"You look... nice." Tobio's slowly trail down your form. His cheeks are pink, but his tone is harsh, almost... like a question?
"Thank you?" You ask back, slipping out of your shoes. "I've bought new trousers. It's hard to find good ones, most of them make my ass look fat."
"It is fat," Tobio points out, almost going cross-eyed as he tries to look both at you and your behind at the same time. "It's nice."
You stop, one hand in your purse, and stare at him.
"Tobio?"
"Yes?"
"Are you trying to flirt?"
He jerks his face away, but you've seen enough of the nervous blush covering every spare inch of his usually pale skin.
"Forget about it!" He barks as he stomps off, your giggling the only sound in the empty hallway.
-
Now
"Oh," Tobio grabs your belly with both hands and kneads it like it's dough. "You put on some weight."
You groan and laugh at the same time. It tickles, after all. "Why do you have to point it out all the time?"
"Because you're so soft and I love you?" He reluctantly lets go of you when you shimmy your hips around and offers you the pair of jeans you'd tried to slip in minutes ago. "I'll buy you new ones if these don't fit anymore, you know?"
"That's not the point," you argue, struggling with the button at the top. "I like these pants."
"I like your belly more," Tobio slides his hand below the waistband of your pants and tickles your skin. "Look how confined it is. It wants out."
You laugh at his silliness. "When did you get so good at flirting?" You ask, pulling him in for a kiss.
"I'm just speaking my mind," he points out. "You just happen to like it, I think. Hoshiumi said I sound like a moron when I'm talking to you."
"See? That's why Hoshiumi's still single."
-
Receiving Gifts
Then
"Tobio?" He freezes in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Did you leave something in my office?"
"Maybe?"
You hold up the package. "Is there a reason you bought me a sample package of lip balms?"
"You said you lose them all the time," he defends himself, shoulders pulled up to his ears. "So I bought you enough that you have one everywhere I go."
"That's really sweet of you," you look down at the present for half a second. "But a 48 piece pack?"
He panics, you can see it in his face, the widening of his pupils and the stiffness in his arms.
"Should I have bought more?"
-
Now
"Tobio?"
"Yes?" He dips his head out of the bathroom door, half of his face shaved, the other half covered in shaving cream. "You called?"
"There's a package on the kitchen table."
"Oh," he nods. "Just a little something I got you."
You eye him curiously before you open the package with a kitchen knife. Inside is something oddly shaped inside a few rolls of bubble wrap. By the time you finally take off the last layer, Tobio has slid up behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, his left hand softly caressing your belly.
"It's a guy," you point out. "Sitting."
"It's not just any guy," Tobio points out. "This was handmade and designed by me. It was a hard decision, too, but I think we got it right in the end."
You lift the small figurine up to get a closer look. You know that black hair and those blue eyes, that frown on his face and the way he stretches.
"You designed me a figurine of yourself?"
"Yes," Tobio grins proudly. "Look," he takes the figurine from you and sets it next to the stove, pulls out a ladle and lets it rest on little Tobio's stretched out legs. "This guy makes kitchen helper figurines. Ushijima bought lots of stuff from him and I asked if he could model a figurine after me. This way, I'll always be helping you in the kitchen."
You're still struggling for words when he turns, insecurity slowly bleeding into his demeanour. "Did you want someone else? I thought of buying you the one that keeps the lid from closing, because you like giving me steam facials and it would have been funny, but that one was harder to model after me, so-"
"Tobio," you reach out and sling your arms around him, press your face against his shoulder. "I love it. Thank you."
He smiles, just a little one, but one that's true to himself. "Thank God. I already ordered a second one that looks like you. You're paying for it though, so it's your present to me."
-
Acts of Service
Then
Hurried steps follow you down the hallway. You turn, surprised to find Tobio running after you.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes," he pants, grabbing the bag hanging off your shoulder. "I said I'd help you carry it."
"Oh, but it's not that heavy."
"Not the point," he accidentally knocks his hip into yours as he moves, blushing to the tips of his ears as he does so. "Where are you headed?"
"To my car. Are you sure you wanna go outside right now? You're sweaty and it's cold out. I don't want you to get cold."
"I'll be fine. Can I carry anything else for you?"
"You know I'm not sick, right? Or unable to lift weights in any shape or form."
"Right," Tobio nods. "But I'm strong?" He phrases it like a question. "And I want to help you where I can."
You stare up at him, your heart beating a little out of the loop, sloshing around your chest as if waiting for new instructions.
"You don't need to help me," you insist once more, your voice a little weaker than before. "But thank you."
Tobio smiles and leads you out onto the parking lot, pulls you a little closer when you shiver in the cold.
He's out sick the rest of the week, but you don't think he minds it much.
Not when you're at his place every day before and after work, feeding him soup and measuring his temperature with a kiss against his forehead.
-
Now
You can hear the vacuum from where you're scrubbing the shower, the sound almost loud enough to drown out the audiobook in your ears.
You're old enough now to have your very own cleaning routine, but that doesn't mean you like doing it.
Half an hour later, the bathroom is clean and you put away the supplies before you walk out, all the while stretching your sore back.
The vacuum has been tucked away again, but you hear Tobio's voice from the kitchen, the way he struggles to pronounce the Italian words from his own audiobook.
"Ciao. Ciao." He jumps when you sneak up to him, curl your hands around his chest and press your face against his back.
"You're done yet?" You ask, leaning into him with all your weight.
"Almost," he huffs out laughing. "The oven is a mess."
"We can do it another day."
"No, I'm committed now."
"But I'm hungry," you whine. "And we can clean the stupid oven after we have Dinner."
"I already ordered food," Tobio argues. "Might as well get this done until it arrives. You can-"
"No," you insist, feeling stubborn. "Don't make me clean another thing."
"I wanted to offer a seat at the table where you can check my pronunciation, but if you have a better idea..."
"Table it is."
-
Quality time
Then
"And then you jump," Tobio explains, swallowing anxiously. "Did you get that?"
"Uhuh," you inspect your nails for a second, before deciding to speak. "Look, I like spending time with you, but do you really need to train today?"
Tobio falters. "No?" He asks. "Why?"
"Is there a reason why you brought me here for our date then?"
"Well," he fiddles with the ball in his hands, shy again. "I like spending time with you."
"Me too."
"And this is something I know," he explains, looking around the deserted gym. He doesn't need to explain that it makes him feel safe. You've seen it.
"Right," you nod, swallow against the knot in your throat. "How about we do something you know for an hour and then something I know next?"
Tobio nods, clearly relieved. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we're doing."
He blushes when you don't react, struck by the softness of his accidental confession. "Did I say something wrong?"
-
Now
Tobio drops like a stone into your lap and he groans so loudly you almost miss the conversation on TV.
"Long day?"
"No," he pouts, "but I missed you. Why do they let you go earlier when I have to stay in longer?"
"Because I'm not their star setter?" You ask, gently threading your hands through his hair. "Hungry?"
"Yeah," he huffs out a breath and closes his eyes. "But I wanna stay like this a little while longer. What are we watching?"
"Well, I was watching a rerun of Friends. You wanna join? Or we can put on a match."
"Friends is fine," he lifts one hand to circle your wrist, tugging it down just enough to press a kiss into the palm of your hand. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we're watching."
You coo at his softness and lean down to kiss the tip of his nose, only to tease him right after.
"I'll remember that the next time we're fighting over the remote."
-
Physical touch
Then
"You should go back inside," you insist, "It's freezing."
"It's fine," Tobio presses through chattering teeth, his sweaty jersey barely a shield against the cold. "It's not even that cold."
You look up at him, your bag over his shoulder, his arms crossed confidently in front of his chest.
"Do you like me, Tobio?" You ask, and even though it feels a little silly, given everything he's done and said, it still feels necessary to be voiced.
He swallows, blueberry eyes locked in on you, and then he nods.
"So much," he breathes out. "That I never know what to do with my hands when you're around. O-or what to say. You're the prettiest, smartest, nicest, coolest girl I've ever met and I know I'm just... me, but if there's anything I can do, anything, I will, I-"
"You could kiss me," you interrupt him, your heart beating in your throat, your fingertips, your toes. "If you want."
His lips are cold and his eyes are wide open, and you think, not for the first time, that there's an ocean of warmth hiding in these blue depths. He takes your hands in his, squeezes them one, two, three times and kisses you again, clumsy and eagerly, and so much in love.
And then he sneezes.
-
Now
"Morning," Tobio presses a kiss against your shoulderblade and sinks into you, his chest pressed against your back so that you can feel his heartbeat. "I need to go for a jog."
"Mhm," you make, half awake and already in love with him, the gentle way he wakes you every single day. "I'm not joining you."
"Shame," he leans in to kiss the shell of your ear, the soft skin behind it, the nape of your neck and the corner of your mouth.
"One more for the road?" He asks, sounding more awake than you ever could be at this early hour, and you turn your head a little so you can squint at him, can offer him all of your mouth and not just a corner.
