Xavier wants you to take what you need
content: ovulation, morning sex, pussy job
You wake with your thighs rubbing together, seeking the friction that had eluded you in your hazy, heat-filled dreams. Buried under his soft sheets with your face in his pillow, you're surrounded by his warmth and familiar scent, whining and rolling your hips into the mattress.
Half-coherent and driven by need, you shift, flopping your head to the other side to view your boyfriend. Xavier's soft lips are parted slightly, deep, even breaths escaping him in his peaceful slumber.
"Xavier," you mumble, poking him, tugging at his loose, white t-shirt.
He hums, fingers gliding up to hold yours, but otherwise doesn't stir.
"Xavierrr," you whine, nudging his shoulder, then shaking him gently until he grunts, brows furrowing before his eyes slowly blink open.
"Mm?" Xavier hums in question, long lashes fluttering, blue eyes glazed over and softening when you're the first thing he sees. His jaw goes slack when he lets out a yawn, and you bite your lip, warm with affection at seeing him all sleepy and cute. His voice is deeper, thick when he asks you, "What is it?"
You try to stifle your grinding against the bed, but he pulls you close, going for those habitual early morning snuggles. You hiss when your throbbing core brushes against his knee, trying not to whimper or grind down onto it.
But he senses your restlessness, gaze honing in on the not so subtle movements of your hips, your little jolts under the sheets. Xavier tilts his head, bangs falling across his eyes as he smirks into the pillow.
In one swift movement, he hooks his hand under your knee, tugging your leg over his thigh. You can feel the muscles of it flex through his thin sleep shorts, pressing up against you to silently encourage you to grind against it.
You fall into his offer easily, burying your face into his neck. His skin is so warm, so soft, begging to be sucked and marked.
Mouthing at it mindlessly, you moan his name, teeth grazing along his slow and steady pulse. A content sound rumbles from his broad chest, where your breasts nearly spill out of your rumpled tank top to push against it.
Then he mumbles, grabbing at his phone on the bedside table.
"What—" You suck in a breath, moaning as you rotate your hips, finding a spot in your dry humping that sends pleasure sparking straight from your clit to your core. "What are you doing?"
"Checking," Xavier says unhelpfully, squinting against the brightness of his phone screen in the dim light of his bedroom.
"Checking what?"
His voice is melodic, content when he replies, "You’re ovulating."
You huff, pulling back from his spit-slicked, love-bitten neck to see him smiling at you in satisfaction.
Your hand finds his chin, squishing his cheeks.
"Cocky," you accuse breathlessly, your grip landing on his shoulder to leverage yourself over him.
You straddle his strong thigh, head tossed back as you grind up and down, bouncing on it. Following that build of hot tension coiling in your gut, your own thighs squeezing and shaking around his.
Xavier hums, hungrily eyeing the peek down your disheveled tank top to your bouncing breasts. Your nipples are hard, clearly visible and tempting, and he licks his lips.
Lost in your pleasure, you miss the wicked spark of mischief in his eyes before he closes them, leaning his head back against the pillow.
"I’m sleepy."
You freeze in your eager movements, mouth agape.
"Really, Xav?" you whine, hips wiggling against him before you force yourself to still.
You wouldn't be mad if he was too tired to deal with it right now. But being this horny and wet and nearly out of your mind with it, you'd have to find some other way to cum.
Did you leave your vibrator in his drawer? He wouldn't mind if you pulled it out, right?
You're about to ask when his slender fingers brush against your pelvis, finding where your shirt had ridden up. His calluses graze along the trim of your panties, and your muscles jump in sensitivity, before he moves to shift his own shirt up.
The fabric settles around his soft tummy, and he strokes those long fingers across his smooth skin, down the trail of silver hair that disappears beneath his sleep shorts. He tugs the waistband down, revealing the gray band of his briefs, and just a hint of the mouth-watering, heavy bulge straining against the tight fabric.
"Feel free to use me as you please, angel," Xavier murmurs, blue eyes dark and fixed on you through heavy lids.
You inhale sharply, staring at him wide-eyed.
"Really?" Your fingers brush against the gray band, and you tug down his sleep shorts more to see his growing erection. "You're sure?"
Xavier nods his consent, watching you lazily, his hand curling around the back of your thigh. His fingertips dig into your plush skin, stroking higher to find where your slick had soaked through your panties, dampening your inner thighs.
He tugs you forward, encouraging you to sit yourself on where he hangs, hot and heavy between his legs. You moan at the shock of pleasure, even with the thin layers of fabric still between you.
"Yes," Xavier moans his assurance, his eyes locked onto yours. "Take what you need from me. I wanna watch you."
At his encouragement, you hook your thumbs into his briefs, pulling them down with his shorts until you finally see him, thick and throbbing, waiting for you. You drag your finger along the pulsating vein on the underside of his cock and watch him twitch, your pussy fluttering in anticipation.
You stroke him slowly, palm slick with your own spit, just admiring how ruddy his tip gets before it begins to leak precum. Your thumb circles it, dipping into his hole to watch it stick to your skin when you pull back.
His breaths are slow and even, but his hips roll gently into your grasp, his languid gaze not lifting from you for a second.
"Don't you want it?" he teases you, his slickened cock thrusting up once through your fingers, and you shiver. "It's all for you. Take it."
You hear the soft intake of his breath, matching your own gasp when you finally tug your ruined panties to the side to brush your drenched cunt against him.
Your hips roll, trapping his length between his abdomen and your pussy, encompassing him in the glide along your wet lips, languid and unhurried in the early morning light.
"There you go," Xavier breathes, his thumb rubbing along your inner thigh. "What a pretty sight. Just for me," the last part is mumbled to himself, and you bite your lip to stifle a whine.
Your breathing grows heavy, head falling back between your shoulders, vision unfocused on the star-shaped fairy lights that hang from the corner of his ceiling while you grind along his cock. You gasp each time his head notches on your entrance, trying to eagerly suck him in with each pass, and moan when he slips back out to rub against your aching clit.
When you turn your attention back to Xavier, his arm is stretched out beside his head, fingers twitching. His Adam's apple bobs, the hickeys you just left littering the side of his neck as he watches you with half-lidded eyes, fluffy hair fanned out against his pillow. Not caring about his own pleasure, just enjoying seeing you take yours.
"You're so pretty," you whisper, watching how his eyelashes flutter, his brows pinching with a quiet moan at your praise. "You know that, right? So, so pretty."
You glance down, watching each time his reddened tip reappears from under your grinding, slicker with each pass.
"Such a pretty cock, too," you praise, and you feel him twitch at your words, throbbing within your folds. "Mine."
His face is flushed when you look back up at him, aroused and bashful in equal measures.
"Yours," he breathes, and you feel yourself start to fall apart.
Your hips quicken, jerking back and forth rapidly, that cord of pleasure tightening in your core, at the base of your spine.
Honestly, you could come like this, and the longer you watch him, utterly relaxed and drinking in the sight of you, the more you want to.
You grip his cock, moaning when he grunts, and tap his drenched tip against your clit, hips jolting with the pleasure that shoots through you.
"F-fuck," you gasp.
Thighs trembling, you rub yourself against the head of his cock, using him to get yourself off. You buck against the stimulation when his leaking hole catches against your clit, circling it.
"Wanna watch you cum right on my clit." Louder moans escape you as you feel that pleasure sparking, brightening, about to consume you. "I wanna see it, Xavier, please. Please?"
You look up at him through your lashes, completely debauched and so close to your orgasm, desperate for it, and Xavier breaks.
His eyes go wide and glazed over; broken, stuttered moans and gasps escaping where he'd been biting his own lip when he cums.
You whine, watching each load flood, hot and slick against your clit. It drips down where your hand grips him, still rubbing his tip against yourself as his cum shoots from it, and you cry out, short and sharp, when you cum right after him.
The orgasm blooms from your center, warming you with each wave, leaving him drenched, from his happy trail up to his abdomen. As the peak begins to ebb, you try and catch yourself on your arm, but your limbs give out, and you collapse onto his chest as he pants for breath.
Xavier's arms wrap around you instantly, gathering you close, and you curl into him, hips still twitching from the strength of your orgasm.
He presses soft kisses into your hair, and down your face. His thumb finds your chin, and he tilts your head back, meeting your lips in a long, content kiss.
"Feel better?" he asks, warm breath caressing your lips.
You burrow into him with a happy hum. "Much better."
"Mm, good." Xavier's fingers rub soothing circles into your inner thigh before dragging up through your folds, collecting the strings of cum before pushing them into your neglected hole.
You moan from the overstimulation, holding onto him tighter as he slowly scissors them, pumping in and out.
He sounds utterly serene when he kisses your forehead, but you hear the smirk in his voice when he says, "Now we have the rest of the day to make sure you don't waste another drop."
one thing you’ve never understood was oral. no matter what the context was, it made your body itch. in those porno videos when their partner would go down, suck his cock—everyone makes jokes about blowjobs honestly.
when a woman was given oral? it looked so intimate so…overstimulating. like their partner was nearly taking their soul along with their next orgasm.
this feeling got even worse after getting into a relationship, xavier, the every do innocent man you found in the hunters association. he didn’t even talk about his own sexual preferences, he didn’t care about anatomy—nothing!
when you complained about your thighs getting softer and your curves more prominent, he’d come behind you with a tight hug, ruffling his head into your neck, “i love you like that, so cute and mine.”
or when you said that him carrying you up the stairs was hot after you got tired, he’d laugh with a “why thank you, my star,” placing his hand on the back of your head to rest, “shh sleep baby, i’ll get us home safe.”
even when you’d change in front of him, he’d look up and softly ask, “do you wanna try this new lotion out? it’s really nice.”
one night, you and xavier were playing a spicy card game. you know, the sexy truth or dare? xavier bought it one day whilst buying…new bedroom toys and the two of you never even tried it.
now that you had the chance, the game was in session!
the rules were simple, ask your partner truth or dare:
if they say truth? ask a question.
if they say dare? do the dare.
however, if they don’t answer or do the dare after choosing, you strip a layer of clothing.
halfway through the deck, xavier was in his shorts, his sleeveless shirt and jumper was gone ages ago. you were in your shirt and underwear, 80% of your clothes gone in the first three rounds alone.
“okay xavier! truth or dare?”
he giggled, “dare.”
excited, you picked a card from the dare pile, flipping it over before reading it in your head first.
xavier watched your face drop slightly as if something on the card was disturbing you, “what is it?”
your head turned to him and then back at the card, crossing your legs and pressing your thighs together, “eat your girl out or cook her any thing she wants… i mean you’re not going to the kitchen, but the other option…that’s quiet weird?”
xavier who was sitting opposite you on the bed, leaning back, his head tilted, as if offended, “what do you mean weird? it’s the same thing as a blowjob no?
the cards in his hand were placed to the side, joining them with the pack once more. sitting up, your eyes staring down at the cards that had a matching side on the back, “not really,”
he sat up, gently pulling you into his lap with a quick kiss to your forehead, his chin on your chest, staring up at you with a confused look, “how exactly? i think they’re the same.”
your hands wrapped around xaveir neck, staring down at the blonde man who only looked so…sexy staring at you. yet it took you a while to respond, there was a feeling in between yours legs. the dsame feeling you always get before xavier fucks you, “…i mean, you’re just like…licking it? i don’t know how to explain but i don’t think it’s something the person giving it would like. nevermind getting any pleasure from it too.”
xavier hummed, then his eyes turned to yours a dark gaze, full of a certain lair you’ve never seen before. his ears turned a soft red.
normally, you’d be the one blushing and being ready to bring out a nmore kinky side to the bedroom. however having xavier being the red one? it didn’t normally happen.
xavier lifted his hands from your hips, patting your thighs, his voice coming out rough, “i would.”
“no, xavier. have you seen it?—“
“i have and to be honest they aren’t doing it right. is that how you feel? that i wouldn’t enjoy putting my mouth on your sweet pussy?” xavier scolded, his hands moving up to your breasts, fiddling your breasts, “that i would feel disgusted? baby, if i ever don’t want to touch your pussy, kill me on the spot.”
you gasped, pushing his shoulders away, “xavier! what’s up with you?”
“i always thought that you weren’t comfortable with it? just to know that you think it’s bad for me—absolutely not.”
suddenly, your position was flipped, xavier hovering over you, “xavi! i didn’t mean that i thought…it’s bad for you, but it’s just…you don’t have to.”
“i want to. can i?” a hand came to the stripe of your underwear, ready to pull them down instantly, “if not, i can just finger you,”
“no…we can try, i don’t mind.”
xavier smirked, “okay baby, lay back.”
“xavi!-ahh! shit! oh my gosh! you’re so good!!”
slurps and wet slaps came from the man below, his blonde locks the only thing you could see coming from the space in between your legs, his tongue reaching into your pussy every few seconds, “fuck—gimme more, my good girl…”
“mhhm—xavier—“ you cried, holding onto the bed with a painful grip, the greedy man making out with your pussy like there was no tomorrow. his dick sore and twitching against the bed, his hips grinding into the soft duvet, “xavier please — i’m too — i’m too sensitive !”
sadly, your begs and pleases fell onto deaf ears, xavier was way too focused on pleasuring you than slowing down at all. his hands found your hips, pulling your body more to meet his every lick and suck — passionate, long, rough. xavier turned his head, biting your thigh and sucking on your skin, licking the throbbing spot after, “i can’t get enough of you…you’re gorgeous…i—i can’t help it.”
xavier lips continued to lick and tear your hole, digging deeper and deeper into your centre, your sweet slick coating his lips more and more. xavier didn’t even have to sweat, his mouth was naturally made to eat pussy it was crazy. strong hands wrapped around your plush thighs, squeezing your flesh and pulling you down the bed.
meanwhile, xavier was already hard. his cock rutting hard into the mattress, hips grinding with every lick he gave you. the bed creamed with every intense movement, the headboard nearly banging on the wall, your bed was already dirtied with your juices — which had travelled down from your pussy to your ass then onto the bedsheets. the room smelt like pure sex, it was nasty but god was it so good.
xavier’s head lifted from your pussy finally, staring down at your wet clenching hole, “…you’re so wet, so good for me hm?” gathering up spit, he spat right into your pussy before spreading your folds with his index and middle finger. letting out a small laugh, you knee that xavier was being driven by his cock at this point. his hands tapped his shoulders, staring dead at you, “legs.” was all he said, that tone of pure mischief.
obeying, you gathered up your strength and placed your legs onto his shoulders, giving xavier a wider space to eat you more, “good girl, you want me to make you cum?”
nodding, you whined out, “yeah—please..? i wanna cum xavi—ah!”
before you could finish, his head went back down, licking and kissing your pussy, his other hand went down — finally free from holding your legs — his index finger pumping in and out of your hole, “ah! fuck! xavi—mmhhh! nghhh! more! m-more!”
your hands grasped at everything, trying to hold onto something— anything!
his lips sucked harder on your clit, pulling away with a grunt once again, “you wanna hold my hand baby?” his voice was deep with lust and possessiveness, your trembling hand holding his, your soft skin making him go deal. xavier’s head lowered once more, kissign and sucking on your pussy. “ahh!—oh shit—“
his grip tightened, as if an reminder to stay still, his head rubbing your thighs when they clenched around his head. your head flew back, moaning and growing, “i can’t—please! oh my gosh—“ the tension in your stomach grew, your head falling into the soft mattress below, xavier continued to assault your poor sensitive cunt. his hips thrusted into the mattress, pounding the poor mattress in line with his kisses and licks.
trying to keep yourself still, your hands tightened around his, loud moans leaving your mouth. your second, maybe even third, orgasm slowly building up in your stomach. instead of that normal gradual build up, xavier wasn’t wasting any time. his fast tongue brought you to your release quickly.
his cock rubbed against the sheets, his hand gripping your hip, “ahh! xavier! nnghhh! how the fuck do u do this?!”
you felt his lips turn into a smile, his head rose to see yours, “who couldn’t?…actually, i don’t want anyone else to do this.” xavier groaned at the thought, lowering his gaze back to your wet slick. now fully concentrating to pleasuring you,
yet that feeling..so familiar yet so different. your head lifted up, drowsy and weak, and then your soft voice cooed in his ear whining, “nghh!—xaveir, it feels d-diffferent! h-hahh! wait wait wait—“
“you’re not gonna pee, just—“ kiss “just cum for me.”
