why does he sound so needy? As if he has the right to sound like that when he's the one rearranging Mydei's insides. Bastard. "You'll let me have you like that too, won't you?"
(Just between old friends, huh?)
He reaches around Mydeimos, gripping your waist, circling it like it's territory he's already claimed. You squeak as he lifts you off, hands scrabbling for purchase on Mydei's shoulders.
Phainon observes the way your pussy gushes as his mate's cock slips out with a lewd, wet pop. He cants his head, thoughtful. Full of nefarious ideas. And then lowers you until you feel Mydei's tip nestle between your folds. You feel like a butterfly pinned against the wall, under his stareâthe mere thought sending a fresh rush of heat to slick your already drenched entrance.
"Oh. I see, now." He says, wicked delight in the rasp of his voice. "You love being manhandled like this."
It takes you a second to realize that it's not Mydei who's whimpering, but you. You choke. "I don'tâ"
Hands calloused and tough from sword training dig into the divots of your hips. Thumbs stroke your skin once, twice, with a tenderness that skirts the edges of savagery. This is your only warningâPhainon pushes you down in one ruthless motion, driving Mydei into your cunt until he's buried to the hilt. Your words break apart, mangled into a mess of words that draws a quivery laugh from him.
"You sound so good," he breathes, hooking his chin over Mydei's shoulder. "The way I always thought you would."
You are going to die.
You sob as he begins to lift you up and ease you down, again, and again, and again. Until all you know is the feeling of his hands burning into your skin, your insides molded in the shape of his lover's cock in a way that feels like a branding.
Your fingers claw at Mydei's shoulders, for some of your sanity backâand it's not working. The pressure builds and builds until it's unbearable, until you're a taut thread balanced on the edge of a sharp blade, pleasure about to snap you at the seams. Until there is no escape from the snare of Phainon and Mydei's gazes on you. You feel the jaws of the trap begin to draw shut, a warbled plea in your throat.
"That's it," Phainon murmurs, sounding just as wrecked as you. He licks his lips, his eyes asking for nothing. Wanting everything. Years of unspoken glances stretching out in the small distance between you.
You could close it, but do you want to?
Before you could second-guess yourselfâin a rare moment of bravery, coming from youâyour hand seeks him out. You wipe the sweat from his brow with care that you rarely allow yourself with him, then cup his jaw in your palm. And you lean in, helpless as a moth to open flame. Phainon inhales, sharp and expression cracked open, hope shining in his eyes as your mouth meets his.
You hadn't given much thought to it, back when he first kissed you in the early hours of dawn. It was a stolen moment half-shrouded in the mists of sleep, caught between reality and dream. It's good, of course. He'd value any slice of yourself that you'd give him, but thisâthis undoes him. You, reaching towards him. Willingly. With your eyes open. Accepting him, and all the ash-kissed edges of his being.
He laughs against your lips, and it's like sunlight bathing the world goldenâjoy so radiant, it could burn through even all your falsehoods and replace it with unshakeable belief.
One of his hands skims down your hip and between your legs, dipping into your wet heat where you're stretched, fucked open around Mydei. He finds your aching, swollen little bud, circling it with a flick of his thumb. "Let me see you both come undone."
Release comes as a quiet unraveling, a descent that you've long avoided. Your legs seize around Mydei's hips as your muscles clench around him with such force it tears a wet sob from the both of you. Phainon sinks his teeth into the side of Mydei's neck at the same time the prince quakes into pieces, fucking up into his heat with a groan of muted relief.
Warmth spills inside you, followed by a gasp, a muttered curse in Kremnoan muffled against your hair. You huff against his neck, mouth watering against the sun-doused sweetness of him. The steady blaze of his heat is an orchard of low-hanging fruitâso close, you could bite, until more of it bursts in your mouth like the ripest of the harvest season. It coats your tongue without even slipping past your lips, like warm honey and milk spiced with saffron.
You want him in your mouth so badly, you could cry.
The temptation sinks like a stone in your chest. You pull away.
It's not until Mydei's handsâunsteady, trembling, just as overwhelmed if not more than youâreach up to hold yours that you notice how hard you've been digging your nails into the prince's skin, the gold that clings, warm and sticky, to your fingertips.
Sniffling, you let him lace his fingers through yours. His head still rests on Phainon's shoulder, gaze half-lidded. His expression is warm and open, resting on you like he would never want to look elsewhere. Like he's committed you to memory, every fragment gently entombed in the amber of his eyes.
"It's alright," he says, voice whisper-quiet as he cradles you closer. "You can bite me."
You want to. You so dearly want to.