Later, after you've fallen back asleep, he will kiss you again, taste like toothpaste and smell like aftershave, and you'll try your best to pull him back into bed, to fall back asleep in his arms. Rarely does it ever work. But he'll always stay a little while longer, just to touch you, just to breathe you in.
in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but youâre nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (itâs worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as âprincessâ / âmiladyâ, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.Â
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos âa name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found ânot in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.Â
âprincess,â he greets you, his words polished to a fault âexactly what youâd expect from a prince.
âyour highness,â you reply, matching his formality.
âwelcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.âÂ
itâs not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, âthe journey was smooth, your highness,â you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. âthank you for your hospitality.â
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, âwhat is it that you find so fascinating?âÂ
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.â
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear youâve already made a fool of yourself.Â
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, âstill curious?â
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. âitâs pomegranate juice, nothing more.â
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.Â
âpomegranate juice,â you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
âyes. is that so difficult to believe?â
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.Â
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.Â
youâve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form âan unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.Â
youâve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink âan oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, youâve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. youâve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.Â
itâs not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.Â
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.Â
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.Â
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesnât even look up, offering only a polite âi seeâ before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more⊠direct approach âflattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you âuh, you are unmatched in your⊠strength and wisdom. itâs no wonder my heart canât help but be drawn to you..?â
well that didnât exactly sound convincing.Â
âand⊠your arms, theyâre quite impressive. i mean âwait, thatâs not what i meantââ
and that certainly didnât make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached âthank youâ before turning his attention back to his meal.Â
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though itâs strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, itâs still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, itâs clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last nightâs mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the gardenâs stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers âsoft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the waterâs edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, whenâ
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
itâs deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.Â
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you âwith a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.Â
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. thatâs when you realise, youâre in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic âleaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
âwhy did you wander off alone?â he chastises, snapping you back to reality.Â
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.Â
itâs foolish, maybe, but youâre still reeling âfrom the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.Â
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like thisâŠ" his grip tightens on you, but thereâs a tension in his voice as if heâs swallowing something he canât quite put into words. âdidnât i say thereâs no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just⊠thought youâd like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
âyou donât need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.Â
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and nowâ
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
âwell?â his voice is steady, and you canât quite grasp the intention behind it. âyou went through all that trouble to gather the flowers⊠arenât you going to give them to me?â
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
ââŠhere.â slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.Â
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. âsorry theyâre ruined,â you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. âtheyâre mine now, so iâll take care of them.â
thereâs no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, thereâs something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. âcome. you need to get changed before you fall ill.â
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.Â
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom âsuch as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory thatâll unfold within the arena.Â
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.Â
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponentâs strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint âthen a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponentâs side.Â
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. âmydei,â phainon mutters, breathless. âdon't hold back."
mydeiâs gaze remains unreadable, but thereâs a flicker of something âamusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
âHKS,â he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. âgetting tired?â
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. ânot in the slightest.â he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. ânot bad.â
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward âa thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knightâs expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. âheh looks like i take the win this time,â he gloats, though thereâs a slightest hint of concern in his tone.Â
â...though i do apologise, your highness,â phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. ânothing to be sorry for.â his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
âbut donât think this means iâm letting you off easy. weâll settle it properly next time.â
âoh? and here i thought youâd take the loss with dignity for once,â phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. âbut i suppose i wouldnât want you growing too accustomed to losing.â
âyou land one lucky hit and suddenly youâre talking like youâve dethroned me.â mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.Â
mydei doesnât know why youâre worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, itâll be gone âhis body already stitching itself back together. he doesnât need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this âfussing over him with a tenderness heâs never quite experienced before ârenders him quiet.
ââŠyouâre frowning,â he murmurs.
âbecause youâre hurt,â you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.Â
youâve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this âthis time, itâs different. thereâs no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesnât know what to make of this.
ââŠplease be more careful next time.â mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you donât know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there wonât even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
âdoes it still hurt?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you itâs nothing.
but when he looks at you âsees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.Â
ââŠnot much,â he admits instead. âyou act as if iâm on deathâs door.â
âand you act as if youâre invincible,â you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it âbecause in some ways, you arenât wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.Â
but his darling wife doesnât know that.
and perhaps thatâs why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic âagainst everything heâs told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. âiâll leave you to rest, your highness.â
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound thatâs already gone, he finds it strange âhow reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.Â
the knight dips his head, âof course, milady. the pleasureâs all mine."
youâre glad phainon took time off to accompany you âwandering the city alone wouldâve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.Â
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but iâm surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.Â
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i donât think he cares."
phainonâs steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isnât sure whether he misheard you or if youâre simply playing coy. "you donât think heâ" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now thatâs funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, whoâs seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
âbut he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. letâs keep walking before i say something i shouldnât."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her âa lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
ââŠalways playing the victim,â she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. âeveryone pities her, but really, sheâs just an outsider to kremnosââÂ
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady⊠talking about you?
âshe was never worthy of standing by his highnessâs side!â the lady continues with simpering disdain.Â
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. heâs noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. âshe tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push andââ
âwhat?â mydeiâs voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.Â
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. ây-your highnessâŠâ she lowers her head just slightly. âi only meant that a mere nudge shouldnât have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.âÂ
she offers a small, demure smile. âunless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.â
âit was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because ofââÂ
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadnât meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization âher intentions are clear as day towards you.Â
mydeiâs eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves ânot to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.Â
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
âtell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?â
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. ây-your highness, i would neverââ
âspare me the excuses.â his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, itâs hard to tell.
âguards.â mydeimos doesnât raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, âtake her away.â
 ây-your highness, i onlyââ
mydeimos doesnât even spare her a glance as he delivers the ladyâs fate. âfor daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.â
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimosâ gaze softens âonly slightly, in your direction.Â
phainon leans in, âand yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?â
but you donât respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
âshe was desperate,â he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. âdid you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.â
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. â...you werenât fooled, were you?â
you blink, caught off guard by his question. âof course not, your highness.â
ah. was he worried youâd misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. âgood.â
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. âwell then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.â with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydeiâs eyes linger on you âsearching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. âwe should go.â
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. itâs subtle, so subtle that if you werenât paying enough attention, you mightâve missed it.Â
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesnât feel intentional, and yet, it doesnât feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. âyour highneââ
âmydei.â
âŠwould it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. heâs just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesnât offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe thatâs why, after a momentâs hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
âmydei⊠what were you doing in the market today?â
he doesnât answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.Â
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, ânothing of importance.â
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here âthe flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? âŠsurely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. âyour highness! youâve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.â
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "youâve been taking good care of my flowers?â
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,â he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought âso soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you donât resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
itâs late âpast the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away âthough, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
itâs phainon who breaks the silence first.
âyou know,â he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, âyouâre awfully quiet these days, your highness.â
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesnât look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like heâs weighing his next words.Â
âdo you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesnât bother to wait for an answer.
âbecause if you donât, i was thinking maybe iâd give courting her a try.â
ah. that does it.
mydeiâs eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under âand the former wouldnât even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comradeâs reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.Â
âdonât cross the line.â the words fall from mydeiâs lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs âthe kind of laugh shared only between men whoâve known each other long enough to grow used to the otherâs sharp edges.
ârelax,â he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. âi was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.â
âiâm not mad iââ
âyouâre not mad because you think i meant it,â he cuts in. âyouâre angry because you know iâm right. youâve been walking around pretending like she doesnât mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, theyâd have given up by now.â
mydei looks away. âsheâs not anyone else,â he mutters.Â
phainon smiles. âthen tell her.â
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. âyou're lucky sheâs patient.â
the sour look on your husbandâs face whenever phainonâs name comes up is a recent development.Â
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately⊠itâs been happening a lot.
right now, youâre seated in the castleâs sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend âphainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydeiâs closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latterâs heart.
because at this rate, if you donât manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldnât be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
âso⊠what do you think?â you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. âheâs a reserved man âyouâve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, heâs the type to take forever to realize whatâs right in front of him.â
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. âthough, i do hope milady wonât give up on him just yet.â
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
âactually,â he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, âmy hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?âÂ
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. â...what kind of favor?â
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. âfeed me.â
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, âlook, busterââ
âjust this once,â he interrupts, grinning. âthink of it as repaying me for my advice.â
thereâs something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like heâs well aware of what heâs doing⊠or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards himâ
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.Â
and before you can pull away âthe barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he justâ?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. âoh yeah i forgot to mention,â he says, far too amused.
âthe prince has a sweet tooth.â
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare âfrozen, pulse skittering in your throat.Â
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didnât justâ
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like youâve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if heâs about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. youâve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.Â
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: itâs tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds âmost commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someoneâs waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. âfeeling a little aggressive today, arenât we?â
mydei doesnât respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, youâd wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husbandâs eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you werenât sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
âŠwhich didnât exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you donât hold out much hope that heâll accept yours either.Â
still, it wouldnât do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadnât even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary âyour duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. âow⊠you saw that, right?â he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. âheâs being so rough with me today!â
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. âpoor thing,â you say, amused. âwhat did you do to deserve it?â
phainon grins. âabsolutely nothing, milady.â
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced âbut then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.Â
oh no.