“no! i can’t! i feels like i’m gonna pee, xavi—“ you whimpered.
xavier kissed your hole, not wasting a second when his free hand rubbing tight circles on yourclit, “it’s okay, you’re not gonna pee, my love. cum, right on my tongue.”
and you did.
“aahh! c—cumming!” you screamed, mot even caring about your volume anymore, the knot in your stomach snapping quick. sending your cum onto his mouth. the tension too much for you to handle, your poor thighs shaking around his head, “oooh—shit.”
the man below you laughed softly, “you’ve never done that before, good job.”
you whined, feeling xavier kick every single drop of cum from your pussy. willing his mouth clean with his tongue and a satisfied grunt. he moved upwards, “…stained the bed, fuck i love this pussy so much.”
a hand slapped at his chest, out of more embarrassment than anger, “…you sicko..! what if i actually peed then you freak..”
xavier shrugged, his lips kissing your inner thigh then biting at your skin, taking in your yelps, “my honest opinion? i wouldn’t mind—“
“xavier!” you gasped,
your hands went to his hair, “you’re so…!” out of breath, the intensity of your release taking the breath out of your lungs.
“amazing? loving? obsessed?” the blonde man came between your legs, his arms caging you in, “guilty as charged. infact…”
he tapped his hard cock on your pussy, the tip red and throbbing for you, “i’ll show you how much i love this pussy tonight, i’m not done yet..”
KINKTOBER 2025 @ alyakhq, do not plagiarise, copy or translate my work pls :)
you live at the foot of a mountain with your husband, where there is nothing more for you to want in the peace you’ve cultivated together. until he comes home after a blizzard that should have killed him, bearing a smile that does not belong to the man you once married.
★ featuring; rerir x f!reader | flins x f!reader
★ word count; 7.2k words
★ tags; alternate universe, eldritch horror, kyryll gets offscreened and rerir hijacks his life ykwim, grief/mourning, SMUT (MDNI)
★ notes; this is lowkey a tshd au but i have only seen a grand total of two episodes from that show, so i kinda just winged it LMAO please do heed the tags and the warnings utc ! i wanted to try writing smth out of my comfort zone fr and here we have it :/
p.s. thank you to my lovely roc @rocwylde for quite literally sponsoring this fic LMAO in their wisest words "i like varka more than rerir, but i like eldritch monster fucking more than varka"
READ ON AO3
★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!
★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie
The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.
You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.
The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:
This is not the man you married.
Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.
You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.
The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.
You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.
Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…
Was Kyryll ever really gone?
You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.
Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.
Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.
Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.
The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.
Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.
Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.
It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.
So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.
These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.
“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”
But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.
“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”
Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.
You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”
“You always think about work first,” you sigh.
“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”
You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.
Almost.
Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.
All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.
“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.
“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”
Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”
Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.
“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”
Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.
You were taught to count time in threes.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.
Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.
The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.
Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.
Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.
Wait for me.
Three days pass before Kyryll returns.
The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.
Finally, he is there.
Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.
“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”
He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.
“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.
Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.
He does not kiss you back.
Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.
“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?
You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:
“What lamb?”
“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”
But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.
Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…
You do not ask.
You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.
The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.
That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.
Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.
But today, there is nothing.
Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.
Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.
For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.
Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.
You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.
At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.
But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.
They are replacements.
The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.
You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.
But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.
The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.
You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.
The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.
He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.
You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.
In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.
Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.
It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.
That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.
Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.
Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.
Instead, he walks toward you.
Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.
The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.
He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.
And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.
That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.
From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.
The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.
It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.
There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.
But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.
Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.
But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.
At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.
You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.
In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.
The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.
Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.
And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.
It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.
Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
One night, the dream takes a turn.
You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.
For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.
The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.
You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.
You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.
Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.
Winter eventually gives way to spring.
The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.
You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.
At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.
Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.
And that is when you turn.
Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.
The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.
He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.
It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.
For the first time, it is not a dream.
And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.
By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.
You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.
The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.
You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.
The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.
Not in fear. In want.
The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.
His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.
They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.
The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.
A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.
And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.
The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.
Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.
His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.
And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.
When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.
The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.
Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.
Even if you know it’s not.
His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.
You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.
And he notices.
The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.
You see it. You know.
But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.
It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.
Still, your body betrays you.
A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.
You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.
His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.
You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.
Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.
“Mine.”
The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.
He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.
Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.
It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.
Only the monster.
Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.
Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.
When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.
When the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Outside, the wind stirs the fields. Inside, his shadow lingers at your back, warm and heavy, his hand brushing yours as he takes the last dish to dry, wedding bands glinting in the waning light.
You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.
You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.
Now, it is you, and Kyryll.
And the thing that wears his face.
⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO
“Oh,” he hums, shaking his head. It's pity you hear, the last thing you want now when sitting before your new husband on your wedding night.
You bite your lower lip as warmth floods your face. “What? What does that mean?” You’re desperate to learn. If it means pleasing your new husband, you want to learn.
He reaches for your hand and leans in, breath mingling with yours, fanning across your lips.
“It means you take your hand,” he says, guiding your hand over your thigh and sliding it beneath your nightgown between your legs. He pins your finger beneath his own against your clit. “And press right here.”
You gasp, pressing your hips back. You try to pull your hand free from his, but he keeps a tight grip on you.
“No, don't run. Just feel it.” He returns your fingers to your center,
“I don't-” -know what's happening, you want to say, but your body is heating up, tense and burning, bridging between running away or pushing closer. All your mouth can do is let out a pitiful whine as you squirm.
Xavier ignores whatever you wanted to say. It doesn't matter, not when he was teaching you something so new, being the first to see such raw, unfiltered pleasure. “Slow and gentle, move your hips for me.”
You bite down on your lip hard, close to breaking skin. Just like he instructs, a small shift of your hip into his working hand. It sends a shudder through you, and your teeth draw blood. Swiping your tongue over your lower lip tastes like metal.
He almost coos, “That’s it, darling. Good, right?”
You nod hesitantly. He pulls your chin down, showing you your unclothed core now. Your cheeks burn. It's too late now to feel bashful. He's already touching you, seeing parts of you no man has seen before.
“Look here, sweetheart.” He parts your folds revealing a swollen bud and your glistening center. “There she is. I'll teach you everything you need to know, my starlight.”
A/N: I'll prob make this a full fic bc I can't get enough of king!Xavier :3 comments and reblogs always appreciated! thanks for reading! (ㆁωㆁ)
character profiles [one] [two] — playlist — fic tag — wanna see more about this world? check out this → behind the scenes ml
synopsis — mark lee goes from being the quiet kid at the river court to the star basketball player on campus, reigniting old tensions with his brother, jeno. as jeno’s girlfriend, you’re pulled into the rivalry, but it’s mark who captivates you. his touch, his presence—he stirs something deep inside you that you can’t shake. the tension between the brothers grows, so does your forbidden connection with mark, forcing you to confront where your heart—and body—truly belong.
[ PART 1 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 22.2k words
synopsis — mark lee goes from being the quiet kid at the river court to the star basketball player on campus, reigniting old tensions with his brother, jeno. as jeno’s girlfriend, you’re pulled into the rivalry, but it’s mark who captivates you. his touch, his presence—he stirs something deep inside you that you can’t shake. the tension between the brothers grows, so does your forbidden connection with mark, forcing you to confront where your heart—and body—truly belong.
[ PART 2 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 19.4k
synopsis — during an away game weekend at a motel, tensions rise sharply between mark and jeno, exacerbated by the close quarters and competitive atmosphere. meanwhile, your connection with mark deepens significantly. amidst the growing rivalry, you and mark find solace in each other’s company, leading to a night spent alone together in the motel, further complicating the dynamics of the trip.
[ PART 3 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 33.3k words
synopsis — you and mark deepen your secret relationship, becoming exclusive while navigating tensions with jeno and his father. however, the secrecy of your romance is threatened by intense basketball games, dramatic party revelations, and escalating conflicts among your friends, risking the exposure of your intimate world with mark.
[ PART 4 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 33.3k words
synopsis — a tense confrontation exposes your secret relationship with mark, sending ripples of tension through your lives. whispers spread quickly, straining your friendships and mark’s relationships with his friends. despite this, you and mark grow closer, your relationship deepening to more intimate levels. but one moment of misunderstanding—one miscommunication—is enough to make it all begin to unravel.
[ PART 5 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 49.5k words
synopsis — a late-night visit from mark exposes the cracks in your fragile relationship, pushing you further apart with every unspoken word and lingering wound. distance grows, heartbreak deepens, yet amidst the chaos, your bond becomes raw and consuming. but just as it feels like you might find each other again, one devastating misunderstanding threatens to destroy everything, leaving you questioning if love can survive when the world around you refuses to let it thrive.
[ PART 6 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 35.5k words
synopsis — you and mark aren't together anymore, but somehow you've grown closer than ever. every moment you share feels more intimate, blurring the line between friendship and love. but secrets, old wounds, and buried pain threaten to tear you apart again. campus tension, a difficult practice, and an eventful party only add to the strain. now, you're left wondering if closeness is enough to mend what's been shattered.
[ PART 7 ] — smut, fluff, angst
word count — 49.5k words
synopsis — this is the end. after an eventful party that shifts everything you thought you knew, you realize it’s time to bring things back to how they were. with the state championships looming, the stakes are higher than ever. this will either be the end of all you know, the beginning of the end, or the start of something entirely new.
━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.1k (who is she practicing short smuts)
━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, dom!xavier, dark!xavier, ooc!xavier (unless you consider dark xavier canon), jealous!xav, vaginal sex, prone bone, slight voyeurism, light choking, breeding kink, jealousy, sex while on the phone, hair pulling, squirting, unprotected sex
━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | twitter art (the twitter art is super nsfw so i highly rec checking it out bc i can't put it here LOL)
━ ✧.˖ A/N: HELLO bet you didn’t expect me back so soon! I am back with a SHORT smut this time, based on this amazing ovulating inducing fanart @/honiraccoon on twit/x made (with their permission of course). I’ve attached the photo below :’) go support them and their art!
this is very dom and ‘dark’ (if you’ve seen the glitches) xavier. the smut itself is not that dark!! if you’re not a fan of this version of xavier you will not enjoy this.
also header is from @/osk_purinnumee twitter :)
THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.
✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖
Honestly, you had absolutely no idea how you ended up in this position. After not seeing Xavier for several days, having been sent on different missions this week, he and you finally had a coinciding day off. And so you’d spent the most perfect day together, complete with morning cuddles after sleeping in, a homemade breakfast, and a fruitful day at the arcade.
You couldn't stop thinking about the signature Xavier smile you’d gotten to see all day, soft and pure, just like Xavier himself. But this was not the gentle and adoring Xavier you’d seen all day, the Xavier you’d come to know and love.
You found yourself naked, with your stomach pressed firmly into Xavier’s plush mattress and your feet planted on the ground at the feet of the bed, back arched so deeply it might snap. He was pressed so deeply and harshly on top of you, his feet planted right behind yours. He’d pulled so many orgasms out of you already and showed no signs of relenting, his pelvis smacking your ass repeatedly as he forced himself in and out of you.
"X-Xavier, I c-can’t come anymore, please,” your voice was hoarse from screaming, unable to keep up with Xavier’s insatiable vigor. You had no idea what had gotten into him today. It’d been a relatively stress-free day, but he seemed to be using your bodies to relieve some kind of intense emotion built up inside of him.
"Yes you can, I know you can,” he cooed, his mouth right into your ear as his body crushed you against the bed, "You’re a good girl aren’t you?”
His hands gently grabbed a fist full of your hair, urging you up so your cheeks pressed against each other. You cried out at the sensation, "Y-yes, I'm a good girl.”
The wet sounds of his cock ramming in and out of your abused cunt filled the room. Xavier’s grip was tight on your scalp and on your waist, and you were sure you’d have bruises in the shape of his fingers the next day.
"You’re my good girl, right?” He groaned out as he removed the hand from your waist to lift you by hooking his arm around your stomach, so that your ass arched higher into the air. At this angle his thick length entered you so deeply that it felt like he might burst through your cervix. Your eyes squeezed shut as your tongue slipped out, panting against the brute force of his thrusts. Though his tone was dominating and demanding, you couldn’t help but notice a sliver of insecurity lacing his words.
He tugged at your hair, and you yelped at the slight pain bleeding into the pleasure Xavier was giving you. He repeated, this time more demanding and threatening, "Whose good girl are you?”
Your eyes snapped open as his thrusts pushed through every corner of your poor pussy, ravaging every single inch of you. You forced your brain to focus on his words, his rare domineering attitude driving you absolutely insane, "Yours Xavier! M’your good girl.”
You felt him harden even further at your words. His voice against your ear is deceptively gentle, "Really? Then why was my good girl so preoccupied with her phone today?” His words are so domineering and possessive, you find yourself clenching at the thought of his adorable jealousy.
So that's how you found yourself in this position.
Xavier cuts you off, his thrusts stuttering briefly, "Jeremiah? He was the one you were – hah – texting all fucking day?”
"Y-yes but he was just sending me, ahhh, stupid ph-photos of different animals with kn-knives,” you sputter out, nails digging into the fitted sheet of his mattress. You almost wanted to laugh at how comical it all sounded but the feeling of him inside of you rendered you a speechless mess of sweat, cum, and ecstasy.
"Is that so?” And with that, Xavier fucks you with an unprecedented pace. He thrusts so hard your ass ripples against his pelvis and your thighs struggle to stay upright as he presses further into your aching body. You can feel yourself slowly succumbing to the exhaustion of four orgasms, a fifth in the distant horizon.
"You are mine,” he all but growls into your neck, his fingers digging into the delicate skin of your throat. You're jolted back to consciousness at the feeling of his hand closing into your airway, deliciously cutting off your breath. Xavier’s rarely this aggressive and brutal. Sure he’d love to take the lead as often as he surrendered it to you, but this was a whole different Xavier. And you were positively obsessed.
"I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he demands against the shell of your ear, using his canines to graze your earlobes. You shiver at his words, cunt clamping down onto him. He moans in response to your grip, but only driving deeper and harder.
His hard abdomen continued to mold perfectly into your arched back, bending your body into mind numbing proportions. He releases your waist, causing you to slump back into the bed. Instead wraps his arm around both your breasts, squeezing to the point of seeing black spots in your vision.
The force of his thrusts causes your body to rock onto the bed under his large and imposing stature. Every single push made your clit brush against the soft bed sheets, stimulating you beyond belief. You were sure Xavier’s sheets were absolutely filthy from the spend of your multiple orgasms, smearing all over them as he pushed your body to its limits.
As you continue to moan uncontrollably for him, Xavier refuses to stop whispering filthy praises into your ear, driving you closer and closer.
"You’re so beautiful like this, your body was made just for me, right?”
You nod feverishly, his words going straight to your cunt. It wasn’t often you got to witness this side of Xavier and you were living for it.
"M’all yours Xav, no one else’s ever,” you choke out, the force of his cock deep in your throat.
His head dips down, pressing wet kisses into your shoulder blades before biting down and sucking brutally hard, and then licking at them soothingly. Xavier smiles, admiring the hickies forming on your trembling soft skin, marking you as his.
"If only Jeremiah could see you like this. Maybe he would realize you’re mine, huh?”
You wanted to retort, reassure him that he had absolutely nothing to be concerned about, but your brain could only focus on his massive cock claiming every part of your throbbing cunt. He’d rendered you absolutely fucked out, a vessel of ecstasy and a means to pleasure himself. Your brain fought to form words, to no avail. Only the most primal parts of you remained, capable of moaning and screaming for him and nothing more.
You try to speak again, but before you can get anything out the sound of your phone on the bed beside your slick bodies rang out. The screen lit up and through your fucked out haze and tears in your eyes, you could vaguely make out Jeremiah’s contact photo lighting up the screen.
"Speak of the devil,” Xavier grits out. Despite the annoyance in his voice you can also make out the faintest hint of mischief.
"Pick it up love,” he whispers almost tauntingly, thrusts still unrelenting, "We can’t ignore our poor Jeremiah can we?”
While you can tell his words are laced with jealousy and faint bitterness, you know Xavier cares about Jeremiah and trusts him fully. It really felt like he was just, for once, giving into his primal urges, and enjoying the hell out of it too.
You shook your head no, doing your best to push your phone away.
"No?” Xavier asks, amused, "But I thought it was urgent that you respond to him immediately.”
You want to roll your eyes at his childishness, but before you can do anything, Xavier snatches the phone from beside you, slowing his rhythm to a languid roll of his pelvis against your flushed ass.