"I shouldn't." Slowly, you shake your head. It is difficult to even think through the satiation that curls hotly through your limbs, arousal still burning low in your belly. "You're bothâ"
Irreplaceable, your mind supplies, even as you say, helpless, "Giving me too much."
The bonds of alphas and omegas were considered to be the last of Mnestia's gifts at the tail end of Era Chrysea.
It is a well-known secret among the scholars of the Grove that Cerces had a hand in it. Or so the most-commonly agreed on, most peer-reviewed text holds.
A parting legacy, borne of Reason's guidance and Romance's devotion: in the darkest days after Cerces lost Their divine body and Mnestia breathed Their last, the world was lit in radiant golden threads that could be seen from the sky fortresses of Aquila and Nikador. And with the tenderness of butterfly wings, the love of a mother's kiss upon your brow, they wound themselves into people's souls. Made them stronger. More whole. More than their mortal selves could be alone, without each other.
Alphas and omegas, and bonds wrapped up in destiny: inextricable as the sun's love shining radiant on the face of the moon, and as unassailable as the tides bringing back lost things to shore.
So the wheel of fate spun new tapestries of love, long after love's master had since passed.
The first alpha to breathe in the scent of their fated omegaâplums, sweet and ripe and utterly alien in the barren, war-torn land of their birthâdescribed the first claim to have scarred their soul, changed it in irreversible ways.
It quelled the unrest that lingered in their breast and filled the empty spaces that they never knew had ached.
Gave them a place to belong. A safe harbor, a home you'd never lose.
As a child sat on your father's knee, you had dreamed of being one half of another's soul.
You know now that this is entirely a boring process. As Professor Anaxagoras would put it, in that bone-dry tone of his, these mystical bonds are nothing more than a language spoken entirely through chemicals, interacting with bodies that are made of chemicals. Water, carbon, ammonia, lime, phosphorus, salt, saltpeter, sulfur, magnesium, fluorine, iron, and aluminum. The same building blocks to form pheromones, in case one forgot that humans are little different from animals.
Instincts, bred into blood and bone, understood on a level that cut deep into marrow and sinewâan evolutionary trait, hardwired into biology.
It just so happened that betas weren't factored into these instincts.
But you were a scholarâ a heretic, in some people's eyes, out to twist the laws of nature. What were these instincts but something to be tinkered with? What was a little sacrilege if it meant comfort for the ones you adored?
"You really should make use of the scent blockers I keep bringing you." You slip into the bath with a drawn-out sigh, the heat sinking into muscles sore from late-night exertions. The water runs on the hotter side, the way it always does when it's for Mydeimos. "I made them myself, you know."
Though it often leaves Phainon looking like a boiled lobsterâyou laughed yourself to tears, when you first saw him step out of a bath with Mydei at the palaceâyou've always been fond of higher temperatures. Strange for an Aidonian, you know.
Most people would assume you'd faint in the hotter baths.
You did, the first time. It was something of an event, between the three of you. The panic on Mydeimos's face when you woke up was a little touching, if it weren't for Phainon reading your last rites with a faux-solemnity that made you want to throttle him.
(You did try to throttle him, but Mydei grabbed you by the scruff and hauled you off to look you over. Psh, worrywart.)
Mydei hums, noncommittal, his head tipped back as he watches you through the corner of a lidded stare. You do your best not to look down. Seeing all the marks and scratches you left on his skin, for now unhealed, would be too distracting. "I do use them. Mostly to keep him from causing me a headache."
Snorting, you raise an eyebrow at Phainon. He doesn't even bother to look the least bit guilty, batting those baby blues at you from Mydei's other side. You squint at him. "So on campaigns, because he'd tear apart the tents and your men if one gets too friendly."
"That was one time," Phainon says, with a hint of a pout. He tips his head against Mydei's shoulder, burrowing his face into the crook of his neck. You stare at Phainon. A big, overgrown baby, is what he is. A baby that Mydei bears with the long-suffering patience of one hopelessly in love with an idiot. (As if you're any better.) You wonder how you ever considered him to be the most intimidating alpha you have ever seen.
You flick some water in his direction, entertained. "And then?"
"And then I didn't tear into anyone! I just talked to that man about proper boundaries, which he certainly wasn't respectingâsniffing around Mydeimos's tent like thatâ"
Your brows, lifting higher and higher with each word, would soon ascend to Kephale's arms if he keeps going on. "I'm sure."
Mydei actually laughs, a warm and unfettered thing that turns your insides to mush. You want to cradle it in your palms; he doesn't often sound like this, as if being Nikador's heir has stripped him of the right to. Your breath catches at the sound, a traitorous flutter in your chest. He nudges his arm against yours. "He did just talk to Eurymachus."