âif he wants to be mean,â he muses, tilting his head, âthen maybe i should give him a reason for it.â
you frown. âphainonââ
he says, far too casually, âi think iâve got an idea.â
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. âjust play along, alright?â
âhuh?â
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before heâs already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, andâ"
âthatâs enough.â
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesnât look outwardly furious, but thereâs the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. âoh? something wrong, your highness?â
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm thatâs about to break, you quickly slip out of phainonâs grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
âmydei!â you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). ây-you must be exhausted after all that training today⊠why donât we head back and get some rest?âÂ
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.Â
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.Â
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainonâwho only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks âheâd never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.Â
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for âmercyâ in the kremnoan language⊠as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see youâre not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way heâs being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.Â
nevermind. maybe youâll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, youâd get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching forâ
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, itâs strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, heâs taken yours without a second thought.
itâs a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.Â
and if heâs going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. âthatâs sir phainonâs, you know.â
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.Â
âthen heâll just have to go without,â he mutters.
youâve never seen him look quite like this before âcaught off guard and... flustered?
â... and i wanted one today.â
âwell, since youâve gone through all that trouble,â you say with a grin, âi suppose iâll let you keep it.â
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, âare you nervous about the tournament?â
his eyes flick to yours, âthere is no word for âfearâ in the kremnoan language,â he replies, his voice low and confident.Â
itâs the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. âthen bring back the victorâs crown for me, will you?â
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, youâd be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.Â
âif itâs for you,â
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.Â
âiâd do anything.â
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often youâve clutched it.Â
ever since youâve come to kremnos, youâve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.Â
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, thereâs a twist of worry that doesnât loosen its grip.Â
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
youâd heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself⊠itâs surreal.Â
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire âcorrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesnât falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.Â
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes donât leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you wantâŠÂ
is to be the first thing mydei sees when itâs over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. thereâs no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.Â
for a heartbeat, you can't tell whoâs fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech âand then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, thereâs silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
âmydei!â you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and itâs you he finds.
the victorâs crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.Â
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.Â
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victorâs crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
âyou came back to me,â you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment âlike heâs been waiting for this, aching for it.
âi always will.â
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts âhow could i ever win his heart? âfeels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that youâve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.Â
âby the way, iâm actually⊠immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.â
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
âwait, then that time when youââ you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. âi just like the way you worry over me.â
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.Â
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. âyou mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?â
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. âit wasnât for no reason,â he says, clearly trying not to smile. âi liked it. still do.â
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. âwell, you couldâve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.â
with a soft chuckle, mydeiâs fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. âyouâre adorable when youâre upset,â he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you canât help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. âdonât be mad. iâll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as youâre by my side.â
âyou better mean that! iâm holding you to it.â
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. âi do,â he whispers. âif thereâs one thing iâll always be sure of, itâs you.â
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.Â
âlooks like i managed to win you over after all,â you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could âas if youâre the only war heâs ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, itâs the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
BETWEEN YOU AND ME (AND THE SEA)
RORONOA ZORO X READER
warnings âą suggestive content (i.e. glorified pillow talk). established relationship. slight angst that ends in comfort. mentions of violence. love as religion/love as worship. allusions to buddhism. gn reader.
the word âbokkenâ denotes a wooden practice sword.
word count âą 1143
notes âą if this looks familiar, itâs because i reworked my old fic! itâs still embarrassingly sappy + full of my personal hcs about zoroâs childhood. please let me know what you think! <3
âI would die for you.â
Your words caress the swordsmanâs heaving chest, his tawny skin dewy from exertion, glistening under the pearly moonlight. The wind listens with bated breath, air at a standstill in the crowâs nest; the only sound to disturb the lulling midnight is the gentle lap of the wine-dark sea.
It takes Zoro several moments to process your statement, his senses still hazy and pleasure-drunk from the events of your shared watch. One wide palm rests on the soft curve of your lower backâan anchor. The other absentmindedly strokes the arch of your neck.
âHm?â Zoro belatedly grunts, brows knitting together in confusion.
You raise your head to meet your loverâs steel gaze. The fierceness in your eyesâZoro knows it well. Beneath the heady cloud of contentment is the crazed glint of worship, shining like an unclaimed blade: honed by anotherâs will, difficult (if not impossible) to master. Itâs a look that both terrifies him in its depth and comforts him in its earnestness.
Will I ever be worthy of your devotion?
âIâm not particularly brave or strong,â you start, a fingertip etching love into his flesh as you trace the jagged edges of the scar that slashes across his torsoâthe ghost of an injury that almost took him from you.
âBut I would do anything for you, Zo. I would die for you. And it should scare me, that I feel so deeplyâŠâ Your finger stills, hovering above his heart, beat steadfast as the foamy tide. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. âBut when it comes to you? I lose all my inhibitions. I would die for you in an instant.â
Even in the dusky quiet, Zoroâs hands are broad, as warm and reassuring as the sun on a blustery day aboard Sunny. They may be extension of his weapons, instruments of death. Yet he cradles your cheeks with devastating care as he pulls your face to his. When youâre this close, you can map his every feature, from his puckered left eye to the crooked cant of his nose to his barely-there freckles. His jaw flexes resolutely as he grits out, âDonât say shit like that. Yâknow I hate it.â
Draping your hands over his, you rub his rough, calloused skin, murmuring, âNot saying it doesnât make it any less true.â
Few things scare Zoro. He recognizes Deathâs face, having brushed shoulders with the endless ether more times than he cares to admit. On the rare, starless nights when he dreams, he wades through a river of ichor as an asura, violence incarnate. At an early age, he learned that the price of greatness is at the expense of oneâs soul. But he continues to shoulder the burden of existence alone, intent on seeing hisâKuinaâsâdream to fruition, no matter how foul-tasting the fruit.
Your vulnerability, however, frightens himâhow you lay your heart bare and expect nothing in return. The way you live goes against everything Zoro has ever known, against his basest instincts to keep his emotions under lock and key, to fight the inevitability of suffering with blood in his maw, to survive at any cost.
(Itâs a bitter January evening. Snow flurries paint the eaves of the run-down dojo whiteâa portrait of tranquility.
Inside, a boyâs stomach growls, hunger gnawing at his intestines. His young, scrawny limbs ache with overuse. The room is frigid, his feet frozen as they step and slide across the tatami mats. His simple robe does nothing to keep the color in his cheeks.
This dreaded overnight practice is punishment for pilfering onigiri from the kitchen several days prior. Hunger is but a distraction for the weak. He must repent for his wrongdoing with fasting, meditation, and grueling endurance drills. But in the middle of an overhead swing, he loses feeling in his arms; the bokken clatters to his feet.
His sensei tsks in disappointment. âThe way of the sword is absolute, Roronoa. You eat and sleep and breathe by the blade. The second you lose focusâthe moment you lose sight of your callingâyou will cease to be a swordsman.â
Tears of frustration prick Zoroâs eyes, but he bites his tongue, picking up the bokken without sound or complaint. He doesnât realize that his palms are cracked and that the wooden hilt is stained sanguine. He continues training until dawn.)
âTch.â He wets his chapped lips, a flash of slick pink. His tongue is always loose when itâs just the two of you and the sea. âIâm not worth it.â
A frown pinches your features. Adorable, he would say if you were talking about anything else in the Grand Line. You wrap your arms around his neck with a huff.
âWhat makes you think your life is worth any less than Luffyâs? Than Chopperâs? Than mine?â
Zoro assesses you for a moment, feline eye unreadable, then sighs. He measures his words with unusual care. âMy role is to protect. It wasâit isâthe vow I made to our captain.â
Threading your fingers through his mint tresses, you tug, concern rolling off of you in waves. âThen whoâs left to protect you, Zo?â
The answer springs to his mind without hesitation: No one.
(The little boy with the bloodstained bokken weeps.)
âLet me protect you,â you entreat, lips grazing his. Your touch is charged yet tender; something within him yields, if only a centimeter.
The Fates, in their divine and impartial wisdom, must have made a grave error: spinning the claret thread of your fate, meting it out, and mistakenly intertwining it with his own. Zoro is certain that itâs a miscarriage of justiceânot that the gods have ever been preoccupied with fairness.
Did I do something in a past life to earn your reverence?
âI canât,â his voice cracks. But his iron resolve is rusting. Fissures compromise the once-gleaming surface, threatening to crumble the pride he has worn as a shield for as long as he can remember.
âYou can.â
Zoro has never considered himself to be a good man. Selfless to a fault, you are eager to give. And, for once in his life, he wants nothing more than to take advantage of youâto receive. He allows himself this greed.
Drinking in your affection like a man who has never quenched his thirst, he doesnât notice how his lone eye burns when he claims your lips with his own, heartfelt I love yous swapped between spit and teeth and tongue.
The tears are silent as they dribble down his feverish cheeks; you chase each of them away with a flick of your thumb, dotting kisses across his salty flesh. Zoro has half a mind to be embarrassed. (Swordsmen donât cry.)