"X-Xavier—“ but he cuts you off with a pointed thrust that knocks the wind out of you, his thick length absolutely rearranging your guts. You whine at the blinding pleasure, almost forgetting the fact that Xavier was picking up your cell phone, while he was inside of you.
"Hello?” Xavier answers cooly, as if he wasn’t knee deep into your cunt. He holds the phone to his ear, laying down into the arch of your back. His cheek is pressed against yours, his hot breath blowing into your burning skin while he speaks, as he continues to ravage you.
Your eyes widen as you realize he didn’t just decline the call, and that he was actually on the phone. But Xavier reads you like the back of his hand, covering your mouth with his palm before you can protest. He grips your face gently, but not allowing a single word to come out beyond the muffled sounds of your sensual moans.
"Oh, hey Jeremiah. Y/n forgot her phone and is currently occupied by me right now,” Xavier speaks calmly, but the increased passion in his thrusts send your eyes reeling into the back of his skull. His words hold a suspicious double meaning, and you pray Jeremiah doesn’t catch on. Similarly, you desperately hope that the loud wet sounds of his pelvis pounding into you can’t be heard on the phone, cause they ring so loudly in your ear.
Every time you try to speak, Xavier’s grip on your face gets tighter and his pace gets rougher, harder. It’s like he’s trying to force the lewd moans out of your mouth, like he wanted Jeremiah to hear everything he was doing to you, to hear the sound of his skin slapping into yours. Strangely enough, the risk of it all intensifies the pleasure ten-fold. You tighten around Xavier as you continue to leak everywhere.
Xavier swears inexplicably under his breath, though you’re sure Jeremiah can still hear it, "Squeezing me so fucking tight.” Your eyes squeeze shut at the excitement and embarrassment of Xavier’s inability to contain his own pleasure. Or perhaps, he didn’t contain it on purpose.
As if to punish you, Xavier gives you a deliberate and pointed thrust, letting his cock angle upwards into your g spot while his body pushes you down so your clit drags against the bed, forcing the most vulgar sob out of your lips, bordering between a strangled cry and a mewling whimper. Simultaneously, his hold on your chin loosens and he slips his index and middle finger into your waiting mouth. His actions cause your previously muffled moans to ring out completely unrestricted.
Your eyes widen as you realize there is absolutely no way Jeremiah didn’t hear that. It seems like you’re correct because Xavier’s soft voice pierces through the thick sexual tension in the air.
"No. That’s the sound of a kitten,” you can hear the grin in his voice as he continues to roll his hips into you, his fingers toying with your tongue. You vaguely hear Jeremiah’s muffled voice through the phone, doing your best to keep your sounds at bay. And failing miserably.
"Okay, bye.” Xavier tosses your phone back on the bed, kneeling back into your body and into your neck.
"Do you think he bought that?” Xavier’s grinning again, and you are certain he’s teasing you.
"Xavier!” You cry, the mortification settling in with the pleasure, both feelings fighting to dominate your consciousness.
"I told you, you’re mine. Jeremiah needs to know that,” he grumbles breathlessly into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe.
"M’yours Xav, everyone knows that,” you cry out. Xavier moans out in satisfaction, and you feel his cock twitching inside of your gummy walls. His pace grows erratic as his length swells inside of you, and you can tell he’s so close to coming undone.
His husky groans by your ear fuel the fire of your own orgasm, stoking the burning embers until they threaten to burst into a full blown wildfire.
"Sh-shit you’re close huh love? Getting so damn tight around me,” Xavier grunts, biting into your neck. Suddenly he picks your phone back up and you can distinctly see the flash shining down on the bed below your bodies.
"X-Xavier?” You moan, completely blissed out, unable to turn your head to see what he’s doing. He lifts his body off of yours and grips your waist with one hand, pushing you down harder on his erection.
"Don’t worry baby, just taking some videos for our dear friend,” he mutters and you hear the distinct beep of your phone starting a recording. You try to protest but Xavier’s pace becomes unrelenting and you’re only able to moan out his name once more.
"You gonna come for me, my love?” His voice is far away, clouded with intense lust. His grip on your waist tightens as he watches the ripples of your flesh against his viscous pounding. Your back arches at his words, cunt tightening in anticipation of your climax.
"M’so close Xav, gonna cum s-soon,” you wail, letting your body tighten around him, wanting him to cum with you.
His hand leaves your waist and presses against the bulge on your tummy, "Can you feel that love? I’m right here. Should I put a baby in here? Think it’ll fit?”
You squeal at his words, the pure filth dripping off of them like gasoline to the wildfire that is your impending orgasm, raging through every inch of your body. Your pussy squeezes around him again.
"Ffuuck, I think that’s a yes, huh baby? Want me to cum inside you?” He’s panting desperately as he fills you repeatedly, "Fuck – you would look so beautiful with my baby – hah – inside of you.”
In your fucked out state, you nod excitedly, wanting nothing more than to be filled to the brim with his essence, everywhere. You could worry about the repercussions after.
"Then everyone will know you’re mine huh? Right baby?” You nod again, your voice nothing more than a strangled moan.
"Say it for the camera love, let him know,” he encourages, his voice deep and throaty. He doesn’t say who, but you know exactly who Xavier is referencing.
Though you don’t want to indulge his jealousy, you find yourself unable to deny the man who was guts deep in your womb. And so you cry out, "M’all yours Xav, please. Need you t’cum inside. I’m a g-good girl, I deserve your cum, please.”
Your phone shakes in Xavier’s hands as your words set him off, "Fuck, don’t worry baby, s’all for you. Gonna give it all to you ’kay? You ready love?”
You tighten in response, signaling that you’re about to fall into the chasm of your orgasm.
"X-Xavier m’cumming,” you wail, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, your ass grinding deeper into him, back arching into the bed. Your body trembles as the climax overtakes you. Your vision spots as the sensitivity of multiple orgasms wrecks your body. The pressure in your guts is so intense, threatening to explode, and you feel yourself release all over Xavier’s groin. The sensation was so new and foreign it had your brain reeling, trying to grasp onto this new ecstasy your body was falling into.
"H-holy shit did you just squirt on me?” Xavier groans out, still recording the sight of your ass against him. And he thanked god he was recording at all, able to capture the sight of you squirting all over him.
"I-I think so Xav, m’sorry,” you cry, still quivering around his brutal thrusts. The soaked friction of the wet skin between you two splashes and your cheek burns in embarrassment. You’d never squirt before, and you were mortified.
"No,” he grits breathlessly, almost threateningly, "Don’t be sorry. Fuck, need to see you do that for me again.” You hear the click of the recording shutting off, and your phone bounces back onto the mattress. Xavier grabs your waist with both hands and thrusts sloppily, cock spasming in your tight walls.
He groans through every last thrust, and you cling onto consciousness, riding the last waves of your orgasm. Xavier falls back in place on top of you, wanting to be as physically close to you as possible when he finished. His abdomen pressed into the arch of your back and his chin dug into the crook of your neck. With one final savage stroke, he spills everything he has into you.
Xavier shivers through his orgasm, rope after rope of milky white essence dripping into you. You can feel every pump of his warmth inside you. He thrusts languidly a few more times for good measure, wanting it to reach as physically deep as possible. He’d be damned if he let a single drop go to waste.
Your legs give out and you rest yourself entirely on the bed while Xavier rests on top of you, supporting most of his weight with his arms propped on the bed, still caging you in. He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, and then your cheek.
"You’re going to make such a good mommy one day,” Xavier murmurs into your ear, rubbing slow and soothing circles into your ribcage.
Your heart squeezes at his words, and simultaneously your cunt around his softening cock. Xavier hisses at the overstimulation, "Fuck you’re going to squeeze every last drop out of me love. You like the idea of being a mommy huh?”
You nod sleepily, losing your grip on consciousness, "Mm, slipping out Xavier.”
Xavier pulls out of you with a groan, and you whimper at the feel of the release dripping down your thighs. He picks you up gently so your legs no longer hang off the bed and then flops down beside you, tucking you into his chest.
You sigh contently against his softly heaving heart. You feel Xavier moving around, while still keeping his arm wrapped around you. You force your eyes open so you can see what he’s up to, and find him unlocking your phone, the light illuminating his face in the darkening room.
"Xav? What are you doing?” You mumble sleepily, nestling back into his warm body.
"Just sending some videos,” Xavier whispers, stroking your hair with his free hand.
Your eyes fly open and you sit up to face him, "Xavier! Absolutely not!” He grins mischievously at you, "Relax love, I just sent them to myself.” The reassuring smile he gives you reminds you your soft, adoring, and gentle Xavier is back. But you can’t help but anticipate the next time you’ll see that side of Xavier again.
Bonus: some of the pics that Jeremiah was texting mc:
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.
i wish you'd write full fics on some of those Xavier smut headcanon 🥵
just for you dear anon ♡
wrote this early in the morning and haven't edited, so bear with any errors. and hope y'all enjoy 😏
A Frisky Morning 🔞 [AO3]
Xavier x Reader // smut & light fluff
...
In which Xavier fucks out his morning wood into you..
It's the early hours of dawn. You've snuck out of the bed and stepped into the kitchen to prepare a typical breakfast for two. And you begin slicing some onions and tomatoes for the same, when your ears catch the faint sound of approaching footsteps. You crane your head slightly, your eyes blessed by the gorgeous sight of Xavier’s naked torso in all its glory, and the delicious outline of the raging morning wood tenting the sweatpants hanging loosely on his hips.
Immediately you look away. Despite the unholy things you two did in bed last night, you find yourself blushing.
“Morning.” He mumbles sleepily as he walks up to you.
His strong arms wrap around your waist, tousled locks of silver nuzzling and tickling your neck. He reminds you of a big cat in the mornings, prancing up to their human to demand food and treats. You chuckle and turn your head to greet him.
“Good Mor—”
Your words are swallowed by the touch of his lips brushing wantonly against yours, his pelvis pressing into your hips. And you nearly end up cutting your own finger at the mere sensation of his hard length rubbing against your back.
“Xa..Xavier?” You call out, despite his intentions being clearly obvious.
His face lowers, lips now sucking a spot upon your inviting skin as he lets a hand slip beneath your flimsy nightgown, fingers purposefully reaching for your already soaking panties.
“Angel,” He breathes needily along your neck, long fingers deftly pulling aside the panties to slip a digit inside your warm core. “You’ll help me, right?”
“Aaahhhh..” Your eyes flutter shut at the sudden intrusion, your cunt already waiting for more even as the reasonable part of you tries to remind you that you both need to get work in an hour.
“Mmm..so tight..” He moans, teeth lightly grazing along your shoulder. That lone finger slowly pushes in and pulls out, pumping your walls at an agonizingly leisurely pace.
You bite your lip to keep any more sounds from escaping, the knife in your hand clattering on the chopping board. Behind your back, you feel his other hand gently press you to the counter before he frees his member from the confines of his sweatpants, its angry swollen tip replacing his finger within your folds.
“Xavier!” You chide him lightly. Try talking some sense into him but your own back arches in an effort to take in more of his length.
His hands slip further up beneath your dress, their teasing touches only stopping upon reaching your breasts. He gives each mound a squeeze, his lips coming up to whisper against your ear. “Please, Angel.”
Fuck!
His desperate plea and that abraded, morning voice are a lethal combination. They easily crumble any remaining bits of resolve you hold. And so you arch your ass further back, legs parting to let him have better access to your cunt.
Behind you, Xavier groans and kisses your cheek as he rams his entire length into your pussy, his throbbing dick stretching your tight walls as he sets an unrelenting pace to fuck the angry hard-on out of his system.
His hands squeeze and pinch at your nipples, and you try your damned best to hold onto the counter, knuckles turning white. And Xavier watches you greedily, midnight blue eyes darker with desire as he commits the sight of your parted lips to his memory. As he makes sure to record the sound of every lewd squelch due his rapid thrusts, and every little sound you make in response to his balls thwacking obscenely against the backs of your thighs.
It's filthy but filling. Quick yet satiating.
You feel your walls clench and gush around him, your whimpers mingling with his moans in the quiet of the early morning.
Your ecstatic release triggers his own. And he snaps his hips faster, kisses your lips harder, utters your name louder, and thrusts his dick deeper, spurting his seed into your already dripping walls.
Your breaths come out in loud pants as you try to regain your senses. You feel Xavier's hands slip away from your breasts. Tenderly, he tucks your panties back in place over the slick folds of your pussy, and plants a kiss on your cheek.
pairing: donor! mark lee x client! reader | genre: smut | words: 9k+
warnings: STRICTLY 18+
an: just 9k of pure, filthy smut…i’m never making it to the gates of heaven. this idea came to me in a dream (a horny, wet dream) all because i fell asleep to a tiktok of jaemin spinning around in his little orgasm donor hoodie. insane what the mind can do. everyone give it up for the first donor! the birthday boy! my number one boy! mark lee! and my last gift to all of you. have fun reading! — with love, c.
you never thought it would get to this point. not because you were ashamed. but there was something about your twenty something’s, this far into adulthood, and still never having an orgasm that made you feel like your body was broken in a way you couldn’t explain.
you’d done everything — read every self help blog, followed the advice on reddit threads, bought a vibrator, a dildo, the rose toy that everyone said was guaranteed to give you a mind bending orgasm, you’d whispered your needs to your previous partners, even screamed at one or two, but no one ever got it right. no one ever got you there. not even yourself.
it started to feel like a cruel joke. something other people could have, just not you. until your best friend leaned in over lunch one lazy sunday, sipping her coffee and said, “have you ever heard of the neo orgasm clinic?”
“oh god,” you laughed, “like a place that teaches you how to come?”
she grinned, “not teaches. they do it for you. and it’s guaranteed.”
you blinked, “what? so i pay for someone to have sex with me?”
“you pay someone to make you orgasm,” she shrugged like it was no big deal, “wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world,” she says, sipping her coffee with a sly smirk.
and just like that, a seed of curiosity, or maybe desperation, rooted itself in your chest.
✚ BOOK NOW ✚
signing up was easier than expected. discreet, elegant, clinical but not cold. you filled up the introductory form — name, age, contact information, payment details, then moved onto the deeper intake.
step 1: medical verification. a form requesting a recent full panel STI test within the last month.
step 2: sexual preferences & boundaries. the screen lit up with a list and instructions
check all acts you’re open to exploring with your donor. this does not guarantee they will occur. your donor will review and operate within your boundaries at all times.
you skimmed the list, heart racing just a little and checked the following:
☑️ bondage
☑️ choking
☑️ clitoral stimulation
☑️ domination
☑️ dirty talk
☑️ edging
☑️ fingering
☑️ kissing
☑️ impact play
☑️ nipple play
☑️ oral
☑️ orgasm control
☑️ praise
☑️ rough sex
☑️ spanking
☑️ spitting
☑️ vaginal penetration
you hovered over a few others. degradation? group sex? objectification? you skipped them. not this time. you weren’t here to be humiliated — you were here to figure out why the hell your body kept locking up the second anyone touched you like they meant it.
step 3: why are you booking this appointment?
you had to type. no multiple choice. just a blank box waiting to be filled. your fingers hesitate above the keyboard. then you answered:
i’ve never had an orgasm. not from another person. not from myself. i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i’m tired of pretending. i’m tired of faking it. i want to know what it actually feels like. i want to stop being in my head. just for once. i want to let go.
you hit submit before you could overthink it.
step 4: choose your donor.
you clicked through the digital profile list, fingers hovering each name. each donor were vetted, trained, screened and certified in pleasure — not jut sex. these weren’t porn stars. these were licensed professionals. this was science, chemistry and understanding the human body and psyche. or whatever the website said to make you feel better about booking an appointment.
you hovered each name. a few looked promising. one had nice eyes. one had “mean” listed as a keyword. another had glowing reviews for how “slow and gentle” he was.
but then you saw him — mark lee. top donor. most requested. five-star average across every review. the testimonials read like something between a religious experience and the aftermath of a natural disaster.
“didn’t even know my body could do all of that, my god.”
“sweet, respectful, and somehow still completely ruined me.”
“made me orgasm like i’ve never orgasmed before”
and the most repeated one of all:
“i always book mark when he’s available, he knows exactly what to do. a guaranteed orgasm. every time.”
you didn’t even hesitate. you clicked BOOK NOW.