"You remember his name?" Phainon asks, a little too sharply. You snort. He looks at his mate, scandalized.
The dull look you and Mydeimos shoot him makes him wilt.
"Him?" The name rings a bell. You squint at the mosaic tiles lining the bath. "I remember an Eurymachus going to my shop. Auburn hair, brown eyes? A scar on his lip?"
Phainon, somehow, looks even more alarmed. His eyes widen; water sloshes around the bath as he clambers over Mydei's lap just to question you.
"What did he do at your shop?"
You blink. "What else? Make use of my services, obviously."
Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.
The change in his scent doesn't go unnoticed to either you or Mydeimos. What was once a pleasantly fragrant steamy atmosphereâabundant with Mydei's scent, helped along by the herbs you added to the hot waterâis slashed through with the sharp scent of ozone. It's almost like blood, coppery and bitter in your mouth, as if you had just bitten your tongue by accident.
His voice is unrecognizable, a rasp of distant thunder drawing close. "He didn't touch you?"
It's clear that something else is plaguing him, but his thoughts continue to circle around what they deem more acceptable a target.
Beside you, Mydei tenses. He's far more affected by this than youâall those complicated little reactions of their respective pheromones, unspoken gestures you could only take an educated guess at. "Phainon. We're fine."
It's a soft, husky reprimand, though you catch the fraying edge of concern at the corners. Mydei is just as unsettled. He reaches up to grab Phainon's jaw, and it's only then that you realize that the alpha is growling. It's almost inaudible to your senses, a faint shiver in the air you could only sense from how close he's gotten. But the feeling is unmistakable, even to your muted instincts: it's the same feeling mortals would get, right before lightning smites the very ground they stand on.
You take one look into his face. There is a storm brewing behind his eyes, something you've only seen one other notable occasion during your long time knowing each other. The same roiling, snapping, leashed and wounded thing that curdled his voice during your last call.
"The recent meeting with the elders on Dawncloud." Mydei cuts a sharp glance your way, at your quiet voice. "What did they do, this time?"
It's better to bleed the poison out of the wound before it begins to rot you from inside out. You've realized this long ago.
You know the dangers of thisâof staring a stressed alpha downâbut you, despite all logic telling you not to, trust Phainon. Wholeheartedly, with every inch of your being; perhaps, even, to your possible demise one day. And he's the same man who's shared heated discussions with you over countless ethical conundrums.
(He has never turned his gaze from yours.)
You've probably given him a lot of practice, come to think of it, in butting heads with elders who'd walk circles around him with their oratory skills and ass-backwards opinions.
He's been sitting on this for a while. Even as he cooked breakfast and ensured Mydei was taken care of, he never gave voice to anything.
Dammit, Phainon.
Phainon trembles as Mydei murmurs in his mother tongue; you inhale, loosening tensed muscles, as the scent of familiar sweetly-spiced honey engulfs your throat. "They're pulling back on the rescue efforts for Milios." His throat bobs as he swallows, hard, on what must be a vicious curse against the elders. "Aglaea was overruled, this time. Too much of a waste of resources."
Gods, the guilt in his voice.
You close your eyes, thinking of the countless city-states that have fallen. The responsibility that must weigh heavy on Lady Aglaea's shoulders, being forced to decide which could be saved. And what was beyond saving.
(Aedes Elysiae burns, an eternal pyre to the boy in the wheat fields. Aidonia's blizzards bury all that you've ever allowed yourself to love. And Castrum Kremnos waits for a son that it has never before embraced before it cast him out to sea.)
All while contending with Okheman elders who'd quibble over sparing even a sliver of coin for outlanders they didn't want to welcome.
This is the mantle that Phainon must one day take on.
As you look upon him again, you wonder if it's righteous to put it all on one man. And if someday, you'd also be little else than one of the countless wishes pinned on a pedestal that'll swallow him whole. Until he's lost to you, even if he was never yours to lose.
Today, he breathes the same air as you. He is only a man who looks at you with promises he can't possibly keep.
He is the man you've given yourself to.
The same man who spent many summers under the same sky as you, living and laughing and existing, with a heart he'd show the entire worldâbut only a handful allowed to grasp the true shape of his grief. The same man who taught you how to keep your chin up without shame.
The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
Rising from the water, you reach for the bath sponge and soap. When you speak, it's with far more certainty than you had during breakfast. "Whatever those old foxes decided, it's not your fault."
Mydei takes him fully in his arms, winding his fingers in the drenched silver strands. An armful of wet, dejected Deliverer burrows against his chest, curling up and taking greedy gulps of his scent. He holds on to Phainon with a gentleness that takes your breath away, each time. As he meets your eyes, the harsh line of his mouth eases, and he inclines his head.