But if there is one absolute truth in this cursed world, itâs this: his heart is safe with you, and you alone.
another night where you fight, another night of silence. another night where miya osamu sleeps with his back to you.
the realization that there is not much more you can do to save your relationship clutches at your chest with an iron grip.
the gravity of it makes you whimper. pressing your lips together, you shakily push yourself up to sit blinking back tears while blindly stepping around for your slippers, willing yourself not to sobânot here, not where he can hear. your toes touch the fluff of them, and you hurry to slip them on. you need to get out of here.
as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.
you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.
you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.
the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.
you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldnât. couldnât listen to him tell you that he needed more from youâmore support, more time, more patience.
youâve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. youâve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. youâve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.
i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. youâre never home. i know youâre busy at work and youâre doing what you love but please, âsamu. please.Â
love me, too.
your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says heâs tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.
you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.
âbabe?â you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. âbabe, whatâs wrong?â his voice is calm against your turmoil. âare you having a panic attack?â
ââsamu, iâmââ you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water.Â
âdrink, please,â he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water heâd given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.
he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.
when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.
"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.
his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"
âi love you so much, osamu,â you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch.Â
âi love you, too,â he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.
not anymore.
you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.
âi love you so much,â you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. âbut iââ you sob, âbut, osamu, i canât anymore.â
osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
âi love you so much,â you confess. âi would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. iâve tried my best, but osamu, iâm so tired,â you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. âiâm so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, andâandâand i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.â
you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. âiâm so sorry i canât give you more, osamu.â
you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.
the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.
when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. âwhatâs next?â
your smile is sad and wet with tears. âi think you know.â you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. âletâs⊠letâs do this in the morning, okay?â
he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesnât take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries.Â
you press your face against his hair and cry with him.
â
the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. itâs early, but you canât keep sleeping. thereâs a lot to pack.
your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that youâre alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so itâll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.
you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad backâosamu didnât leaveâand your fingers turn cold.
the door slides shut behind you and he turns. âgood morninâ,â he says quietly, shutting off the stove.
âgood morning,â you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. âosamu. what isâwhat.â
he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other platesânearly every single plate you own, you noteâand your dining table is bursting with food. âcooked breakfast.â
âfor how many people?â you ask, incredulous.
âi tried t'remember everythinâ you liked,â he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.
âthank you,â you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used.Â
when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. âwhen you leave,â he says, âiâm going to try again.â
you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.
âi donât want you to leave,â he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. âbut i know iâveâi know i fucked up. i love you, and i never shouldâve hurt you.â he inhales through his nose. âbut i did, and i canât change that.
âbut iâm not giving up on you. not on us. youââ he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. âiâll⊠if i have to start all over again, iâll do it,â he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. âiâll win you back.â
âosamu,â you whisper, and his face crumples again.
âi love you too much to let you go,â he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. âand i know that makes me a jerk. but iâm⊠i love you, so muchâso fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.â
he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. âleave me if you have to,â he says brokenly.
âif you need space, iâll understand. but please,â he begs. âplease donât give up on me.âÂ
he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.
the horror that overtakes you is beyond words.Â
you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he wonât do this to himself, you wonât let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.
you won't let him do this.
later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamuâs middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.
âiâll make it up to you,â he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. âplease, just⊠give me another chance.â
you look up at him, and your eyes meet.
â
âhey!â atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. âitâs so good tâsee you!â
âhi, âtsumu,â you greet, returning the hug.Â
he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. âknow what you want?â
you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. âhow are you? howâs training?â
ââm good! trainingâs good. teammates are pretty good, too.â
"yeah? like who?"
atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."
you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. âfine. ask me.â
atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, âhow are you two? itâs been over a month now, right?â
âoi.â you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. âstop bothering them, âtsumu.â
atsumu glares at his twin. âiâm the one who invited âem to lunch!â
osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brotherâs wandering hands with it before they get to close. âthese are not for you.â
âbut thatâs a lot!" atsumu whines. "canât i have any?â
âno,â osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.
"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.
osamu ignores him. âlet me know what you think.â
âokay,â you say with a smile.Â
âand let me know if you need to take out anything,â he continues, âiâll wrap it up for you.â he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. âenjoy.â
âthank you, âsamu,â you tell him before he turns to leave.Â
he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.
atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. âso i take it things are going well?â
âyeah,â you admit, picking up an onigiri. âgoing really well, actually.â
âyouâve beenâŠâ atsumu searches for the word, âis it still called âdatingâ? you broke up. but⊠entertaining each otherâŠ?â
âdonât hurt yourself,â you joke. âbut yeah. letâs call it dating. and itâs going well, thanks for asking.â you take a bite of the onigiri.
âdoes he still have a chance?â atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.
you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, whoâs smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friendâs apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.
you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friendâs door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if youâre eating or if you need any food.
you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.
but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.
in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his âsee you laterâs, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time heâs putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.
it's like everything is new again.
his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.
curious about his hobbies, you ask Jing Yuan to teach you to play the flute. you do not expect him be such a... hands-on teacher.
contents ⧠gender neutral reader (no pronouns used), fluff, a lot of physical touch, slightly suggestive, an intimate afternoon. 2.0k words.
note ⧠inspired by the official art of him holding a flute and by my experiences with being a flutist! a huge thank you to @petrichorium for beta reading this and helping me make sure he's in character. (thanks plu, ily!)
You ask him on a whim.
âJing Yuan, can I try your flute?â
He pauses in the middle of disassembling the instrument, having spent the past hour spinning melodies into the warm, afternoon air. âYou would like me to teach you?â he asks in confirmation. At your nod, the skin around his eyes wrinkle, eyes forming crescent moons as the curl of a pointer finger beckons you toward him. âCurious little thing.â The words are spoken soft and low, a rumble that sends a shiver up your spine.
Heat rises to your cheeks. You focus on carefully laying a red silk ribbon between the pages of your book before setting it aside. The grass of the garden crinkles softly beneath your feet with every step, bringing you before the General sitting on the wooden veranda, whose golden eyes have not left your form since you asked him the question.
You rock once on the balls of your feet, hands clasped behind you. âWhat do I do?â
His head tilts, silvery-grey hair falling over one eye. âHow will I teach you when youâre so far away, hm?â Cloth rustles as he languidly spreads his legs, thighs straining against the fabric of his pants. Jing Yuan pats at the space between his legs.
Your voice comes out strangled. âYou want me to sit there?â
He ignores your question, simply choosing to smile. The honey-gold of his eyes coax and pull until you give in and step against the edge of the veranda. You turn and slowly take a seat, his gaze burning through you, licking a trail of heat up your spine. His thighs bracket yours, warm and unyielding.
âGood,â he says when you are settled, your back a sparrowâs hop away from pressing into his chest. âShall we begin?â
At your shallow nod, he brings his flute in front of you, arms settling around you closer than what you think is necessary.
The lacquered wood gleams a soft, light brown. Jing Yuanâs thumb brushes over the first hole on the left side of the flute. âThis is the embouchure hole.â His voice is a comforting rumble as he explains the basics. âSound is produced by putting your lower lip against this sideââhe touches the side of the hole closest to youââand blowing a steady stream of air, aiming for the outside wall. Shall we give it a try?â
You look over your shoulder, squinting at him. âThatâs it? What about the fingers?â
His tone is fond as he says, âThe biggest challenge for novice players is producing a steady, full tone. Let us achieve that first before I teach you the notes. Do you find that acceptable?â
The sparkle of amusement in his liquid-gold eyes makes you a bit shy as you huff and look forward again. âFine. Let me try.â
He raises his arms, left and right hands properly holding the flute, and brings the instrument to your mouth. One of your hands reaches for Jing Yuanâs arm and he lets you move them without any resistance, muscles shifting beneath your palm as you make him lower the flute just a bit so you do not need to strain your neck to reach it. It takes a few moments longer to comfortably rest your lower lip on the instrument, making sure to not cover the opening.
You take a slow, deep breath. Your shoulders rise as you inhale, staying tense as you pause, then exhale with a whoosh through pursed lips.
All you hear is the barely-there whistle of wind blowing through a hollow tube.
You try again, but the flute makes no sound. One more time, for good measure. The hollow, airy whistle only seems to mock you. Your face grows hot.
Sensing your mounting frustration, Jing Yuan pulls the flute away and holds it off to the side. He frees a hand to comfort you, rubbing you from shoulder to elbow, shoulder to elbow, with slow, warm strokes.
âDo not fret,â he croons. âIt takes time for one to make a sound on the flute. When Yanqing first started learning, he spent two weeks practicing before he was able to play a single note.â
âReally?â You donât recall ever seeing Yanqing with a flute.
âAfter he made that sound, he declared that he had spent enough time on something other than swordsmanship. I offered to teach him more later, but he expressed little interest.â Jing Yuan chuckles at the memory.Â
A small smile graces your lips. You relax a bit, finally leaning into his broad chest as he continues to rub your arm.
âI could impart additional advice, if you wish to try again.â
Frustration eased, you are eager to give the flute another attempt, and you relay that to your lover. He sounds pleased as he begins to explain the different factors that can affect how a player produces a note. His voice rises and fallsâa soothing cadence. You become absorbed in listening to him, occasionally tilting your head back to look at him, where his warm gaze holds yours until you grow shy and face forward again.
He removes his hand from your arm, drawing your gaze to him once more. âIt is important to breathe from your stomach, not with your shoulders.â A searing heat against your belly makes your breath hitch. You turn to see his hand settle there, thick fingers spread out in a way that only draws attention to his size. You canât look away.