Neo Orgasm Clinic Consultation: CONFIRMED
Donor: Mark Lee
Date of Consultation: July 29, 2025
you stared at your bedroom ceiling in the dark, heart pounding a little too fast. you didn’t know what to expect. you didn’t know what you’d feel. but for the first time in years, you felt hope. and maybe, if the reviews weren’t exaggerating, you were finally about to find out what it meant to feel like your body belonged to you.
✚ THE CONSULTATION ✚
you almost canceled. twice. was this morally questionable? maybe. was it completely insane? absolutely.
but you still showed up. your nerves were coiled so tight they felt like they’d snap with one wrong move. you’d picked out a simple outfit, nothing too suggestive, nothing too uptight. but still, as you sat in the pristine waiting lounge of the neo orgasm clinic, ankles crossed and fingers clenched around your bag strap, you felt entirely exposed.
everything about the clinic was calm, curated. the lighting was soft and golden, the walls a warm cream, subtle scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the space. the kind of place that looked more like a boutique spa than a place where orgasms were clinically achieved.
even the receptionist was beautiful. sharp suit, glossy hair, delicate bone structure. his name tag read taeyong. he smiled when you walked in like he already knew everything about you. probably because he did.
“first consultation?,” he asked, tilting his head with a practiced sort of empathy.
you nodded, “is it that obvious?”
he chuckled, “only a little,” he teased, “but don’t worry, everyone’s nervous at first.”
taeyong pulled up your file on his screen, “you’ll be with mark today. he’s just finishing up. shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
your heart stuttered at the sound of his name. somehow, it felt heavier now. every second you spend in this clinic feeling more real than ever. this wasn’t a fantasy. this wasn’t a dream bordering into a nightmare. this was real. you were going to meet him…anytime now.
taeyong slid a sleek tablet across the desk, “while you wait, kindly review your file, click agree if no changes need to be made. consent is required for everything.”
you nodded, accepting the tablet and settling back in your seat. you skimmed your file one last time then submitted the form. the screen thanked you and welcomed you officially to the program.
exactly five minutes later, the door on the left of the receptionist table, labeled private suites opened with a soft click. and there he was. the man in the website. the top donor. real human being — mark lee.
you blinked. it was like seeing someone you’d only ever imagined walk into reality — all soft black hair, warm eyes, and a smile that was…surprisingly shy for someone with reviews like his. he was dressed in a simple black slacks and a fitted charcoal blazer, sleeves pushed up to reveal veined forearms and a silver watch. professional, polished, but somehow still boyish. he was speaking with someone. a girl that looked around your age. who’d look like she had just had the best time of her life. then she headed to taeyong and mark turned his focus towards you.
“hey,” he said, walking towards you and offering his hand, “you must be, ms. y/n.” you nod, placing your hand in his. his grip was firm, professional, “i’m mark. come follow me,” he said, guiding you toward the doors on the other side of the receptionist table labeled, consultation rooms, “no pressure,” he adds, shooting you a smile, “just talking today.”
the room felt like a cozy therapist’s office. a plush sofa, a low coffee table, a few plants. no examination table. no cold metal instruments. just comfort. mark sat across from you, legs crossed casually, an open tablet in his lap. he offered you water, asked if you were comfortable, then smiled before getting started.
“alright, let’s talk about you,” he said, voice low and calm, “why you’re here. what you’re hoping to get out of this experience.”
you hesitated. you’re sure he already knows. already looked at your file. but still, saying it out loud felt impossible. the words were caught somewhere between your throat and your pride.
“you can open up to me,” he urges softly, patiently, calmly, “we’re both here for you.”
you nodded, finally finding your voice, “ive…never had an orgasm.” you exhaled, eyes lowering, “i’ve tried…a lot…it just….doesn’t happen.”
mark didn’t blink. didn’t smirk. didn’t do anything to make you feel small. instead, he nodded slowly, like he’d heard this before. like it was okay. like you weren’t a complete helpless case. like you weren’t broken.
“thank you for telling me that,” he said softly, “i know it’s not easy to admit out loud but i want you know something — there’s nothing wrong with you.”
you looked up at him, sighing, “feels like there is.”
“i know,” he nodded, “but trust me, there are a million reasons why achieving an orgasm can be difficult — physical, mental, emotional, trauma-related, hormonal, sometimes just bad luck with partners. but it’s not permanent. and it’s not your fault.”
that made you smile, barely, but it was there. he smiled back, warm and nonchalant, “so, you’re not broken. you’re just…unsolved. that’s where i come in.” you swallowed hard. the warmth behind this words caught you off guard.
he tapped a few notes on his tablet before setting it aside, “here’s how this works,” he said, “you set the pace. we take our time. always. you can stop me and say no anytime. nothing happens without your permission. and we don’t even have to do the session unless you’re completely ready.”
you nodded slowly, processing his words, “okay.”
mark studied you for a beat, “do you want to tell me anything else you might have forgotten on your file?”
you hesitated, thinking, “i think i just…want to stop thinking so much. i get in my head. i start worrying about how i look, how i sound, if i’m being too much or not enough. it’s hard to stay in the moment.”
he leaned back, thoughtful, “so your mind is the roadblock.” he smiled a little, “that’s more common than you think.”
“do you really have a 100% success rate?” you asked quietly.
that made him laugh – not loud, not cocky, just amused in a warm way.
“our stats don’t lie,” he smiles, “but it’s because i take my time, i listen, i pay attention,” his voice dipped, “pleasure isn’t a race to the finish line. it’s a process. one i’d be honored to help you through.”
you felt your cheeks flush. he noticed and softened his voice even more, “you don’t have to decide today but if you’re comfortable, i’d be happy to schedule your first session.”
your pulse quickened, “...yes,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, "i want to.”
his smile returned, warm and sincere, “good,” he said, tapping his screen, “i’ll have taeyong reach out to confirm your appointment date.” he stood up, offering his hand again, “thank you for choosing me.”
you took it and this time your grip was steady, “see you soon, mark.”
Neo Orgasm Clinic Appointment: CONFIRMED
Client: Y/N L/N
Donor: Mark Lee
Date of Session: August 2, 2025
✚ THE APPOINTMENT ✚
you were early. too early. you sat in the same softly lit waiting room, knees bouncing, pulse in your throat. taeyong gave you a knowing smile as he gestured you towards the private suites door and the down the hallway.
“suite 8, he’s ready for you.”
the words made something twist low in your stomach as you walked towards the room. you entered slowly — suite 8 was nothing like you imagined. it wasn't clinical or sterile. it felt more like a luxury hotel room, quiet and warm, wrapped in soft ambient lighting. a large couch sat near the window. there was a bed. there were blankets, clean white sheets and a speaker humming low instrumental music. every detail was designed to ease tension, to invite softness.
you notice him adjusting something on the bedside table, a glass of water, a box of tissues, a towel. and then — mark turned.
“hey,” he said softly, “i’ve been waiting for you.”
he was dressed in black slacks, a black tie and black long sleeve button up, with the sleeves folded up his arms. hot but casual. the entire room, his casual demeanor, made it feel like you’re not at a clinic and just booked a dick appointment like it was a bumble date.
your lips curved, nerves still tangled in your chest, “i-i’m here.”
mark chuckled, not mockingly, but with that same warm, honeyed tone you remember, “you’re cute,” he said simply, “i like that you’re not pretending to be cool.”
you exhaled slowly, “i don’t think i could even if i tried.”
he stepped closer, slow and measured, giving you space with every move, “do you remember what i said during our last meet up?” he asked.
you note how he doesn’t use the word consultation, how he’s trying to make this all seem like it’s a normal hook-up and not a service.
“y-yeah. i’m in control. i can stop you. ask questions. say no.”
“good.” he murmured, his gaze searching yours for a moment longer, “but i’m going to be honest with you.”
his hand lifted, brushing his fingers down your jaw, slow and warm, “tonight, i am going to take control. you came here because your body hasn’t been shown how it deserves to be touched. and i don’t do halfway, sweetheart.”
you swallowed hard.
“so tell me,” he said, tipping your chin up with two fingers, gaze locked on yours, “can i touch you?”
you barely breathed, “yes.”
one of his hands travelled down your arm to your lower back, leaving behind trails of goosebumps in his wake.
“can i kiss you?” he said, eyes locked on yours. your breath caught. you nod.
he didn’t hesitate. mark grabbed your jaw and kissed you — hot, full, unrelenting. he kissed like he owned your mouth. his lips slanted over yours, opening you up, coaxing you open, tongue swept in with purpose — wet, confident, greedy.
you moaned into him, the sound swallowed as his tongue tangled with yours in filthy, practiced patterns. he tilted his head, deepened the angle, sucked softly at your bottom lip only to follow it up with another tongue-heavy kiss that made your spine arch. your hands clutched at his shirt on instinct, dizzy from the pace, the heat, the want.
you feel him smirk through the kiss as he kept going. his hands began to roam, starting at your waist, dragging up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, then down again, gliding over your hips before settling on cupping your ass. his hands gripping tight and hot.
you squirmed, trying to shift closer but he held you steady. dominant. measured. not rushing but not enough to give you relief either. he guided you towards the couch, lips never leaving yours.
“sit.” he ordered, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. you obeyed without thinking. he kneeled between your legs, grabbing your thighs to pull you to the edge. the kiss resumed, but filthier this time, more desperate. he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to fuck your mouth with his tongue until you forgot what you’re here for.
“you taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, pausing to bite your bottom lip. slowly. sensually. “bet i’ll find out you taste even sweeter somewhere else.” you gasped, trembling. his fingers were already under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, “arms up, baby.”
you lifted your arms, dazed, his use of pet names making it feel way more romantic than it should. he carefully peeled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside, hands immediately finding your bare skin, palms dragging up your ribs, thumbs brushing the peaks of your breasts through your bra. you leaned toward him instinctively and he chuckled.
“sensitive,” he muttered, “good. i want every part of you begging.” he kissed you again, harder this time, wet and open, lips slick with spit, you could hardly keep up. every kiss felt like it left you raw. ruined. but craving more.
his fingers toyed with the clasp of your bra, then popped it open easily. he dragged the straps down your arms, slow and teasing, “you’ve been neglected long enough, haven’t you, pretty girl?” he said against your lips.
he trailed his mouth down your neck, sucking at the pulse point until you whined, then he licked lower, over your collarbones, between your breasts, circling your nipples with maddening slowness. his hands stayed firm on your thighs, squeezing, keeping you spread and trembling.
“i want you to stop waiting for an orgasm,” he murmured as he kissed lower, lips just above your waistband, “feel everything. the pressure. the tease. the ache.”
your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding his face on your nipple, “please—mark, i need—”
“i know what you need.” his voice was low, but firm. his mouth still latched one of your nipples, sucking harshly.
“you think you’re the first person to sit here and say they don’t know how to come?,” he laughed softly, switching to the other peak.
“you’re not broken, baby. you’re untouched. and i’m about to change that.”
he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your pants and underwear at once, and then he stopped, eyes locked on yours.
“you trust me to take care of you?”
“yes,” you whispered, breath hitching.
“say it louder.”
“yes—yes, i trust you.”
“good girl.”
he smirked, dragging everything down in one slow, smooth pull, baring you to the cool air. to his heated stare. his eyes darkened as he took you in, and he let out a soft groan, hand gripping your knees to push them open wider.
mark leaned back just though to take in the sight of you — completely undressed, legs parted, breath shaky, lips kiss-swollen, flushed and desperate, beneath the soft golden lighting of suite 8, vulnerable and exposed.
“fuck,” he breathed out, jaw tense, “you’re so pretty like this. spread out for me. waiting.”
you whimpered as his hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs brushing too close to where you ached, then retreating again. and again. and again. his touch was everywhere except where you needed him most. the ache between your legs pulsed — soaked and neglected, your body betraying how ready it was.
but still, your mind wouldn’t shut up. wouldn’t let you stay there in it. what if i can’t? what if i freeze up? what if he thinks there’s something wrong with me?
and mark knew. he could see. hear it in your gasps, feel it in your tension. that’s why he smirked like that, cruel and knowing. like he was enjoying watching you unravel in slow motion, one nerve at a time.
“tell me how this feels,” he murmured, leaning forward to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone again.
“let me hear you.”
“i—” you gasped, jerking as his teeth grazed a nipple, then soothed it with a slick, wet lick, “it’s—it’s not enough—mark, please—” he hummed against your skin, lips warm as he kissed back up to your throat.
“good. that’s exactly where i want you. i don’t want you comfortable yet. i want you needy. desperate. begging me to touch this pretty pussy.”
and you were starting to be. you could feel the slickness between your thighs, a heartbeat thrumming at your core. still, mark didn’t touch you there. his hands continued their teasing path, caressing your hips, your stomach, your thighs. never slipping between.
his tongue pushed into your mouth again, curling with yours, fucking it slow. one hand tangled in your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss. his other hand slid down—finally, finally—settling just above your mound. the heel of his palm pressed just enough to tease the ache, and you whimpered, hips jerking upward like your body was pleading.
“already soaking, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, “and i haven’t even touched you properly.”
“please, please, i need—”
“no.” he cut in, voice sharp, dangerous. “i decide when you get that. you gave me your trust, baby. so let me show you what your body’s capable of when it’s not trying to hurry up and finish just to feel something.”
you whimpered quietly, looking at him with pleading eyes and only then did he let his fingers finally slip lower, gliding through the slick pooling between your legs. you gasped at the contact, but he didn’t go inside. just circled, rubbed, spread. over and over. maddening and slow.
“you’ve been chasing orgasms,” he muttered, placing a hot, wet kiss below your ear, “without knowing where they live.”
you moaned when he dragged his thumb over your clit, gentle at first, then firmer, enough to make you buck your hips. his mouth found yours again, kissing you harder now, every wet slide of his tongue mirrored the rhythm of his hand, slow, controlled, rubbing soft circles around your clit.
and you tried to stay in it, you really did. but before you could focus on the pleasure, your mind tensed again. breath caught. brain whirring. what if it’s not enough? what if i sound weird? what if i can’t let go?
your thighs started to close.
“no.” mark growled, his voice darker now. he shoved your legs apart again, pinning them open, “don’t hide. let me give you what you’ve never had.”
“i’m trying,” you choked, voice high and splintered, “but i-i dont know if i—what if i can’t–”
“it’s building up,” he grunted against your lips, “but you’re in your head. i can feel it”
and then, with no warning, he pushed one finger inside you. your back arched as your walls clamped around him, a quiet sigh slipping from your lips.
“fuck—so tight,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he pushed deeper, curling slightly.
“you’ve been keeping this all to yourself, huh?” he pumped slow, shallow, his finger curling just enough to make your toes curl with it. then he added another. watching your face like a predator.
the moment your moan cracked through the air, high and broken, your eyes shot wide open, your hand clamping your own mouth, instinctive, terrified of the sound you made.
mark’s entire body tensed. he grabbed your wrist and yanked it down.
“don’t fucking do that.” his voice was rough. eyes wild. not with lust but with something more dangerous. hungry.
“up.” he ordered lowly, voice already thick with arousal. “on the couch. lay back.”
you blinked, dazed, “what—”
“now.”
the command in his tone made your stomach clench. you moved instinctively, letting him guide you, your bare back sticking slightly to the leather as you laid down. he helped spread your thighs wide over the edge. you were open now, fully exposed to him. he hovered above you.
then — he pulled his tie off in one swift motion. yanked it free from around his neck with a harsh flick. and before you could ask what he was doing he pinned your arms behind you and wrapped it tightly around your wrists, the silk biting softly into your skin.
he leaned over you, hot breath against your ear, “do you know what i do when pretty girls like you can’t let go?”
you shook your head, lips parted, eyes blown wide with lust.
“i don’t slow down,” he whispered, “i break them.”
then he looked down at you like a man starving. like a man about to feast.
“look at this,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds again, lightly slapping your pussy, as he positioned himself between your cunt.
“so wet and ready,” he grunted against your aching core.
the first stroke of his tongue was slow. deliberate. — a warm, wet slide right up the length of your slit, ending with a soft suck to your clit that made your hips jump. you gasped, back arching.
mark groaned against you, “god, you taste unreal,” he growled, “i could stay here all night.”
and he meant it. he licked again, then again, tongue flattening against your core, teasing, tasting. his mouth was hot, his tongue devastating, alternating between slow strokes and precise flicks, sucking at your clit just enough to make your thighs tremble. his hands gripped your hips tight, holding you open as he buried his face deeper.
he was good. too good.
but still, that coil of pressure in your belly wasn’t catching. your breath hitched with every swirl of his tongue, but it didn’t crest. it didn’t tip. you kept chasing the edge but never quite reaching it. you couldn’t stop your mind from spiraling. what if this is it and i still don’t come? what if i’m the one person he gives up on? what if i disappoint him?
mark noticed it all. and he was tired of watching you get in your own way.