You take the silent invitation, and your place, behind Phainon. Lightly pressing a hand against his spine, you ask, "Want me to wash your back for you?"
It's⊠the least you could do. You don't have the pheromones to calm him, the way Mydei does. All you have is a steady gaze to watch him in all his blinding radiance. Hands that do not falter when they hold a sun that's set to die. The devotion to hear the words he couldn't say, to hold him the same way you would never allow yourself to be held.
And it will all have to be enough.
A/N: To you who read this all the way to the end, I hope that you have a wonderful New Year's.
This has sat in my drafts/WIPs practically finished (besides proofreading and editing) for months, but life happened. Oh well. After getting help with beta reading, I felt like it was time to post this to end the year with a bang. Thank you to everyone who gave such lovely comments, I appreciated reading them all! @cryoculus, you have been the sweetest and so helpful with your feedback, tysm for helping beta-read this! I loved hearing your thoughts as you read my drafts.
naâvi phainon & naâvi mydei x reader (+ bonus at the end!)
content warnings: nsfw & 18+ content ahead, size kink, breeding kink, native naâvi reader / virgin reader is implied but can also just be seen as a non native too, threesome
original naâvi phainon post
naâvi phainon who roams his hands all over your sensitive skin because he knows youâre so so so new to everything. and you know how much he loves to have his cold fingertips kiss every inch of your skin that he couldâ
naâvi phainon who teaches you about sizes, and how actually big he was for you. i mean, was it normal that his huge cock would bulge past your belly button; it was much more adorable to see how corrupt your expression would get,
naâvi mydei who joins it on teasing your body when you try your best to take the ten~eleven inches of his best friendâsâfinding every way possible he could get you to moan if he hadnât already.
naâvi mydei who loves to take turns in eating you out while you still have phainonâs large shaft inside your tight entrance. becoming even more fucking obsessed than ever with your pretty little face. it was your first time taking a cock so might as well take the best.
naâvi phainon who still keeps up with whispering praise into your earâbut naâvi mydei loves to kiss down your body in a language not even you could speak.
âaaahnâplease⊠whaa please i⊠need more.â your back was arched when you sat on the blue-eyed faceâs shaft, your head on phainonâs chest with arms slithering around your waist,
rubbing the belly bulge in your stomach as his head stayed between your own, and your nape; only taking in your scent while letting his best friend do the rest of the talking. "god, this one is adorable. looking at them just beg- you poor things have no idea what pleasure is, do you?"
a smirk is recognized in your hazy vision, you could barely see the red-eyed man bow down to sneak another 'few' licks on your most prominent parts, spiking your adrenaline and pleasure by thousands.
his tongue only seemed to roam your heat more as mydei continued to go down on you, all while you could feel the aching throb of phainon's cock still hard and warm inside you too; this was nothing like you've ever felt at home, not even your first hunting experience.
pairing: Mydei x Fem!Reader
summary: The eldest daughter of the Marquess of Castrum Kremnos was set to marry Prince Mydeimos. It was a match where the King and the Marquess had both approved a long time ago. But as the hour of her coming-of-age drew near, she suddenly vanished. What she only left behind was a letter that spoke of love and escape with a commoner.
Shock, rage and scandal consumed the Marquess' household. Desperate to preserve the familyâs honor, the Marquess made a bold choice: you, her daughter's faithful maid and companion since childhood, must fill her role. You, becoming the fabricated daughter of the Marquess.
Suddenly pulled from the shadows of servitude into the dazzling yet dangerous nobility, you must hide who you truly are. You must outwit the palaceâs plotting, and face a prince who perceives far more than you allow. One slip could spell disaster, and eyes in the palace are watching, ready to claim your downfall.
tag(s): Kingdom AU!, Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, kind of Slow Burn, Fluff, Smut, Mature themes
ACT I â An Identity Borrowed from Silence
When the Marquessâ daughter vanishes before her coming-of-age, you are forced to assume the identity of being the Marquess' Eldest Daughter to maintain the arranged marriage with Prince Mydei.
ACT II â The Prince Who Watched Closely
As you navigate nobility life in her place, Mydei notices your humanity beneath the noble facade, and quiet trust slowly grows between you.
ACT III â The Truth Beneath the Silk
Mydei discovers the truth of your origins, and though love has taken root between you, the revelation fractures his trust. Loving him, you realize, means leaving him for survival.
ACT IV â A Life Without Gold
You flee Castrum Kremnos to Aedes Elysiae, living freely but haunted by love and the life you left behind.
ACT V â The Crown That Kneels
After a relentless search, Mydei finds you and chooses love over duty, leaving both of you to decide your own path together.