âLet us practice some breathing exercises. Focus on moving my hand as you breathe.â His voice rumbles through you as his touch binds you together, melting two into one. âReady?â
Your nod is shallow and so are your breaths. How are you supposed to go through with these exercises?
âInhale,â he instructs.
You try, breath wobbling as you inhale quickly.
He clicks his tongue in warning. âSlowly. Fill your lungs with air.â
You breathe again, taking care to do so deeply, focusing on the weight of his hand on your belly. It rises and falls with every breath as you grow used to the rhythmic lull of slow, deep breathing.
âWell done,â he all but purrs into your ear.
Surely he feels the tremor that runs through you, with the way youâre pressed against each other. Yet Jing Yuan simply moves on to discussing another aspect of flute playing, giving you a moment to regain composure. âThe shape of your embouchure also impacts your ability to make a sound. May you demonstrate how you blew into the flute earlier?â
Nodding, you look over your shoulder and purse your lips into a rosebud, then relax and tell him, âI was blowing like that.â
âI see.â Mirth radiates off him, sparkling in his eyes, and your lips push into a pout. His thumb rubs against your belly in consolation as he says, âI suggest relaxing your lips so they form a horizontal line against the flute. Leave a small opening in the middle, the way you usually do when drinking freshly brewed tea and are cautious about burning yourself.â
You are reminded of the afternoon teas youâve enjoyed in his presence and your pout turns into a smile as you take in his advice.
A twinge in your neck makes you adjust yourself, pulling one leg up to lean against his thigh, upper body twisting around to face him. One hand rests on his broad chest and his free hand supports your lower back. Earnestly, you try again, making an effort to pull your lips into a tight line and blowing a gust of air through them.
The wind you blow ruffles Jing Yuanâs hair, making more of it fall into his eye. You shoot him a cheeky look before doing it again. Now itâs his turn to pout to your delighted giggles and you blow one more time for good measure.
But the General will not allow himself to be teased endlessly, especially when he has a chance to strike back. A glint crosses his eyes, as if a switch has been flicked. You donât have time to react as the hand on your lower back disappears, only to come up to grasp your face. His hand is huge, fingers pressing into your cheeks as your chin is cradled in his palm, forcing you to look at him.Â
âIf you are going to behave in this manner, you will learn the proper embouchure. Understood?â
His firm grip only allows you to give a shallow nod, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat, pulse fluttering like a songbird under his piercing stare.
âGood. Now show me again.â His fingers ease up so heâs simply tilting your face toward him, forcing you to hold his gaze.
Swallowing, you try again. Lips pull tightly in a line, an opening in the middle for air. âLike that?â
âHmm, not quite.â His thumb brushes over your lower lip, golden eyes tracing the curve of it. âYour mouth is too tight. Soften your lower lip, the same way you pouted moments ago.â
Doing as he suggests, you pull your lips straight while keeping them relaxed, only feeling a bit of tightness at the corners of your mouth.Â
Jing Yuan runs his thumb across your lower lip again, feeling the plush give of it under his touch. A pleased smile graces his face at the expression on your face. âPerfect form,â he praises. âDo you wish to try the flute again?â
A shuddering breath escapes your lips, tickling the pad of his thumb that he has yet to move. âYes, please.â
You turn around in his lap, a bit relieved to escape his observant gaze. But perhaps the heat of his chest at your back and his hand returning to your belly is not much better either.
âRemember to breathe from your stomach,â he says, as his arms settle around you to bring the flute to your lips once again.
This time, as your lower lip finds the curved surface of the flute, the shape of your mouth feels more relaxed and natural. You draw in a breath, slowly and deeply, stomach expanding. Thereâs a moment of pause, lungs at full capacityâÂ
Then you blow. A thin stream of air rushes through your lips, passing over the embouchure hole and filling the barrel of the instrument, culminating in a bright, steady note that sings in the quiet of the afternoon air. You blow for as long as there is air in your lungs, pulling away from the flute when the note fades away.
For a few moments, the two of you sit in the newly fallen silence.Â
Then, eyes glimmering, you stand and turn, throwing yourself back into Jing Yuanâs arms. He catches the weight of you easily, arm strong behind your back as he holds you against him. He sets his flute down and helps adjust your legs so you sit on his thighs, keeping you steady as you pull back to look at him.
âI did it!â Your expression is radiant, pure excitement shining through.
Pride and affection laces his voice, all warm and rich like the honey-gold of his eyes. âVery well done. Youâre a fast learner.â
âI have a great teacher,â you say cheekily.
âIf you wish to continue your lessons, that can be arranged.â
A smile of delight spreads across your face. âIâd like that. Thank you, Jing Yuan.â
He dips his head, eyes creasing as he smiles too. âYouâre very welcome. Now, I still have some time before my next engagement. Would you like to play some more?â
âYes!â
You settle back into his lap, his chest strong and broad behind you. Jing Yuan picks up his flute and wraps his arms around you, holding up the instrument yet again.Â
The afternoon passes with you blowing long streams of air into the flute as his fingers move to change the notes. Your combined efforts send melodies spiraling through the air, sweet and easygoing. Sometimes the songs are broken up by mistakes that lead to even sweeter sounds of laughter, or fade into thoughtful conversation and teasing remarks, winding together to create the beautiful melody of an intimate afternoon spent between lovers.
note ⧠this is my first time writing for hsr and for Jing Yuan, so thank you for taking the time to read this! I would love to hear your thoughts ^u^
the flute in this fic is the chinese bamboo flute (or dizi), which I have not had the opportunity to try playing! so the flute aspects here are based off of what I do when I play the horizontal flute and the bit of research I did on the dizi. fun fact: like Yanqing, it did in fact take me two weeks of practice and one lesson before I was able to make my first sound on the flute >.< unlike him, I've kept it up for fourteen years now!
Chronology of us (as it is, as it was, as it will be)
haijme iwaizumi x f!reader, kuroo tetsurou x freader
For you, life is synonymous with the azure blue of the Johsai, and love rings with the cadences of Hajime's voice. But life is cruel, and power vicious, and you wonder if this devotion will lead to your demise.
tags/warnings - period typical misogyny, childhood friends to lovers?, strangers to lovers??, hurt/comfort, manipulation!!, abuse of power/authority, aged up characters, objectification of women, depictions of violence, depressed reader, self-image issues, pining, blatant mischaracterisation, minors dni,
Taglist: @pixelcafe-network
â âč Series masterlist I â âč Previous chapter | â âč Next chapter | â âč ficsforgaza
âThe rain, itâs quite unexpected for this time of the year, no?â
You turn and Kuroo Tetsurou is looking straight at you, amber eyes almost incandescent in the unnatural dusk of noon. His fingers are tinted from hastily washed ink, and you belatedly wonder if showing up at the Nekoma estate on short notice was too much of a faux pas. Coughing gently, he folds under your stare as the wind rages outside, another stray branch pelting the glass in the fit of the storm. The air inside the estate is sterile, almost unlived in, a quality reflected in his half-lidded eyes, and you wonder again if the natural amber burns honey-gold under the sun, or if it did at a time before all this.
He wipes his mouth, having taken a sip of the tea in the while you were occupied with your thoughts. Your cup is too full, Kuroo notes, the sheer mass of sugar on the bottom buoying the liquid well above decorous limits. It is a weird blend- thereâs the aftertaste of rooibos complemented by earthen spices, a kick mellowed by the overwhelming sweet. It tastes god-awful, enough for his schooled expression to falter, and he fights back the grimace at the burn of the sugar and shame.
âI apologise for the tea. Haru-san mentioned it was customary for Nekoma hosts to blend and brew for their guests, and I attempted a more western blend; it looked easy enough. I thought it was easy, not that it is, I just thought it was similar to distillation, or I think I didnât think much- I thought I should do right by the customs-â
âItâs quite alrightâŠI like the hints of ginger in it.â
He actually falters at the statement, and Y/N notes his ears turning deep red.
âLady Y/N, Iâ I did notâ there is no ginger.â
There is silence again as he coughs, and you decide to abandon the tea altogether. The events of yesterday sit heavily on your mind, and you seek to set your affairs in the capital in order and return home with Hajime as soon as possible, before anything else happens.Â
(You know the king has his pieces in order; you just hope it's not too late to run.)
You think of feigning illness, of writing to his mother to feign illness or, or his fatherâ his failing health was the reason why you two were here in the first placeâ anything to save your relationship from this demise. The banquet invites only extended to the duke and his wife, you and Hajime only having been exempted from the yearly hustle because of your betrothal (and thus the lack of need to attract attention) and his busyness. Your debut too, years back, had been back in Seijoh after the winter frost had thawed, a quite sordid affair in light of how the rest of the events had panned out after and your foolish, foolish decisions.. You know high society only as the microcosm of it that existed in Seijoh. You almost believe the Kingâs words. Hajime wants more of what the world offers. More than what you can give him.
(Itâs alright. I will wait for you.)