“i said i’d take my time with you.” he muttered, voice rough as knelt between your legs, towering over your exposed body, chest heaving slightly.
“but don’t mistake that for mercy.”
the kindness in his voice had cooled into something sharper, darker. still controlled. still careful. but this wasn’t the same soft-spoken man who asked if he could touch you. could kiss you. this was the version of him who knew exactly what you needed before you did. the one who didn’t need your trust. the one who commanded it.
you blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath. mark was already working on his shirt, buttons flicked open with practiced, irritated speed. like you being like this —trembling and touched and still not broken open, had finally pushed him past whatever professional restraint he’d been clinging to.
“you want to feel something real?” he asked, low and dark as he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside. his torso was lean, toned, strong, defined muscle under fair skin. veins prominent in his forearms, a shadow of control beneath the surface. you couldn’t stop staring, but he didn’t give you long.
“eyes on me.” he snapped. you flinched and obeyed instantly.
“good girl.” he muttered, already undoing his belt.
“you’re done overthinking tonight. you’re not here to analyze. you’re here to surrender.” he kicked his slacks off in one motion, dark briefs still clinging to his hips, already showing the outline of his cock pressing tight against the fabric. he moved between your legs again, now completely shirtless, he let you feel him. skin on skin. then, his hand came up to grip your jaw, not hard, just firm enough to make you feel it. to keep you grounded in his hold.
“i’m going to rewire that pretty little brain of yours,” he grunted.
“because clearly, your body’s ready but your head hasn’t shut the fuck up once since you got here.”
you whimpered, nodding under his grip.
“and when you come, it’s going to be because i made it happen.” he continued, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “you’re not going to perform. you’re not going to fake. you’re going to fucking lose it. because i’m going to take it from you.”
then he was sinking to his knees again, this time bringing your legs up to your chest, holding you open like a meal he was ready to devour. the position was cruel. your hands tied behind your back was starting to hurt. but he didn’t care.
“no more playing nice.” he muttered. “you’ve had enough of that.”
and then—he ate.
there was nothing soft about it this time. his mouth latched onto your pussy like it was the only thing that could save him. tongue flat and wide, licking deep and messy, then curling to flick at your clit with precision that made your hips jerk off the couch. you cried out but he only held you down harder.
“stay still.” he growled into your cunt, tongue never pausing, “i didn’t say you could run.”
you couldn’t push him away, the tie tight around your wrist. his grip on your thighs tightened. every stroke of his tongue was filthy, practiced, deliberate. he sucked your clit, then dragged his tongue lower, licking you open, tasting you with obscene, wet sounds that only made the pressure worse. hotter. deeper.
and still — you couldn’t let go. still, that voice in your head whispered too much. what if he’s doing all of this and i don’t come? i bet i look really weird right now. what if i’m really broken?
mark slammed his hand flat over your lower stomach, fingers splayed wide, his mouth unrelenting. and then he pulled back, just for a breath. just long enough to growl, “get out of your fucking head, baby. right now.”
his voice dropped.
“focus on what i’m doing to you.”
then he spit directly on your clit, letting it fall slowly, hot, messy, then immediately sucked you into his mouth like a punishment. it was so hot. a high pitched moan escaped your lips before you could even think about it. he hummed low like he knew it’d short-circuit your brain, the vibration sending shocks up your spine. his fingers slid back inside, fucking you now. harder, faster, rougher, thrusting with a rhythm of your unraveling.
“i don’t care how long it takes.” he snarled, breath hot against you.
“i’ll break you open and fuck the hesitation out of you.”
it was working. the fear was melting into heat. shame into friction. every thought replaced by the overwhelming sensation. you were teetering on the edge of something unfamiliar and terrifying. the pressure was unbearable, intense and unrelenting, like your body was being dragged past the edge whether it was ready or not.
mark didn’t stop. he pulled your clit between his lips again and again, flicking his tongue until you were gasping. curling his fingers over and over again.
“say it.” mark growled. “say you want to come.”
“i—fuck—i want to—mark—”
“louder.”
“i want to come! please—don’t stop—please—”
“come.” his voice demanded, vibrating against your skin. “let. me. have it.”
and then—you broke.
“oh my god—” the words tore out of you, breathless and wrecked, “f-fuck, don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”
and he didn’t. your hips bucked against his mouth. the rest of the words dissolved into a sob from your throat so raw, so guttural, you hardly recognized the sound as your own. your back arched clean off the leather couch, hands gripping so tight hoping you could tether yourself to the moment as your body seized with sensation.
your orgasm didn’t rise like a tide — it detonated. it wrecked you open. no warning. just impact. a white-hot snap that split through you like a faultline finally giving way under years of pressure. it was too much. too big. too real. like something that had been lodged deep inside your chest your whole life had just ripped free — wild and screaming and glorious. years of silence and shame, of second-guessing and not-quite-getting-there, all flooding out at once.
your thighs clamped around his head, but mark didn’t flinch. he held you there, mouth relentless, fingers tight on your hip to anchor you through every tremor, every aftershock, as you writhed and whimpered and let the orgasm tear through your body. his tongue is merciless, unrelenting. mouth locked on you like he was dragging every last drop of that orgasm out of you until there was nothing left. until you were finally begging him to stop.
when he pulled back, his lips were slick. his face wrecked. his eyes triumphant.
mark licked his lips, “that,” he panted, “was one.”
you blinked at him, tears shining in your lashes, “i didn’t think i could…”
“you can,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “you did.”
then he untied your wrists slowly, carefully. but his voice stayed rough, “get on the bed.” he ordered.
“we’re not done.”
he gripped your thighs lifting you easily like you weighed nothing at all, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. a silent yelp slipped from your lips as he tossed you onto the bed with a bounce that knocked the breath from your lungs. the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, your body slack and spread open, chest rising and falling like you’d just survived something. or maybe like you were bracing for what was next.
mark’s lips found yours again, hot and claiming. his kiss wasn’t soft anymore — it was deep and consuming, all tongue and teeth and groaned hunger. he tasted like you. he traced a hand up your side, slow and steady, fingertips brushing every rib, every tremble. he was watching you like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch.
“you still with me?” he asked, voice rough around the edges now. lower. thicker. like he was barely holding himself back.
you nodded, dazed. “yeah. just…. holy shit.”
he smirked, “good holy shit or bad holy shit?”
you huffed a breathy laugh. “like… i didn’t even know i could come like that.”
mark’s thumb brushed the corner of your lips, dragging gently across your cheek. his eyes softened, but only for a second.
“that was just the beginning.”
then his expression darkened — not cruel, but hungry. that same deep hunger you’d caught glimpses of earlier, now unleashed. like something inside him had snapped loose the second you shattered and now he was free to do what he really wanted.
he sat back, eyes locked to yours and reached over to the nightstand. you watched as he tore open a foil packet with his teeth. condom. protection. professional. safe. but the way he rolled it on, slow, deliberate, cocky — made your mouth go dry.
your eyes dropped. you finally saw him. all of him. he was long. thick. the flushed tip already glistening with precum. your breath hitched.
“you’re still so wet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers between your folds again, making you jump, “you want more?”
your answer was instant, “yes. please.”
“you want to be fucked until you forget your own name?”
“yes, please—mark,” your hips bucked into his touch, already craving the stretch.
mark leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, his breath was hot.
“i’m going to fuck you now.”
the words made you clench. one hand guiding his cock to your entrance, the other gripped your hip with enough force to bruise.
“breathe,” he reminded, voice steady.
“and keep your legs open for me.”
you obeyed, trembling, aroused, needy. and then — he pushed in. just the tip at first. then inch by inch, he filled you. stretching you open, dragging slowly through your soaked heat, the pressure exquisite and unbearable. your eyes rolled back. your nails clawed into the sheets. when he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, you couldn’t breathe.
“fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god—mark—” your hands came up to grip his hair.
you were so full. it felt like too much. he stilled there, letting you feel it, the stretch, the weight, the sheer intimacy of being filled by him.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched.
“you’re gonna hold on, baby? think you’re strong enough to fight me off again?”
and then he pulled out just enough to slam back in, you cried out. back arched. stars bursting behind your eyes.
he started thrusting — deep, sharp, claiming. again. again. setting a brutal rhythm, relentless and unforgiving, pounding into you with full, punishing strokes that rocked the entire bed. his grips on your hips was bruising. his pace was perfect, desperate, controlled, yielding. your moans were raw, punched out of you with every thrust. loud. real. unrestrained.
mark never looked away. watching every twitch of your body, every tremble, every cry of his name that tore from your lips like a prayer.
“you feel that?” he rasped. “your body is already giving in.”
you could barely speak. your second orgasm was building fast, sharp and electric, clawing up your spine as he adjusted his angle just enough to hit that spot, again and again, until you were falling apart beneath him.
“mark—fuck—i’m gonna—”
“come again.” he ordered, voice dark and breathless.
“come on my cock this time. prove to me you can do it.”
your mind shut off completely. no thoughts. no fear. just him. just the way his cock dragged inside you, hitting just right. his hand moved up your body, rough and reverent until his fingers brushed over your chest, teasing. and then his thumb rolled over your nipple. palm cupping your breast, kneading.
his other hand slipped under your back, lifting and forcing you to arch into him. he sucked one nipple into his mouth with a low groan that made your walls clamp around him hard.
you screamed. it was too good. his cock, his mouth, his hands — everywhere. his tongue bit your nipple and you sobbed, overwhelmed, drenched, utterly destroyed.
“you’re doing so good, you don’t have to think. i’ll do it for you.”
he dragged his teeth across your nipple again as his hips continued slamming into you, cock swelling inside you. then he brought his thumb in between your bodies, toying with your clit, rubbing harsh circles until your body couldn’t take it.
your second orgasm ripped through you. just eruption. you clutched his shoulders, mouth open, body convulsing against him as the climax burst out of you with a scream.
“good fucking girl,” he growled, hips not slowing.
“just like that. let it all go for me.”
you did. you had to. your thighs were trembling violently. your pussy clenched so tight around him you heard a curse tear from his throat. he didn’t stop. he rode it. let you sob and shake around him, fucking you through it.
his cock was pulsing and relentless, dragging wet and hot inside you as your cunt fluttered around him, overstimulated and soaked. you were beyond thought. your mind—completely gone. your body—his to command. he held your wrists down. you were a mess of tears and cries and raw nerve endings, and you loved it. you were addicted to the high. wanting every second to last longer.
“mark—please—don’t stop—”
“i’m not” he growled. “’i’m not stopping till your body forgets how to do anything but come.”
he pulled out for a quick second. hands gripping your waist hard before he suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. before you could even blink, he was dragging you up onto your knees, forcing your ass in the air, cheek pressed to the mattress.
“face down.” he growled, voice low, breathless, “ass up.”
you obeyed instantly, mind fogged and floating, body pliant and aching. you didn’t care anymore. you weren’t you anymore. you were his. bent to his will. so cock-drunk. your mind a blank page. he was rewriting your system with every thrust, every word, every sound he dragged out of you.
he shoved your knees apart with his thighs, rough hands spreading your cheeks, and then spat down, watching it drip between your folds. his cock nudged your entrance again, already slick from how soaked you were. you whimpered when he teased the head along your slit, grinding it against your oversensitive clit just to watch you shudder.
he leaned in close, voice a hot whisper against your ear, “gonna make up for all those years no one ever made you come,” he rasped, “every single time they fumbled and failed. this pussy’s never gonna remember that.”
and then—he slammed back into you. you screamed into the sheets. the new angle had him deeper, thicker somehow, hitting that spot so brutally your entire body jolted forward.
“mark—fuck—fuck—fuck!,” you moaned, biting down on the sheets, practically drooling.
he didn’t slow. didn’t pause. just gripped your hips and fucked you, hard and fast, his pelvis slapping against your ass with every thrust. the sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet, filthy, relentless.
“listen to that,” he rasped, voice wild now. “listen to what this pussy does for me.”
you couldn’t respond. couldn’t think. could only feel. the stretch felt sharper like this, more urgent. every stroke had you gasping, choking, keening into the mattress. and then—
slap!
you cried out when his palm landed hard on your ass. not cruel, just enough to make you jolt, to send that spike of heat ricocheting up your spine and straight down again, pulsing into your core.
“yeah,” mark breathed, voice cracked open with need, “you like that?”
you nodded, incoherent words slipping from your lips.
another slap! a little harder.
you sobbed, hips bucking back against him, desperate to meet every thrust.
“that’s it,” he growled, pounding into you harder now, the bed frame rocking under the force, “take it. take everything.”
and then his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat, his hands wrapped around it. not tight enough to scare you. just tight enough to own you. your choked out moans filling the air. toes curling so hard you swore you’re about to get a cramp.
your third orgasm slammed into you out of nowhere. your body locked up and shattered around him, your cunt clenching so hard you saw white. he let you go as you screamed into the mattress, every nerve on fire, legs shaking violently as pleasure tore through you, raw and final and unrelenting.
— and still, he didn’t stop. mark held you steady as your body writhed, collapsing from the sheer force of your release, but he was relentless, “you don’t stop until i say you do.”
you whimpered something, his name, maybe, or just a breathless plea, but it didn’t matter. he fucked through your orgasm like a man possessed, chasing the aftershocks, turning them into something new. something sharper. overwhelming. your body trembled beneath him, hips twitching, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the sheets. your pussy clenched around him again and again, involuntary, helpless. every drag of his cock sent sparks skittering across your skin.
“you’re shaking.” he groaned, chest pressed to your back now, sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, “gonna make you fucking squirt, baby. i can feel it. you’re right there.”
“no—mark—too much, i can’t do that—,” you try to push him off. try to crawl away. but he was stronger. and he kept his cock pounding inside you.
“yes. you can.” his hand slid down, fingers seeking your clit, rubbing fast and brutal circles that had your legs kicking out, your voice catching in a strangled sob.
“i said face down. ass up.” he reminded you, voice dark and firm as he shoved your head back into the mattress, palm flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you there.
“be good. take it. this is what you came here for.”
the pressure was unbearable, his cock punishing inside you, fingers never letting up on your swollen clit. your mind blanked, eyes rolling back for the umpteenth time and then you reached a high you didn’t even think was humanly possible. something you only saw happen in porn.
a ragged, high-pitched cry tore out of you as your body convulsed, back arching violently before you collapsed into your fourth orgasm. the gush came, hot, wet, explosive. your cunt fluttered and sprayed around him, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as you squirted all over his cock, the sheets, the floor. you could barely process it. your brain had gone static. a glitching signal of pleasure.
“fucking amazing,” mark snarled, hips stuttering.
“that’s it. let it all go.” he pulled out just enough to watch you gush again before slamming back in. your whole body jerked like a live wire. you were sobbing now, overstimulated, wrecked, your hands had give up on clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto. there was nothing. nothing but him.
mark cursed, nearly losing his rhythm, “fucking hell—”
he didn’t stop. he kept pounding into your overstimulated cunt, watching your body convulse under him.
“gonna—fuck—i’m gonna come—” his pace stuttering for the first time, hips faltering mid-thrust. you could hear the unraveling in his breath, raw and uneven. his thrusts turned sloppy, deeper, harder. and then, with a strangled moan, he came. his hips slammed into you one last time, cock buried deep as he spilled into the condom with a guttural groan, body jerking with each pulse. he stayed there, breathing ragged, pressed tight against your back, his body shaking with the force of it.
for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the thunder of both your heartbeats. you were barely on your knees, cheek pressed to the sheets, body twitching faintly from aftershocks, cunt still fluttering around the softening length inside you.
mark let out a long breath, low, shaky. he leaned forward, his chest slick with sweat and your juices, smearing against the curve of your spine as he slowly eased down.