Last you had seen him, he was happily busied with talks of cross-border issues and foreign threats beyond his expertise, and you rightfully doubt he will return with you. Not after what he did. Not after the cruel brutality he showed, his artless innocence of the consummate weight of his offering. You will yourself to believe it was ignoranceâ the Hajime you know would not hurt you like this, no. He is myopic in his focus of traversing as much of the lands and the sea before being tied down, to the point where it is blinding him, to the extent where he is swearing loyalty to the king that had threatened his very own blood. Hajime, for all his intelligence, is decidedly easy to fool when baited with his dreams, and try as you might, you feel resentment take root in you.
(You wonder if he paints you in his future. If he has ever wanted to. What color would be your eyes in his dreams? Why does he not ask you to travel with him?)
Not a single of your letters had been returned since the ball earlier this week, and it terrifies you. Not even the ink blotted ones from after the summon where you all but begged him to go home.Â
âYou didnât need to return the coat in person. I wouldnât have minded if a servant were to be sent with it.â
You shift in your seat, focus returning to the present from your worries. A large part of you is grateful to this man, and your cheeks warm at your half-heartedness in the conversation. Despite the Iwaizumi name you are associated with, you know how dire what you did could be for your image. You are a new face in these masses, despite being presented years before; your debut was a formality for the sake of societal norms rather than an introduction. It is unspoken; he had seen your hysterics, he could have ruined your reputation in its all-encompassing form, irreparably, never to surface in riptide of peopleâs opinions again.Â
âI wanted to thank you for theâŠassistance.â
âPlease, milady. Itâs the least I could do. I apologise for not offering you a carriage home. I assumed it might be too-â
âOh, thatâs alright. It would be too-â
âToo-â
âToo, um-â
He laughs before attempting to mask it with a cough. You find yourself smiling too, fingers no longer unconsciously digging into the ivory of your skirt, pain slowly radiating off your nails. His awkwardness is charming almost, disarmingly affable in his genuinity. Not wanting the silence to return, you note the trunks piled at the very end of the room, overfilled with ledger books, maps held down by the same almanac Hajime carries around like a talisman.Â
âAre you travelling soon?â
He follows your gaze to the back of the room, the trunks almost out of place in the aseptic air of the room. Kuroo feels warmth crawl up his neck again, ashamed of his seemingly unkempt abode adding to how bad he is as a host. He is almost guilty of how much he feels the need to impress you; a ridiculous little spark of curiosity kindling his heart like dry hay under the summer sun. Your smile is beautiful, even when it dared not reach beyond your lips. He is very much out of his depth here, but he complements the flint of your eyes with pyrite in his. The tea was a bust, and he can admit his conversational skills are next to none, but at least he could impress her with his trivia knowledge, if anything.
âNot very soon, though I was intending to after the season ends. My mother, her inheritance left me an estate up north, just across the channel. A few plantations and businesses to handle, I believe, of fruits and the sorts.The volcanic soil is said to be good for potatoes, all that exposure to the elements. A weeks worth of voyage, but Iâm glad its not more-â
âAcross the straits? The Hakodate port isnât very kind at this time of the yearââ you cough, ââI heard.â
You watch him visibly perk up at that, surprise bared at your curiosity. Try as you may, you find it hard to pin him to the stencils of gentlemen you know. He is softer around the edges, and for the lack of a better word, braver, only if bravery included conjuring curious brews of tea and serving said tea to guests.
âI take it you travel often, then?â
âOnly in theory, although I have yet to see the open sea from a place other than land. Iâve been told it looks very beautiful.â
Kuroo nods sagely, as if he shares your vision of the unbidden sea, the shades at dawn and the twilight pink when the sky meets the sea. Maybe with darker shades bleeding at the edges, something lighter lining the clouds. Maybe you could ask Hajime to describe it better when you return home.
(Kuroo finds himself suddenly wishing he could ask you to go with him.)
âActually, I hope you donât mind milady, I overheard of your love for horticulture from a conversation beforeââ, Kuroo begins, almost regretting as he sees you frown for the briefest of seconds before nodding for him to continue, âI do apologise for listening in on a conversation I wasnât part ofââ
Who did you even talk to about this? It mustâve been from the banquet.
âMy mother, Iâve been told, was very fond of flowers. More of nature, but very particularly towards roses. My father kept her greenhouse and Iâve tended to it since, so quite a bit of it remains. Would you like to visit it?â
(You think of how you had all dresses hemmed an inch higher than the usual fashion, just so that you never, not even unwittingly found yourself with muddy petticoats or stray leaves. The last plant you nurtured was on stretched canvas watered by gouache. You detest the feel of soil on your skin. So much for appreciating horticulture.)
Suddenly aware of all the other people in the room, you eye your nurse quietly. Her eyes frown in disapproval behind the frames, the same reproach you were scared of as a child, the reprimands Toru and your mischief earned you, aged beyond the years she was expected to serve the family, but still here. Iwaizumi custom dictated a lady-in-waiting being assigned to the women after a finalized proposal, replacing the previous attendant in taking care of them and being their confidante, usually right after their debutante. You landed in the hiccup where you had no previous maidservant and also no ring on you, thus resulting in your nanny stepping into the roles that would otherwise be left empty. It was belittling, but you said, promised even, that you would wait.
And so you waited.
(Waited for Hajime, waited for the modicum of respect you hoped would accompany becoming an Iwaizumi. You donât blame his parents for letting him delay, but years?)
You feel your resentment towards Hajime flare again, and despite her glare, you nod yes.
Kuroo fumbles in the brief moment after you agree, ears warming yet again as he shifts to find his cane, mentally debating if he should offer his arm and risk his balance. You stand and smooth out your dress, eyes trained on him to see if you should help before he straightens and steps forward. He is taller than you, taller than Hajime even, hair disarrayed and eyes alight; he looks happy behind the dulled amber and you hesitate. Itâs been long since you had anyoneâs attention like this.
In the quiet moment before he steps out, Hajime realises he misses your letters. Despite being knee-deep in the work (he has so willingly taken on, so he has no right to complain), he is reminded of your quiet presence in his study back home, a book in your paint-stained hands, the gentle weight of your stare disappearing when he looked up from his papers. The wildflowers he pilfered on his way crunches inside his coat, a brief prick of shame at not bringing alone anything more appropriate. The masonry along the stairs is immaculate, gaudy even, seeming of a nouveau title bestowed for wealth accumulated from a trade route with a Commonwealth nation. He came here before once, on a rare trip his father had taken him on. His childish wonder entertained by the man he came to know as your father, let loose in a shop of daydreams and possibilities. He had just come back from a voyage somewhere round the bend of the earth where the sun never set and the sky was guarded by green spirits. Your father was a thorough storyteller; rife with pauses and intonations and whimsies of how he fought wolves and djinns barehanded, pointing out artefacts serving as totems of his journey. He was everywhere, pointing out a coral, handing him a map, pulling out another sextant from a precarious pile of books. Hajime remembers how this one afternoon shaped him, the daydreams growing into vines encapsulating him until it was all he could eat or breathe. Vast open sea. Winds. Spirits of the sky.
(He remembers finding it hard to imagine you living there in that house. It was hard to imagine you in anything but the teal and white of him.)
âYour Grace, the miss and lord are both out for the day. They mentioned they would be returning quite late. Would you like to wait?â
His disappointment mustâve been very evident, and the butler was quick to show him to the drawing room, bowing himself out to get refreshments. Hajime takes in the room awash in the same revelry as the exterior, spanning the seas in books and baubles, craning his neck all the way to the ceiling. The sky exists as a sunny illusion beyond the frame of a glass dome, a trick of the eye as he remembers it, air almost amniotic in its tranquillity against the rain outside. There are columns of books everywhere but the shelves, one propped up by some broken bit of what looked like a tusk, pages dog eared and notes inked in the margins. His mother would throw a fit at the mess, but Hajimeâs childlike wonder of it all takes root in his nostalgia. He is nine again in the silence, a youngster in a sweet shop of adventures, the world condensed to exotic baubles he could house in his palms. No ships sailed, no new lands explored; but he still dreams of the wind. Your father, the man behind the magic, the living myth captaining his puerile dreams; there is much heâd like to ask, about the Dutch guilds, the West Indies, the spices of Ambon, the treaties with Bantam; so much heâd like to see one day, if only he could justâ
For now there is so much work to do, he should be on his way.Â
âI take it youâre well versed in foreign trade policies, Iwaizumi-san?â
It is awkward to be addressed by someone of her rank without his title, and the faint insinuation of familiarity burns. While the person seated across him was decidedly innocent, Hajime knew to mull over his words, buying himself time by sipping from the fresh cup in his hands. The princess, strong and curious as an heir should be, was still the daughter of the king, and the king was a tyrant, and the Iwaizumis were staunch supporters only in name. The palace walls are thin, and he is but a rat in a labyrinth. Despite all this, the princess was the daughter of the king, and as a true heir, expected to uphold the standards and expectations for the next in line.
âIt is only because the Ishinomaki port was in talks for being opened as a trade point with the Westerners. Beyond that, my knowledge is limited, Your Royal Highness.â
âIshinomaki? Is that the port in the duchy under your jurisdiction?â
âOne of them, yes. The Kamisahi, Hachinohe, and part of the Hakodate too are under the Aoba administration.â
Fingers thumbing the stickiness from the spill earlier, he reaches for a napkin to the side, accidentally knocking the table, startling his guest. Hajime thinks he could have missed the brief flash of silver from the knight behind her if he blinked.
âAnd how is the trade going? And your wife?âÂ
Copper prices, Dejimaâs western currency peg, snippets of tobacco and silk salesâ he weighs which might piqueâ Y/N? What? Is that what everyone thinks? Did she say that to others?
âMy wife? Y/Nâ Lady Y/N and I are not married.â
Her eyes visibly glint at his statement, much to his surprise, she laughs and gestures for the knight and his manservant to leave. The door closes with a muted thud, leaving a bristling vacuum behind them, one that Hajime took no comfort in.Â
âAnd-â she began, reaching towards the sugar bowl with measured progression, â-are you well versed in our history?âÂ
âPardon?âÂ
â What do you make of it?â
He knows better than to answer.Â
âYou are aware of how my father rose to power, right? The treaties and barters he promised and signed off in exchange for the throne? What do you make of it?â
Hajime balks at the weight of the question, reason sounding the knell at the back of his mind. Not waiting for his answer, she continues.
âDo you think this power can be passed onto an heir, a woman too on top of that? Would the grand court, full of people the king has hurt, by means both direct and convoluted, accept me as a monarch? As their leader?âÂ
Hajime grits his teeth. He definitely is not prepared for this verbal hazing, for having to bury his instilled hatred deeper to prove his loyalty despite being from a royalist background. His loyalty has always been taken at face value, always presumed to be unwavering, textbook examples of defanged dogs at the kingâs beck and call, a facade he was worried would run aground one day. The slow plinks of the sugar cubes count the seconds he considers his answer, weighing his neck against his tongue.Â
âHis Majesty has named you heir uncontested. Surely, anyone denying would know the implications of theirââ
âThere are forces at playâ, she cuts in, âthat you and I are both aware of. In your living memory even, we have been a kingdom with little to no business with the outside world. Surely, not even an idealist like you would believe everyone turned tail at the first sight of changing tides, that everyone now reveres the westernisation, no?âÂ
Pause. He feels like heâs being coerced into a gambit of sorts.Â
âThereâs always good and bad to any decision taken in sovereign interest, Your Highness.â
She laughs almost exactly like her father, terrifyingly similar in the way it sounds calculated, impassivity disguised as intimacy, fashioned to draw in their guests to lower their guards. Itâs something Toru often does during chess, a tell that you pointed out and subsequently taught Iwa to discern after a series of losses that left him bereft of a pocket watch and three books.Â
(Look at the eyes, Hajime. I am. No, no, not into them. If they look like that, you may very well be in trouble. I donât see it.)
He sees it now.
â Semantics seem to be a strong suit of yours, Iwaizumi-san. But stability in this kingdom in this day and age is fragile. There is nothing more juvenile than banking on power being sustained by legacy of the past. Especially for a court that hides their disdain so poorly.âÂ
More of the saccharine metronome.Â
â Do these vassals think we donât know about the armies they have assembled in the dark? About the coup they think they can hide by burning their papers? All these plans to make peace a thing of the past, an avenue for all the pent up resentment from my fatherâs reign. Iâm a woman, young, weak, and imbecilic in their eyes.âÂ
There are no more sugar cubes.
âMy head would roll before the cheers were done with.âÂ
(There is an unmarked mausoleum an hour on horseback from the Oikawa castle, south of Seijoh, near the wheat villages and the carnation fields. Built solely at their discretion and under wraps, it houses the remnants of the Kageyama family, all 12 immediate members and 14 retainers, murdered in the aftermath of the new kingâs rise to power after they refused to swear loyalty to the new reign. While the other surviving families regrouped later under the Aoba banner, their previous association, then known as Kitagawa Daiichi, remains a warning to those who seek to transgress the royal prerogative.)Â
The air stills as she looks at him expectantly, but Hajime finds himself too unnerved to rebut. There is truth to her predictions, and he couldnât understand the reasoning behind the princess showing her hand, the surveillance details and intel she had on the nobility. Is she examining him, seeing if he was in on their plans?Â
â I amâŠquite shocked at this news, Your Highness. I wasnât aware their antipathy had culminated in this. Thisâ this is high treason. Is His Highness aware of this?â
She sighs, glassy eyes betraying her age, contrary to her previous words and deposition.Â
âI know I might not deserve the crownâ, she begins, dabbing her eyes lightly, âbut I know what I owe to the people. And the country. I owe them peace for what my father has done. Peace is beautiful, but it is fragile. And Iâm not egoistic enough to believe I retain peace alone.â
Her knight re-enters at some indication from her that Hajime missed in the fugue of his worries. A part of him sympathises, considering her as he considers the burden of the title, a childhood forgone in fear of failure. Of disappointing those perceiving him, those relying on him, those loving him, and you, part of all that integrated into him.
âI hope I can expect your support all the same in the future, Lord Iwaizumi. â
He wonders if he can promise her that, knowing the past between their families. He thinks of the brief memory of running away, the tea he made you, and the mausoleum hidden between commoner graves. He sees the papers he has been working on, the drafts and signatures and rewrites, and it dawns upon him.
(In all of her years of service to the Iwaizumi household, Nana, as you lovingly call her, had learnt a great many things. Nurturing the children meant loving them as her own, and despite her failing memory, she finds herself reminiscing fondly more often than not. Memories of boiling milk by the light of the hearth; bandaging scraped knees from dragon hunts foiled by lunch; you, and Hajime.
She knows you take pride in your bookkeeping skills, and that Hajime detests the taste of honey; your shoes need to be supported more at the arches, and that Hajime used to hide the sides of bread in his sleeves, a skill he picked from the Oikawa lastborn. Ever the devil.
She knows of your hooded glances to see what Hajime thinks of your opinion, and the complaints of the washerwomen for having to clean far too many of your favourite wildflowers out of his trouser pockets. She knows you are kind, having seen you bloom into the soul you are today, shoes that you have grown into as a future Iwaizumi. At the cost of dedicating more years to childrearing than she had initially assumed, as their numbers dwindled to that of only you-bless her poor knees-she prides herself on learning the tells and quirks of her wards and more.
Which is also why she knows the man seated in front of you is infatuated.
She knows you are kind, and there is naivety behind the kindness, the same naivete pushing your petulance to entertain this man toeing the lines of propriety. She knows you are aware, if the brief glance her way was anything to go by, but you insisted.)
The short distance from the portico to the greenhouse called for umbrellas, and in the wait, Tetsurou found the rain disconcertingly stronger in its attempt to encroach the eaves. For a brief moment, he is ready to apologise again, but your face is tipped to the rain, eyes shut under the onslaught of flurry. The wind has pulled a fair bit of your hair out of the meticulous pins and despite that, you look content, daresay even happy. Your face holds the emotion naturally, as opposed to the distress he had first seen you in at the ball and the yesterday. Lips parted, skin ebbing under the slow roll of your swallow, he quietly admires you in a moment only he is privy to, sense of self slowly fissuring the longer he gazes. Suddenly self-conscious of the old garden and his decision to bring you down to see it, Tetsurou uselessly prays that no umbrellas are found.Â
-Alas-
â My mother really loved rosesâ,â he begins, pointing to the cluster on the far end, their entourage safely out of the rain once again, tone easy and redolent, ââand my father endeavoured to get varieties from as far as Persia and west. Most of them would not survive our winters, so he then constructed the conservatory. A man of grand gestures, he was.â
He offers you an arm, at the risk of forgoing his already precarious balance, and you slow your steps, taking in the scene, grateful for the slight warmth emanating from him. Unlike the grounds back home, these are less manicured, and much of it remains obscured by the overgrown foliage, with strange glass casings strewn across the overgrowth.
â-they are more of the, the perfumed varieties. The ones on the left, you see, red and white, they are the climbing kinds, were largely burned down, if you happen to know the unfortunate fate of my family.â
He punctuates with a derisive laugh, and your words of condolences die under your tongue. There are carefully guarded walls he has built behind his eyes, yet his callousness is unsurprising. The roses are few and oddly browned, petals curled in on themselves, foliage aplenty, and you wonder if it is an adaptation to the ordeal long past. The glass sprouts trail up what you assume is the trunk, condensation running down the tiny walls, obscuring their contents; it seems to you an experiment of sorts.Â
âThe bonsais, however, were largely untouched by the disaster. It was my lack of oversight and care that led to their demise. This one-â he gently veers you to the left, towards a stone pedestal, â-was revived with caution and care that I didnât know I was capable of.â He looks on fondly, voice gentle and sweet. Slowly leaving the anchor of his arm, you take careful steps around the pot, taking in the buds and the hips, the mangled mass of branches forced to grow into themselves for some distorted sense of beauty. The leaves don't cover much of the stunt from sustained pruning, and your eyes trail off, thinking of the bit of ultramarine and yellow, when mixed with black, that could replicate the lovely shade.Â
Kuroo turns to follow your gaze, and his eyes widen.