“you okay?” he murmured finally, voice hoarse, frayed around the edges.
you nodded, too blissed-out to form real words, “yeah. just… holy shit again.”
he chuckled weakly, wrapping his arms around your middle and gently easing you down onto the bed. his cock slipped out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing the fullness. a laugh slipped from your lips anyway, a disbelieving, breathy sound.
you couldn’t move. not in a bad way. more like your body had melted into the mattress, boneless and warm, every muscle humming with aftershocks. your mind was soft, quiet, the storm of thoughts you usually lived in was gone. for the first time in your life, there was peace, full-bodied, deep, radiating out from the very core of you. like something inside had finally clicked into place.
you’d come. you’d actually come. not faked it. not chased it just to please someone else. not brushed against it only to have it slip away. this time, it hit you full force. not once but four times.
the kind of orgasms that emptied you, pulled sobs from your throat and tears from your eyes and for once you hadn’t cared. you hadn’t flinched. you hadn’t shut down or shrunk into yourself, hadn’t tried to perform or hid or apologize. you’d felt it all.
and somewhere in the middle of all that, you’d actually squirted. your thighs had trembled, you’d felt yourself gush around him, soaking the sheets, your mind and body surrendering with no shame. no fear. no filter. you hadn’t know it could feel like that. like being cracked open and remade. like something holy. your cunt still fluttered with phantom pulses, like your body couldn’t quite believe it either. like it wasn’t ready to let go.
mark lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his other hand already reaching for the warm towel he’d placed nearby. he flipped you over gently, his touch deliberate and slow. like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but right here. he cleaned you up in silence. careful. focused. he dabbed between your legs with gentle, precise strokes, flinching every time you flinched. “sorry,” he muttered each time, almost apologetic.
“you sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.
you nodded, a small smile on your lips, “better than okay…i feel like i just got reborn.”
that earned a real laugh from him this time, “that’s a new one,” he said with a shake of his head.
you stretched, wincing slightly, sore in all the right ways. everything throbbed but in a way that made you feel alive. present. you turned your head to look at him.
“that was… insane,” you murmured, “i mean, you literally had to destroy me to get me out of my own head.”
mark smiled, brushing hair from your damp forehead, “it wasn’t destruction. it was release. you just needed to shut this little guy off ,” he says, lightly tapping your temple, “and stop being scared to let your body feel.”
your throat tightened, not from embarrassment, but from the truth of it. because that’s exactly what it was. you’d let go. fully. completely.
mark grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, twisted the cap and held it to your lips like it was instinct. “drink. you lost a lot of liquids back there.”
you giggled, then took a few sips, letting him wipe the corners of your mouth with his thumb afterward. it should’ve been awkward. but it wasn’t. it was safe.
eventually, mark rose from the bed and helped you sit up slowly, handing you your clothes one piece at a time. you slowly got dressed. you were glowing, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright. alive. awake. soft.
once you were both dressed, mark walked you back to the lounge of the clinic. the lighting had brightened slightly step by step—intentional, maybe, to ease clients back into the world gently.
“thanks,” you said as you walked side by side, your voice a little hoarse, but steady, “for the... comprehensive service.”
his mouth twitched, almost a smile, “neo orgasm clinic prides itself on thorough results.”
“oh, i noticed,” you deadpanned. “i think i saw god.”
mark let out a soft laugh, “i take it your file won’t need another ‘no prior orgasm’ flag.”
you rolled your eyes. “no, i think we can check that one off. multiple times, actually. all thanks to you.”
he cocked his head, the edge of a smirk playing on his lips, “you did the work.”
you snorted, “right. i was just lying there, crying and begging while you—never mind. forget it. you know what you did.”
“professionally, of course,” he said smoothly, “all part of the protocol.”
you looked him up and down, “if that was protocol, i’d hate to see what your personal life looks like.”
his smirk sharpened, almost imperceptibly, “you wouldn’t survive it.”
you raised a brow, “is that a challenge?”
his eyes glinted, “only if you book another appointment.”
you laughed then leaned in slightly, just enough for him to hear, “but seriously, you didn’t just make me orgasm. you made me feel like…like my body finally belongs to me.”
something flickered in his expression, not warmth, not empathy. just... acknowledgment. like a box being ticked. another line in the report. mark’s gaze held yours. there was no smugness, no pride. just warmth. steadiness — a donor who’d done exactly what he promised and only what you needed.
“thank you for trusting the process,” he said simply.
then, with a crooked grin, you added, “i should probably leave a tip. or at least a five-star review.”
he raised an eyebrow in amusement, “tips aren’t required. but reviews help with the rankings.”
“oh, i’ll be specific,” you said, walking toward the door leading to the lounge, “something like: ‘ruined me in under an hour. swore i saw heaven. would recommend.’”
mark tilted his head, quietly chuckling beside you. the door opened. you stepped inside and turned back toward him. “seriously though five star session.”
he nodded once, “glad we could meet your goals.”
you smirked, “gonna be hard to top this one.”
the corner of his mouth curled, sharp and knowing.
“book me again.” he said lowly, voice like velvet, “i’ll try.”
then, offering his hand once more, firm and polite, “it was a pleasure to be your donor, ms. y/n.”
you shook it, firm, “i’ll be your client any day.”
and with one last glance, one last smile, he turned back toward the double doors. and just like that it was over.
✚ END OF SESSION ✚
the door whispered shut behind him, soft and final. you stood in the lounge for a second longer than necessary, trying to get back into reality.
you were still warm. still sore. still…not quite in the world. your legs wobbled slightly, the plush carpet beneath your feet suddenly feeling too soft. too quiet. the silence here was different. this one was polished. the kind that came with good lighting and air purifiers and an undercurrent of expensive professionalism.
you approached the front desk slowly, finding taeyong already tapping away at his tablet, his perfect posture and gel-slicked hair still completely intact, like nothing behind those doors could ruffle him. he glanced up with the kind of smile that had been trained into perfection. not fake. just smooth. comforting. scripted.
“that’ll be charged to the card on file,” he said gently, voice soft enough not to jar you.
you nodded. your voice wasn’t ready yet.
“also, this is for you.” he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a matte black paper bag with subtle silver foil lettering that gleamed when it caught the light:
thank you for trusting neo orgasm clinic with your satisfaction.
you blinked. “what’s this?”
“a small thank-you from our donors,” he said, still smiling, still unbothered — as though this entire exchange was no more intimate than a routine dentist visit. like you weren’t just being fucked to your next life behind those doors.
you took the bag with both hands, still feeling like you were floating slightly outside yourself.
“have a good rest of your evening! we hope to see you again,” taeyong smiled from behind his computer.
you gave him a tired little smile, a soft wave and murmured a polite “thanks,” and turned toward the exit.
you made your way to your car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and opened the bag, curious to see what it holds — inside was a neatly folded hoodie, ultra-soft, white, with bold letters:
ORGASM DONOR
you stared. then snorted. a full bodied laugh punched out of your chest. it was dumb. it was ridiculous. it was perfect. tucked beside it, almost like an afterthought, was a juice box. your laugh came sharper this time.
you popped the straw in, took a long sip and leaned your head back against the seat. let the juice cool your tongue. let the moment wash over you and muttered to yourself, “best. fucking. clinic.”
you pulled your phone out. opened the clinic’s feedback portal. your fingers hovered for a second. then you typed:
released me from the shackles of my mind. came four times. even squirted. lost track of the tears. saw god. 10/10. highly recommend. would let mark destroy me again. professionally, of course.
somewhere behind those pristine white doors, donor mark was already reviewing his next file. another client. another list of goals. another carefully measured beginning.
✚ APPOINTMENT STATUS: COMPLETE ✚
—
18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content
BONUS: #1. #2. #3. #4. #5.
—
an: and the first donor is done! i hope this lived up to the expectation. if you hate it please don’t tell me lmao. this whole entire concept is supposed to be silly! i hope you had fun reading it! please don’t take it too seriously :)
🩺 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated
Canon things about Xavier that I think are funny and people might forget:
Tastes:
Loves spicy food but dislikes wasabi
Enjoys multi-culture foods as long as it involves meats
Dislikes extremely bitter things
Neutral on sweets, it isn't his go-to and doesn't often get them alone, but does occasionally enjoy them
Prefers savory, salty, and spicy
Alcohol tolerance is very high
Prefers beer
Not a fan of vegetables but doesn't mind them juiced
Favorite fruit is cherries
Home:
Has a massive two-person bean bag chair that occasionally he or MC nap on
Has a workout section of his house so he doesn't have to leave the house and can nap right after working out
Has a garden on his balcony with a few flowers, herbs, and frequently harvests strawberries
Prefers homeopathic and traditional medicine
Culinary:
Great at mixing drinks
Great at making coffee; the one time he messed it up for MC even he was surprised and blamed his coffee maker, it hasn't happened since
Good at cooking things that are cold (anything that doesn't require heating up), master salad and sandwich maker although according to 21 Days he's also improved in soup making!
Lifestyle:
Is extremely rich and philanthropic
Graduated with several degrees
Volunteering and side jobs to help backtracker friends, Jeremiah, and other older humans he's met through his lifetime
Commonly stops to help strangers
Despite oversleeping a lot he's never late (lucky)
Has become a morning person even waking up earlier than MC often
Is a ranked FPS player 😭 (He's platinum)
Has a lot of friends he goes out of his way to see often, outside of MC
Stopped practicing piano for a while
Occasionally helps out at a bookstore near the seaside Destiny Café
Holds on to a lot of nostalgic things, even if it's useless
Weakness for small children
Hobbies:
Glass blowing
Fruit and veggie juicing
Traditional calligraphy (masterful enough to teach)
Generally good at all video games
Undefeated in Pile Up
Fishing + Ocean fishing
Reading
Gardening
Poetry
Horror films
Can't stand cheesy movies
Is known to commentate over movies he's not enjoying (yes even if MC is present and enjoying it until she tells him up shut up.)
Bird watching
Music (Listens to a wide variety and also composes his own)
Collects vinyls and CDs
Photography (digital + film)
Fondant + cake decorating (don't ask him to bake it though he can decorate)
Absolutely horrendous at drawing but he likes to doodle
General:
You think he's soft but has ruthless comebacks
Won't hesitate to say no even if you beg
Makes time and effort to spend time with other friends
Often asked to babysit Frankie
Has had to kill off a lot of people who've turned on him, in order to protect MC
before he is a soldier, before you are the princess, and in between the titles that separate you, you think phainon might simply be yours.
pairing: soldier!phainon x princess!fem!reader
tags & warnings: romance, angst, light smut (unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn. childhood friends to lovers!au, royalty!au, secret romance!au. coming of age, first love, love confessions, mutual pining, etc. profanity, class differences, misogyny.
word count: 23.5k
song rec: above the time by iu.
i). When you are young, they assume you know nothing.
There is a boy inside your room.
He has hair the colour of snow, and eyes the colour of the sea just before a storm: blue and wild, darting around the room like a thief caught in the act. There is a wooden sword strapped to his belt, too long for his waist and carved with clumsy symbols he must’ve etched himself. He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy peering out the arched window behind your bed, standing on his toes, breath fogging up the glass.
You sit up, clutching your silk coverlet to your chest. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
He jumps. Spinning around, he stumbles over the corner of the rug and nearly crashes into the gilded leg of your writing desk.
“Oh stars, don’t scream,” he says, voice a frantic whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t know it was your room, I swear.”
You blink at him. He looks about your age—nine, maybe ten—but he’s dressed in the dark training leathers of the palace guards-in-training, the sleeves rolled up unevenly, like he’d tugged them up in a rush. His hair sticks out in damp curls, and there is a smear of dirt on his cheek.
“You’re the soldier boy,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The one who knocked over the archery targets last week.”
His cheeks turn bright red. “That was an accident.”
“You lit one on fire.”
He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”
Silence stretches between you. It’s early in the morning—early enough that the sun hasn’t begun its ascent yet, and the moonlight filters through your gauzy curtains, casting silver stripes across the rug where he stands frozen, as though your room was a stage and he’s forgotten his lines.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he says, straightening a little. “I’m going to be the captain of the royal guard one day.”
“That’s a big dream,” you say, lifting your chin.
“Well, I already made it into the palace, didn’t I?” Phainon says, grinning.
You try to glare at him. You’ve never had someone your age sneak into your room before. You’re always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and stiff-backed tutors, and the only boys you ever see are princes visiting from other kingdoms, always polished and dull.
Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.
You scoot over and pat the empty space beside you on the bed. “If you’re hiding, you might as well sit down. Mistress Calypso wakes early. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes.”
His eyes widen. “You’re not going to tell?”
“Not unless you snore.”
Phainon beams. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, flopping beside you with a sigh loud enough to echo. “I hate sword drills. Master Gnaeus makes us practice stances before breakfast.”
“That sounds dreadful,” you say, wrinkling your nose in sympathy.
“You’re different from what I imagined a princess would be like,” he says, glancing at you sideways with his cheek squished against the pillow.
“You’re not what I imagined a soldier would be like, either.”
“What did you imagine, then?”
“Taller,” you say. “Quieter, maybe. Less… floppy.”
“I am not floppy,” he says, affronted, and attempts to sit up straighter—only to sink back down with a groan. “Maybe a little.”
You stifle a giggle behind your hand. It bursts out anyway, small and silver like a bell. Phainon turns to look at you properly then, eyes sharp despite the pillow flattening his cheek. Up close, he smells like grass and horsehair and smoke.
“I meant it, though,” he says. “You’re different.”
“How so?”
“You didn’t scream. Or ring that little bell by your bed. Or call for a guard. You didn’t even look scared.”
“I am scared,” you say solemnly, then lean closer and whisper, “You’ve got a sword.”
Phainon scoffs, lifting the wooden hilt an inch from his belt. “It’s not even sharp. Watch.”
He draws it with a flourish—too quickly, catching the edge of your coverlet and nearly decapitating one of the embroidery swans. You both freeze. Then you burst into laughter, rolling onto your back as Phainon fumbles the sword back into place, mortified.
“You’re not very good at using it,” you declare between gasps.
“I’m a knight-in-training,” he insists, and you’re not sure whether he’s more annoyed or embarrassed.
“You’re going to make an excellent captain one day,” you say, and this time you mean it, not as a tease but as something quiet and true. “You’ve already snuck past five guards and a chambermaid to get in here.”
“Six guards,” he corrects proudly. “And the chambermaid was asleep. I left a biscuit on her tray so she wouldn’t be too cross.”
You smile. “That was kind of you.”
Phainon shrugs, but his cheeks are turning pink again. “Is it alright if I hide in here more often? It’s peaceful. Smells nicer than the barracks, too.”
“What do the barracks smell like?”
“Feet. And soap. And Gaius, who eats too many onions and sweats in his sleep.”
“Ugh.” You grimace.
“Exactly.” He yawns, eyes fluttering. The adrenaline is wearing off, you can tell. His limbs are getting heavy. “Your bed’s nice, too. Like a cloud. I bet princesses don’t have to wake up before dawn.”
“I do,” you sigh. “To learn embroidery and dance steps and which fork to use at state dinners.”
The boy—your friend, now, you suppose—shakes his head in solidarity. “We should run away.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know. The stables. Or the forest. I’ll bring my sword, and you can bring snacks.”
You glance at him. His lashes are long. One of them has a bit of fuzz caught in it. “What if we get caught?”
“Then I’ll protect you,” he says sleepily.
You decide you quite like the sound of that. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten. The first birds begin to chirp.
You reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it over the both of you, just enough to shield him from the dawn. “Go to sleep, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I’ll wake you before Mistress Calypso comes.”
Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.
(You end up falling asleep, too, and only wake when Mistress Calypso shakes your shoulder with a fond—if exasperated—frown and reprimands you for sleeping in late. The mattress beside you is cold.)
“I won’t fall asleep this time, I swear it!”
You squint at him through the veil of sleep still clinging to your lashes. Phainon is back, dirtier than before, with a fresh scrape on his cheek and leaves in his hair, as though he wrestled a tree on his way in. He crouches by the edge of your bed, grinning like he didn’t vanish without a word the first time.
“You told me you’d wake me up before Mistress Calypso came!” he says. “I nearly got caught. And Master Gnaeus gave me a talking-to for sneaking out of the barracks in the night.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“I had to dive into a laundry basket,” Phainon huffs, flopping onto the carpet. “A laundry basket. Full of damp sheets.”
You try to hold in a laugh. You really do. But it escapes in a small, muffled burst, and once it’s out, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake beneath your blanket, and Phainon turns his head to glare at you from the floor, betrayed.
“It wasn’t funny,” he says. “I smelled like lavender and mildew all day.”
“You smell like moss now,” you say in between giggles, pointing at a leaf stuck behind his ear.