â Please donât touch that!â
You whip your head up at his alarm, and Nana quickly straightens up. The tube at her feet lay askew, accidentally knocked off by a careless step off the stone path. There is only a patch of damp soil underneath, moss and damp aiding the growth of toadstools inside the safety of the glass. Thankfully, the empty vessel is intact, and Nana bows deep in apology. Kuroo leads you to her in a few steps, and to your surprise, the vial is the least of his worries.Â
â Are you alright, maâam? Did the glass cut you?âÂ
Nana, with residual fear painted around her eyes, startles at the concern. It is undue, really, given the glass was unbroken and she was a good distance from the rest of the fragile shoots. It was welcome, nonetheless, for her knees, as he led you to a nearby bench, your arm firmly latched onto hers.Â
A brief glint catches your eye through the trees.Â
Round the corner, partly hidden by the trees, you spot a table with more apparatus, a coiled condenser and the copper vat you recognise from trade documents earlier this week in your fatherâs unused study.Â
â Are you interested in perfumery, my Lord?âÂ
Kuroo looks slightly taken aback by the question, eyes widening as he considers it for a moment too long. Expression thoughtful, his gaze flickers between the table and you as he weighs his answer. In hindsight, you wonder if you had encroached on something touchy.Â
âYes,â he quietly replies. âI suppose I did once.â
He glances at you, eyes searching yours to discern any underlying motive. âAll these roses, I guess I only endeavoured to preserve the essence of what remained. Out of nostalgia, I presume.âÂ
â Would it be imperative of me to ask if the glass vessels are for the same purpose?â
âYou could say similar,â he remarked. â I did have a vested interest in, in atypical perfume sources.âÂ
He turns to Nana, slowly bending down and summoning his manservant to assist her. The rain has let up, and there is little conversation to be had.Â
âI do apologise for startling you, maâam. I was merely scared for your safety; these break fairly easily. I have broken and hurt myself with plenty of these.âÂ
(Nana, for lack of a better word, is overwhelmed by the strange mannerisms of the young man. He is kind, and eager, odd in ways that are slightly endearing. But his eyes, they are off. It makes her fear his involvement with you, and she meets your eyes, warning evident, hoping you get the message. She canât put a finger on it, thoughts shielded by his kindness, but behind it all, the gold is dull in a way that speaks of resignation.)
Taking Kurooâs arm, you follow after them, speed accommodating his gait and the quiet flinch as he rose. The faint myrrhic notes around you are nice, and you think it would be nice to plant some when you are back home.Â
If you get to go back, your mind supplies.Â
â The roses, milady, did you like them?â
âThey are really beautiful. The bonsai was particularlyâŠdelicate. May I ask what colours the flowers are?â
âThey are deep crimson, milady. My House colours.âÂ
Kissing the back of his teeth, he turns towards you, hesitation painted across his face, throat bobbing as he mulls over something as the both of you come to a stop. Kuroo looks back at the pedestal, quietly taking it upon himself to step away to retrieve the umbrella.
âLady Y/N, would you do me the honour ofâŠaccepting a favour?â
Your face betrays you in the interstitial before you school it back into politeness; it was unexpected.Â
Tetsurou thinks over once, and then thinks twice. He thinks back to what he had seen, anger on your behalf at the disrespect, he wanted to help you up, protest for whatever injustice had been done to you. Some strange manifestation of the innate yearning for you that is blooming faster than he can quell. Risk his skin, wipe your tears, instinctive assurances of let me set it right, he wants to ask, let me help you. To taste the grief you hide behind your teeth, if it's of the same burn as mine. He has seen you mourn twice for reasons unknown to him, but enough to cause you pain and humiliation at the hand of the King. He has enough at stake, he shouldnât be involving himself in matters that do not concern him, yetâÂ
And yetâ
â Outside these walls, this may be taken as treasonable words, but the King is known for being a cruel tyrant; across our kingdom, beyond it, he has done enough for people to fear his hand. He has done enough to people I know for me to know what he is capable of. If he is- if there is anything he has asked of you that is beyond propriety, anything that troubles you, I humbly request that you ask my help as you see fit.â
You stop.
âYou saw me at the palace yesterday? â
He goes silent.
â You saw me- oh god. I am so, apologies I-â
You are mortified; he has been witness to your humiliation again, your sheer horror, the pain of all that you had momentarily forgotten in the conservatory. How could he act like he respects you when he saw-
âMilady, I know I shouldnât have been privy to the scene, and I am deeply sorry. I was too slow to offer help, and your state worried me immensely. I-â
You couldnât hear over the heat rushing to your head, panic rising at the supposed spectation of your upheaval.Â
â Lord Kuroo, thank you for your consideration. And-and hospitality. I should leave now.â
âMilady, I did not mean to distress you by bringing it upââ
âDo not worry, I am fine. Please, I just need to leave.â
You see Nana as you rush past the drawing room, her eyes tuned to your urgency as she promptly rises to follow you. Tetsurou, shocked by the sudden turn of events, follows in wary steps, clearly afraid of offending you further. Something bitter dies in his throat; he wants to apologise more, if not forever, at the anguish his words caused you, light extinguished, skin sallow again. He can only watch as you run.
The rain has started up again, yet you couldnât care less.
so the first screenshot is trying to look this up on tiktok normally, "donald trump rigged election" and it says that search violates community guidelines.
the second screenshot is looking up the same exact thing, but with a (australian) vpn on. canadian vpn didn't fix it fyi.
THIS is exactly the type of censorship to be looking out for on tiktok. this actually is crazy.
when you pull away from making out with your fictional lover and you're both breathless and you both have those dopey smiles on your face and you go "hi :)" and they go "hi baby :)"
you get hurt and luffy's mind flashes back to a certain moment in marineford
⊠. ăâș ă . ⊠. ăâș ă . âŠ
All Luffy could feel was cold, a numbing frost that clawed its way into his very bones, turning his entire being into ice.
In the blink of an eye you were standing strong fighting alongside him, and the next, you were stumbling towards him, hands clutching at your abdomen, fingers trembling as they tried- and failed- to dam the blood blooming between your fingers like cursed roses.
Blood.Â
So much blood.Â
Too much blood.Â
The color was obscene, staining his world in crimson streaks that ran like rivers of guilt. His body froze, rigid as the shadow of death stretched its skeletal hand over his heart and ripped open the scar that lay there. And then his mind fractured. The present unraveled, dragging him back to that battlefield of loss, to the smoke-filled air and the weight of Ace in his arms.Â
It was happening again.Â
His trembling hands grasped at you, desperate to pull him out of the impending storm, but his grip was clumsy and weak against the memories that swallowed him whole. He couldnât see you anymore- only Ace. Aceâs blood. Aceâs voice whispering final words. Aceâs fading heartbeat slipping through his fingers like grains of sand that he couldnât hold onto.Â
You saw it in his eyes; wide and glassy as if gazing into the abyss. He wasnât there. Not with you. His soul had been dragged backward, shackled into a nightmare that he couldnât escape. The terror etched into his features wasnât for you. It was for someone he had already lost.Â
âLuffy,â you whispered, voice cracking with pain. He didnât respond, the sound lost to the screaming silence in his mind. âLuffy!â you tried again, louder this time, each word a lifeline thrown desperately in hopes of helping you both.Â
Desperation clawed at you, drowning out whatever else you were feeling at that moment. Your hand, slicked with your own blood, reached for his face. The crimson smeared across his cheek was a cruel mimicry of the mark of a battle that neither of you had won. Your fingers pressed against his skin, forcing his gaze to meet yours and you saw the distant agony in his eyes- the ghosts of a past he couldnât let go of.Â
âThis isnât the same,â you rasped, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. âThe pain in your chest made it hard to focus, but you pushed forward. âIâm still breathing. Luffy, Look at me!âÂ
For a single excruciating moment, he didnât. He couldn't. But then your voice cut through the haze, the pain-laden scream of his name shattering the chains of memories past. His eyes flickered, frantic and wild as the present came rushing back.Â
You.Â
His chest heaved with a desperate breath as he clung to you, trembling hands pressing against the wound in a distressed attempt to hold you together. Blood seeped between his fingers, the heat of it searing his skin as though the very weight of your life was right beneath his fingertips. Tears began to fall, hot and unstoppable, carving rivers down his cheeks and landing on your face in tremoring droplets.
âIâm sorry,â he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of dozens of emotions attacking him on all fronts. âIâm so sorry. I wonât let you go. Please, I canât lose you too.â
Each word was a plea filled with raw guilt and fear. His body trembled with each sob, the sound hurting you more than any physical wound could ever.Â
You wanted to comfort him. To tell him it wasnât his fault, but the pain was dragging you into a haze of blurred edges and throbbing fire. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, but even in that haze, you knew- despite the agony in his heart, he would never let you go.Â
Luffy couldnât save Ace. But this time, he would save you.
sorry I always felt undesirable my entire life and it gave me kinks of wanting someone to desire me so extremely it's uncontrollable for them as if that's my fault
i want to be loved like the women i read about. like iâm the person they would do anything for. the person they look for in everyone else and everywhere they go because they canât get her out of their heads. the person their entire being burns for. the person they are patient with, even when sheâs rambling, being emotional or sick. the person they go out of their way for, over and over again, because itâs her. the person they love. the person they⊠love and keep loving.