He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.
Still grinning, you lean over and pluck it out for him. Your fingers brush his curls for only a second, but it’s enough to make something fizz strangely in your chest. Phainon must feel it too, because he goes very still, eyes flicking to yours.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Why’d you come back?” you ask, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You wait. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic.
“And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend,” he adds, finally. “Or that I was in trouble. Or that I didn’t want to come back.”
Your fingers curl into your blanket. “I didn’t think that.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Do you want the pillow this time?” you ask, scooting to one side of the bed.
Phainon lights up like a lantern. “Do you want to sleep on the floor?”
You throw a cushion at him. He catches it, and then he clambers in beside you, wriggling under the corner of your blanket. You both lie on your sides, facing each other, noses a breath apart.
Outside, the wind rattles against your window panes. Inside, your shared silence is warm.
“I really won’t fall asleep this time,” he promises, blinking slowly.
You smile at him, drowsy, and mumble, “Me too.”
(“Stars above,” comes a voice, fond and faintly amused. “Gnaeus, come look.”
You stir. Phainon groans softly and buries his face in your pillow. You open one bleary eye to see Mistress Calypso standing beside your bed, arms folded over her golden skirts, lips pressed together in an almost-smile.
A heavier tread follows, and then Master Gnaeus pokes his head into view, all sharp grey stubble and frowns. “If this is what passes for night training nowadays, I’ll eat my scabbard.”
Phainon jerks awake at that, sits bolt upright, and nearly knocks his forehead into yours. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean I was just—”
“Hush, little boy,” Mistress Calypso says, waving a hand with a smile so maternal, it could unmake gods. “No one is turning you into stew.”
“You should be running laps,” Master Gnaeus mutters, squinting at you both. “Instead you’re sneaking into the princess’ chambers like some scruffy raccoon.”
“He didn’t sneak,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “He was invited.”
“Oh, pardon me,” the captain of the royal guard says, mock-offended. “I didn’t realise he needed your permission, little princess.”
Mistress Calypso nudges him with her elbow. “Stop scowling, old wolf. You’re just jealous no one invites you to secret sleepovers.”
Master Gnaeus grunts but doesn’t deny it. He watches the two of you for a long moment—your hair mussed from sleep, Phainon trying to smooth his tunic into something that looks presentable—and then sighs through his nose like it pains him to find this sight charming. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds in ten minutes, mud-boy,” he says, turning away. “No excuses. Not even royal ones.”
Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.
Mistress Calypso’s gaze melts into warm affection as she adjusts the corner of your blanket. “Don’t let him make a habit of it,” she says, voice ripe with mischief, before turning and following Master Gnaeus outside your chambers.
Phainon hovers by the edge of your bed, sheepish. “I’ll come back tonight.”
“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.
He grins.)
Weeks pass, and then months, and years, and before you know it, you have more responsibilities thrust upon your shoulders.
Mistress Calypso teaches you about the bleeding that occurs once every moon, about the blossoming of youth. She speaks gently but frankly, brushing your hair back with fingers that have seen a dozen girls come of age before you. You try not to flinch at how grown-up it all sounds.
Your dresses get longer. Your voice becomes more measured. The halls you once ran through with muddy slippers are now places you walk with your chin held high and your hands folded neatly at your front. Even your laughter has changed—no longer loose and careless, but quiet and reserved, meant to be polite rather than real.
Phainon changes too.
You hear of it more than you see it, through whispers in the halls and idle remarks from the guards. He’s fast, they say, too fast for someone who’s only eighteen. He’s clever with a blade, and quicker with his words; reckless, often, but brilliant. Master Gnaeus’ favourite headache.
The maids speak of him more airily, with giggles and cheeks dusted pink. He’s too pretty for a boy with dirt on his cheeks and calluses on his hands, they say. He smiles as though he’s got more than enough happiness for everyone to share, and walks like the world already belongs to him. Mistress Calypso calls him a menace with more than enough charm to spare, but her eyes always twinkle when she talks about him, as though she remembers the mornings where she would find both of you tucked into your blanket together.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch glimpses of him from the tower windows: a blur of movement on the training grounds, sweat-slick hair clinging to his neck, his tunic darker from exertion. You never call out. It wouldn’t be proper. He never looks up.
It becomes easier, in time, to pretend that’s enough.
But one day, when the afternoon sun glows warm against the stone and the air carries the scent of crushed grass and coming rain, you find yourself standing for longer than usual by the window. Down below, the soldiers run drills in neat lines, their movements sharp and practiced. Phainon is among them. You spot him immediately. His posture is looser than the others’, less rigid, as if the rules don’t apply to him in the same way. His strikes are precise, his footwork quick, and even when he missteps—just once—he recovers with a grin and a flourish that earns him a clipped bark from Master Gnaeus and a smothered laugh from the younger boys.
Your fingers curl against the sill. You turn from the window before he finishes the set, something fluttering too hard in your chest to name. When you find Mistress Calypso in the solar, you surprise even yourself with your question.
“May we walk in the grounds today?”
She blinks at you, embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. “The gardens again?”
“No,” you say, and then, quieter, “Past them.”
Her brows rise but she doesn’t press. “Very well,” she murmurs, “but wear your hood. And don’t dawdle.”
You don’t. Your footsteps are eager, your heart beating a rapid staccato against your ribs. Mistress Calypso nearly trips over the hem of her skirts trying to keep up with you, and only then do you slow your pace.
It’s strange, walking so close to the training fields—stranger still to do it on purpose. The clang of steel and barked commands fills the air, but you keep your chin high and your steps even, even when your gaze shifts.
You spot him across the yard—older, taller, with broader shoulders and a sharpness to his movements that startles you. He’s sparring with someone larger, someone stronger, but Phainon doesn’t falter. He fights with all the wildness he used to bring to your bedtime stories, all the fire you remember from summer nights long past.
And then he stumbles—on purpose, you think, because in the next breath he ducks beneath his opponent’s swing and knocks the wooden blade from their hands. He laughs and shakes his opponent’s hand good-naturedly anyway.
Your chest aches.
Phainon turns, wiping sweat from his brow—and freezes when he lays eyes upon you.
You look away first, heat blooming at the base of your throat, but Mistress Calypso only huffs a quiet breath beside you. “I should speak with Master Gnaeus about the training rota,” she says, already stepping away. “Stay on the path. Don’t let your feet wander where your thoughts do.”
You nod, but she’s already moving, skirts sweeping behind her. You glance down again. Phainon is closer now, walking towards the edge of the field with a slow, lazy gait that you think is deceptive to his swiftness.
“Princess,” Phainon calls, just loud enough for it to reach you. His voice is deeper now, roughened like sandpaper against what you remember he used to sound like. “I thought you forgot how to look at me.”
“I haven’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I just forgot what you looked like.”
He laughs at that, ducking under the fence railing. “Well, I’ve gotten handsomer. Taller, too.”
You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”
“That, too,” he agrees, grinning. “But I can’t be blamed. I’ve been told I’m Master Gnaeus’ worst nightmare and his finest pupil. Possibly in that order.”
“I’ve heard,” you say, folding your hands in front of you and trying to still the ache in your chest.
He studies you now, something softer threading into his expression. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
“Not all of it’s bad,” Phainon says, squinting at you. “You stand straighter now. You don’t stumble over your words when you’re angry.”
“I never did,” you murmur, lifting your chin.
“My mistake. You were always very dignified. Even when you threw a candlestick at my head.”
“That was once.”
“Twice,” he corrects, “but who’s counting?”
You laugh a little, soft, and it eases something in your chest. For a moment, he just looks at you—not in the way the courtiers do, calculating and distant, or the way the maids do, fawning and fearful. Phainon looks at you like someone who’s known you muddy-kneed and sleep-mussed and still thinks the sight of you in silks is something worth staring at.
He rubs the back of his neck. “They’re changing your guards, soon.”
“How do you know that?” you ask.
“I overheard Master Gnaeus talking to your father,” he replies.
You frown. You only ever see your father at mealtimes, because being the king and queen of a kingdom is tough work. Busy as he was, he still used to feed you peas and carrots and tickle your sides until you giggled, when you were much younger.
The older you get, the less you see of him. Your mother passed away whilst giving birth to you; your father focuses on managing his kingdom. Mistress Calypso, your nurse since birth, is the closest maternal figure you’ve had.
“Is it for a reason?” you ask.
“They’re saying it’s precautionary. Something about tightening security.” His tone stays easy, but his expression flickers. “Gnaeus will choose them himself.”
“And what are you telling me this for?” you say, pressing your fingers together, tight.
Phainon leans in a little—not improper, not indecent, but enough that you catch the scent of leather and sweat. “Because if you asked,” he says, low, “he’d assign me.”
“To stand outside my door?”
He shrugs, mischievous again. “I wouldn’t fall asleep on duty. Other than that, it’ll be just like the old times.”
You arch a brow, schooling your features the way Mistress Calypso taught you, though something bright and treacherous stirs inside your stomach. “The old times didn’t involve you standing guard. They involved you sneaking into my bedroom through the window and pretending not to be the one who knocked over the inkwell.”
“Yes, and I was excellent at both,” Phainon says unabashedly.
“You were terrible at both,” you retort, and though your voice is steady, it lilts in a way it hasn’t in months. “You always got caught.”
“Only because you told on me.”
“Because you blamed it on the cat.”
“That cat had it coming.”
You almost smile, and turn your gaze back to the training grounds, where the other boys are starting up again. Phainon follows your glance, but his eyes are already half on you.
“I mean it,” he says, quietly.
You don’t look at him, but the wind catches your cloak and lifts it slightly. The sun warms your cheek. “Mean what?”
“That I’d take the post. If you asked.”
Your throat works around a sudden lump. “It wouldn’t be your decision.”
“No. But you’ve always had a way of… making things happen.”
You do look at him then. His smile is subdued now, and something in his eyes—not fire, but resolve—burns steadier than it did in the boy who declared he would be captain of the guard as soon as he met you. It would be selfish of you to say yes. It would be reckless to want him near, not as a guard or a shadow by your door, but simply as himself.
“It would be improper,” you say.
He nods, accepting the words. But his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “A lot of the world is. Doesn’t mean we don’t live in it.”
You open your mouth to say something, then close it. The path is still quiet, though you see Mistress Calypso crossing the grounds to come back to you. The scent of rain is stronger now.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
Phainon steps back and bows. “Then I’ll wait.”
You watch him go until he reaches the far end of the field, and his figure blurs again into motion and shouts and sweat and steel. Mistress Calypso joins you and, guiding you by your elbow, ushers you back into the palace walls, fretting about the possibility of rain.
(You think, just maybe, you will ask Master Gnaeus.)
The next morning, the palace is quiet. Mistress Calypso has gone to oversee the linens, and your lady-in-waiting has excused herself to fetch your embroidery kit. You walk alone, steps echoing faintly through the stone corridors. You know where you’re going. You’ve rehearsed the words in your head all night.
The armoury smells of oil and dust and old leather. You spot Master Gnaeus standing beside a weapons rack, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he surveys the group of boys cleaning the rust from old spears. His presence is imposing, but you know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Phainon, after having had to wrangle the both of you away from each other. The memory brings a smile to your lips; Master Gnaeus had once called you and Phainon as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun.
He notices you before you speak.
“Your Highness,” Master Gnaeus says, his gravelled voice breaking through the clatter of metal. He straightens, folding his arms tighter, though something gentle flickers across his expression. “You’ve no business in the armoury unless you plan to spar.”
“I’ll keep my slippers away from the blades,” you say, smiling faintly.
The boys around you fumble into bows or hasty salutes before returning to their tasks, whispering to each other as you pass. Gnaeus jerks his head towards the back, where it’s quieter, away from nosy ears and adolescent posturing. You follow, skirts brushing the dusty floor. Once inside the small side chamber—a storage room that smells like iron and cedar—you turn to him.
“You always did have that look when you were about to ask me something I’d say no to,” he mutters.
You gather your words with care. “I heard you’re changing the guard outside my quarters.”
“You heard correctly. It’s overdue. Your father agrees.”
“I’d like to request someone specific,” you say.
Master Gnaeus smiles, almost knowingly. “Is that so?”
You nod, folding your hands in front of you to keep them from fidgeting. “Phainon.”
“Of course.” Gnaeus lets out an odd sound, a cross between a chuckle and a groan.
“He’s capable,” you say quickly, before he can wave you off. “You trained him yourself. He’s fast, observant, loyal—”
“—and reckless,” the commander cuts in, raising a brow. “Too familiar with you. Too stubborn.”
“But you trust him.”
“You do know what it would mean, having him stationed at your door?”
“I am not a fool,” you say. “I know what it looks like.”
“Looks aren’t the issue. It’s what it stirs up,” Master Gnaeus says. “People in this court and kingdom live for whispers. If they catch even a hint of impropriety—”
“There won’t be any,” you interrupt. “He won’t so much as look at me in the wrong way.”
Gnaeus snorts. “That’s the problem. He already does.”
“Then make him prove otherwise,” you say, holding his gaze even as your heart—that traitorous organ—races inside your rib cage.
Gnaeus studies you—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow. “That boy’s been sniffing around the assignment list all week,” he mutters finally, more to himself than you. “Didn’t say a word to me, of course.”
“He said he’d do it if I asked,” you murmur.
“Of course he would. You could ask him to walk into a fire and he’d do it without blinking,” Master Gnaeus says gruffly. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of his years and the weight of your request are the same. “Fine.”
You blink. “Fine?”
“He starts next week. Trial basis,” Gnaeus grumbles. “And gods help him if I catch him dozing off or sneaking you sweets. One wrong move, and he’s back in the kitchens peeling onions for the stew.”
A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”
“And you,” he adds, pointing a thick finger at you like you’re ten again and have just hidden a training sword up your skirts, “are not to coddle him. Or distract him. Or lure him away from his post by any means whatsoever.”
“I would never.” You give him a solemn nod, fighting a grin. “Thank you, Master Gnaeus.”
He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You two were as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun—”
“You remember!”
“I remember how much trouble the sun got in when the sunflower followed it into the courtyard past curfew,” Master Gnaeus says, low and thoughtful. “He’s not a little boy anymore, and neither are you a little girl. Be careful, Princess.”
(You slip past the boys and their spears, rushing to the stables where Master Gnaeus said Phainon would be. Your feet cannot take you there fast enough, but you lift your skirts up and urge yourself to move faster. You find him brushing down one of the younger horses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has hay in his hair, and he hums under his breath, soft and tuneless.
“Phainon,” you call, breathless.
He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees you, his smile blooms so fast, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “Princess. You’ve either come to drag me to a duel or to tell me something reckless,” he says, tossing the brush aside.
You come to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed, not from the run but from the way Phainon looks at you: bright and open, like you’ve brought in the sun with you.
“I asked Master Gnaeus,” you say, “and he said yes.”
“You did?”
“He agreed. You’ll start next week, on a trial basis.” You bite your lip, watching his expression shift. “But he warned you not to doze off or sneak me any sweets.”
Phainon grins, wide and boyish and blinding. “Too late for that.”
Before you can say anything more, he steps forward and takes your hand—just briefly, just enough to squeeze your fingers once, quickly, like he might not be allowed to again.
“I won’t let you down,” he says, low and certain.
“I know,” you say.)
There is nothing you can do to quell the rush of excitement that jolts through your body when Phainon arrives for his first night of duty. It bubbles warm beneath your ribs, a spark fanned into flame, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.
He stands in the hall outside your chambers, a far cry from the boy who used to steal apples from the kitchens and blame it on the stablehands. Now, he’s clad in the full regalia of the royal guard: black and silver, crisp and ceremonial, the metal of his breastplate catching the flicker of fire. The insignia of your house is etched into the clasp at his shoulder, a small gilded sun. And yet, there are still remnants of him that remain unchanged—the ever-messy hair that no brush can tame, the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and the tilt of his mouth, cocky but never cruel.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice pitched in that deliberate, court-appropriate register, before giving you an exaggerated bow. “Reporting for duty.”
You arch an eyebrow and fold your arms, trying not to laugh. “You’re late.”
“I was ambushed,” he says, straightening up, “by the cook. I barely survived.” Phainon reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parcel, wrapped in linen and still faintly warm. He holds it out with both hands. “She said you’d requested for apricot pastries yesterday.”
“That’s very kind of her,” you say, and then smile, giddy and childish. “They’re for you.”
“For me?” Phainon blinks.
You nod, suddenly shy. “A thank-you. And to celebrate your first day on duty. I’d hoped to deliver it myself, but…” You trail off, sheepish. “The kitchens were busy today.”
He looks down at the parcel in his hands as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, slowly, his fingers curl around the edges of the linen wrap, careful and reverent. The torchlight makes his blue eyes look brighter, and when he glances up again, something in his expression softens, his usual wit quieted into something gentler.
“You always were the generous one,” he says.
“I wasn’t generous when you broke my reading tablet and—as always—tried to blame the cat,” you point out.
Phainon huffs a laugh, then shifts his weight, leaning just slightly closer. “In my defense, that cat hated me.”
You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when you’re wearing a royal crest.”
“We’ll keep it between us,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Then, softer: “Thank you. Truly.”
You let yourself smile at that. You can hear the faint clatter of boots down the corridor, the echo of a servant’s voice, but here, in the little alcove outside your chambers, it feels like the rest of the palace has fallen away.
“You’ll be stationed here every night?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
“Until the king changes the rotation,” he confirms. “But Master Gnaeus gave me the impression that won’t be happening any time soon.”
“Good,” you say, trying not to let your relief show too obviously. “I think I’ll sleep better with you outside.”
Phainon smiles at that—an unguarded thing, a little crooked, a little too fond. “I’ll keep the shadows away,” he says.
You nod, then take a slow step back towards your chamber door, fingers brushing against the iron handle. “Don’t let the candle burn out. If you’re cold, there are spare blankets in the antechamber. And if anyone bothers you—”
“I’ll glare at them until they run screaming,” he finishes, mockingly solemn. “Very professional. Very terrifying.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He holds up the pastry bundle. “Fuel for my duties.”
You open the door, pausing one last time to glance over your shoulder. He’s already stepping into position beside the frame, posture straight and expression composed—but his eyes, when they meet yours, are still bright with warmth and mirth.
“Goodnight, Phainon.”
“Goodnight, Princess.”
(When you finally lie in bed, heart hammering and cheeks warm, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to sleep with him just outside.)
Three nights after, sleep evades you wholly. No matter how many times you shift, how tightly you tug the covers over your shoulders, how deeply you breathe, rest dances just out of reach. The candle on your bedside table has long since burned out, and the coals in the hearth pulse faintly. The air is neither warm nor cold, yet you feel restless.
Eventually, you give up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders and knotting it loosely at the front. Phainon will still be awake, won’t he? You smile a little.
The palace is quiet when you open your door, quieter still when you step into the corridor. The flickering torches lining the hallway cast gentle amber light, and the stained-glass windows above them scatter moonlight into fractured gems across the floor. Your bare feet make no sound as you walk.
Phainon stands just as he has every night since he took up the post: beside your chamber door, one shoulder leaned against the wall. He’s not in full regalia tonight, only his black tunic with silver edging and a loose cloak fastened at his collarbone. His hair is, as always, a wild thing—too stubborn to stay neat, despite his best efforts. He straightens at the sound of your approach, though he doesn’t seem surprised.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says softly.
“I tried,” you say, hugging your shawl tighter and crossing your arms over your chest. “The bed refused to cooperate.”
“A shame.” His gaze drifts towards the other end of the corridor, scanning it briefly, then returns to you. “Is this a formal inspection, or am I being graced with your company?”
“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”
He hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take my chances.”
You let out a quiet laugh, and take a few slow steps closer, until you’re standing just across to him, back to the opposite wall. The stone is cool even through the layers of your shawl. His eyes follow you, not in the way of a soldier watching for danger, but something fonder. Master Gnaeus’ words echo through your head, but you squash it. It is nighttime now, and no one else is there.
You slide down the wall, careful, until you’re seated across from him on the cold stone floor. The hem of your nightgown brushes your ankles, and your shawl slips slightly from your shoulders as you settle your arms around your knees. You don’t fix it. It feels too gentle a moment to disturb with fussing.
“I thought I might find you awake,” you murmur.
Phainon sits down as well, crossing his legs. He watches you without speaking for a long while, his head tilted slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t sleep on duty,” he says.
“Master Gnaeus would be proud,” you agree solemnly. He cracks a smile at that, and shifts slightly so his knee brushes yours. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Are your favourite things still the same?” you ask.
He leans back against the wall and thinks on it. “Some. Not all. I used to think the best sound in the world was the call to market in the city square at first light, before the crowds set in. Now I think it might be the way the torches crackle in the hallway when it’s too quiet to hear anything else.”
You glance at one of those torches now. It pops, like punctuation to his words.
“I still hate wearing the ceremonial gloves,” Phainon adds, tugging at the fingers of one hand, though he’s not wearing them now. “They make my hands sweat and I can’t hold my sword right.”
“You always said they felt like trying to write with wool tied around your fingers.”
“They still do,” he says, grinning. “I still think the kitchens make the best bread before sunrise, when no one’s had the chance to ruin it yet. And I still don’t like pears.”
You press your cheek to your knees, watching him through your lashes. “You used to say pears were fruit pretending to be water.”
“They are. Pick a side, I say.”
You laugh again, louder this time, and then fall quiet. “And… is Lyra still your favourite constellation?”
“Yes,” he says. “That won’t change anytime soon.”
You nod, something warm and fluttery settling inside your rib cage. When you don’t speak, he adds, “Your turn.”
“I still dip my bread in tea when no one’s watching. I still hate wearing slippers—too stiff. I prefer walking barefoot, even when I’m not supposed to.”
“I noticed,” he says, with a wry glance to your feet.
“I still sleep facing the window,” you continue, “even though it gives me the worst light. I still read by the hearth until my eyes ache. And I still braid my hair when I’m anxious, even if I undo it right after.”
He watches you closely, eyes roving over your features like you’re a scripture he’s memorising. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, and say, “I still love marigolds. Even if they do smell like dust.”
“Because they look like little suns,” Phainon finishes for you, so easily that it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Your eyes meet his. Neither of you looks away. He leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s something cruel about time,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t wait for us to grow into the people we need to be. It just expects us to be them anyway.”
“I missed you,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.
“I missed you, too, Princess. Every single day.”
You shift your hand and your fingers brush against his. “I should get some sleep,” you whisper.
He nods, but doesn’t move. “Will you be able to?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll stay until you do.”
You push yourself to your feet slowly, and he rises with you, less like a friend now, and more like the soldier he has grown into being. “Goodnight, Phainon,” you say.
He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
(What is this aching, this yearning, that settles itself behind the bones of your chest and nestles itself deep into your heart? It pulses with every beat, quiet but insistent, like a secret knocking at the inside of your ribs. You press your palm there as if you could smooth it away, but the warmth of Phainon’s voice still rings in your ears, and the ghost of his hand brushing yours won’t leave you be.
You return to bed, but the sheets are colder now, lonelier somehow, and your thoughts spin in endless, silent circles. You don’t get a wink of sleep, not like this, and Mistress Calypso tuts over the abysmal state of you come the next morning.
When you describe this strange ache to her, her motherly eyes soften in understanding, and her lips curve upwards in a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear child,” she sighs, and says nothing more of it.)
ii). When you’re older, you think you know it all.
Years pass. You are older now, not prone to childish whims and fancies anymore, or perhaps you are, but you’re forced to keep it hidden. Your father deems it necessary that you sit by his side during court meetings. You are to pay attention and make note of stately affairs, but you are not meant to speak, your father had told you sternly. It had stung, just a little, but Mistress Calypso comforted you by saying that your father was merely afraid you would surpass him in wit and knowledge.
Thus, you spend less time with your needlework and more time in the palace halls, and so, Master Gnaeus had only deemed it fit that Phainon gets a promotion. He is now your personal guard, and the distinction is not a small one. It means he is no longer posted just outside your door at night but follows you throughout the day—into the great hall, the colonnades, the gardens, and even the stifling court meetings where noblemen drone on about wheat prices and border tensions.
He stands a step behind and to your right, hands clasped at his back, eyes ever watchful. He rarely speaks, save for short exchanges or quiet jests whispered under his breath when no one else can hear. You’ve learned to school your expression well, to stifle your laughter behind the pretense of a cough or a delicate touch to your lips.
Today, the sun slants through the high windows in angled beams, catching dust motes in its golden light. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your posture is impeccable and your gaze is fixed on the speaker, though your mind drifts.
Phainon shifts behind you, just slightly, and the movement pulls your attention like a tide. Even without looking, you can sense him—solid, steady, unchanged in most ways. Yet, two years has carved something finer into him, like a sword honed again and again on the whetstone. His face is sharper now, his presence heavier, though never suffocating. You wonder if he notices the changes in you, too.
As the meeting finally draws to a close and the courtiers begin their ritual of shuffling and bowing, your father rises. You do, too, bowing your head as expected. He doesn’t spare you a glance, his attention already swept towards his advisors.
Phainon steps forward, a half-measure closer. “Boring as ever,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to catch.
You glance up at him, lips twitching. “I’ll add that to my notes.”
He smiles, but only faintly. “You’re doing well.”
The simple words settle in you more deeply than they ought to. You nod, grateful, and start walking, the long train of your gown whispering over the marble. Phainon falls into step beside you, just far enough to be proper. You don’t speak as you make your way down the corridor. You don’t have to; the silence between you both is companionable now, a familiar quiet like the hush before dawn.
But you’re aware, more than ever, of how much space he takes up in your world—and how little room you’re allowed to show it.
So you walk, head high, voice quiet, fingers itching by your sides for something you cannot name. When he opens the door for you and you pass through first, you pretend your heart doesn’t falter.
You are older now. You are wiser. But still—still—he is the softest thought you carry.
“Do you think we can visit Marmoreal Market today, Princess?” he asks.
“Why? So you may see your precious baker girl once more?” you say, allowing a sly smile to play at your lips.
Phainon exhales a laugh, low and amused, as he follows a pace behind you down the corridor. “She has a generous hand with the honey glaze, that’s all,” he says innocently.
“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with too much earnestness to be sincere.
“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.
“Terrible at many things, Your Highness. Lying is simply the least dangerous of them.”
You shake your head. He’s always been like this: clever in a way that toes the line between impish and careful. He knows just how far he can go, how much he can tease without overstepping. You, for your part, never quite want him to stop.
You reach the landing where the hallway forks—one way leads to the royal chambers, the other to the open terraces that overlook the city. The late spring breeze filters through the carved stone arches, warm with the scent of wisteria.
You pause, turning your face towards it. “Let’s go,” you say, already veering off the expected path.
“To the market?” Phainon asks, ever the guard, ever the rule-follower—but he follows anyway.
“To the terraces,” you amend. “The market can wait until you’ve made your peace with the fact that your baker girl does not, in fact, love you.”
“She doesn’t have to love me,” Phainon says breezily. “She only has to give me free pastries.”
You laugh, startled at the honesty of it, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick towards you at the sound, like he’s collecting it to keep. The two of you walk in step now, no longer master and guard, but friend and companion. There are things you do not say: how his presence is a balm; how his nearness steadies you in ways even your lessons cannot; how in a court full of power plays that treats you as nothing more than a precious accessory, he is one of the only people who speaks to you like you’re simply a person.
When you reach the terrace, you rest your hands on the balustrade, staring out at the sea of rooftops and chimney smoke below. He stands beside you, just close enough to share the view. The wind lifts your hair gently, teasing strands loose from their pins, and you make no move to smooth them back. Phainon leans his forearms against the stone railing beside you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.
“You’ll get in trouble for slouching like that,” you say.
“I’ll get in trouble for far worse one day,” he says, not looking at you.
The words land between you, light as falling ash and just as hard to ignore. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look out again, watching how the light glimmers off the glass domes and copper roofs of the kingdom. It’s beautiful in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening and the air warming with the promise of summer.
“Would you ever leave?” you ask.
“Yes,” Phainon says, after a moment. “If it was the right reason. If it meant protecting something, or someone, I care about.”
When you breathe, the air catches in your chest and stays there, unmoving. “And would you come back?”
Phainon tilts his head towards you. “That depends. Would you want me to?”
You finally turn to look at him, the wind catching the hem of his cloak and the light catching in his eyes. He’s not smiling now.
“I don’t think I’d like the palace very much without you,” you admit. The words are too small for what you mean, too fragile—but they’re what you can give, and he seems to understand that. His gaze softens. Something in his expression shifts, like the drawing of a curtain.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay,” he says, and you think you can see the trace of a smile return, though it’s smaller than usual.
You lower your gaze before you can say something foolish. Before you reach for his hand, or let your shoulder brush his, or ask him if he ever thinks about things he shouldn’t.
“Phainon,” you say lightly, chasing the heavy quiet away, “when you go to the market, you ought to bring back something for me. Pastries, or maybe dried figs.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a playful bow of his head. “Though if I bring the wrong kind of figs, like I did last time, will I be banished to the dungeons?”
“Only if they’re sour. Like last time.”
“Then I’ll make sure to taste all of them first.”
You smile to yourself, turning your face back towards the sun. It’s easier this way—to pretend, to flirt with jest and hide everything you mean in the spaces between the words. You don’t know if he feels the same, or if this is all just duty and loyalty gilded in affection for his childhood friend. But for now, it’s enough. It has to be.
(You wonder what happens when a princess and her guard cannot stop looking at each other with fondness.)
“There are reports of the Northern Kingdom rallying for war, Your Highness,” says Master Gnaeus, voice grave as it cuts cleanly through the silence of the chamber.
The candlelight flickers against the polished marble floors, throwing golden shadows against the walls. At the centre of the great hall, the court is gathered—noblemen in their brocades and ribbons, advisors with scrolls and ink-stained fingers, the occasional general in muted armour trimmed with the kingdom’s colours. All eyes are on the man standing near the raised dais.
A hush falls in the wake of Gnaeus’ words. Tension coils in the room like smoke. You feel it settle in your bones, even as you sit perfectly still, hands folded in your lap like you were taught. You do not speak. You are not meant to.
Beside you, your father—the king—does not react at first. His face remains unreadable, cast in part shadow from the sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. He is a man who does not betray emotion easily, whose command is forged from control.
“And the severity?” he asks.
“More than rumours this time,” Master Gnaeus answers. “Our border outposts have reported movements. Small skirmishes, targeting mainly the farmland on the border. They haven’t attacked anyone outright, yet.”
Your father drums his fingers once against his armrest. “What of the Southern provinces?”
“They remain neutral,” the commander of the royal guard says, “but neutrality seldom lasts when coin and blood are promised. The North is testing us. They are measuring how far they can reach before we push back.”
Lady Caenis, ever eager, ever cunning, rises from her seat near the front. Her ceremonial rings clink softly against one another as she clasps her hands behind her back. “If I may, Your Majesty.”
The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”
“We may yet avoid full war. The prince of Castrum Kremnos is expected to arrive at our court in three months’ time. His father has long sought favour with our kingdom.”
Several heads turn at this. The name holds weight—Castrum Kremnos is a mountain city-state fortified by steep walls and a fearsome army, known for surviving three major invasions without surrendering an inch of land.
“They are not without ambition,” Lady Caenis goes on, “but they are strategic. If we were to offer an alliance, formal and binding, before the North makes its move—before they choose a side—we could secure a military partner unlike any we’ve had before.”
“An alliance of what nature?” your father asks, though you’re certain he already knows the answer.
Caenis smiles with well-practiced diplomacy. “A royal one.”
You are acutely aware of your surroundings: the rustle of a silk sleeve to your left, the distant creak of a high window shifting in the wind, the flicker of torchlight behind the throne. But louder than all of that is the silence that follows. Your name is not spoken—but it doesn’t need to be.
A royal match. A marriage.
You remain unmoving, as you have been trained. But your breath catches ever-so slightly at the back of your throat. You don’t let it show. You focus on the cold edge of your seat beneath you, the feel of your gown’s embroidery beneath your fingertips.
“A marriage,” your father echoes.
Caenis inclines her head. “The prince is said to be capable and respected by his men. It would be a… strategic match. Kremnos’ military strength paired with our control of the trade routes would ensure no northern force dares to strike. We have a strong enough army to hold off their advances until the prince arrives.”
The weight of the room shifts, as if the very air bends towards your father. Everyone is watching him—but he is not watching them. He is watching you. His gaze turns slowly and fixes on you in full for the first time that day. You meet it, though your heart is thundering somewhere behind your ribs. You have always obeyed. You have always listened. Still, some part of you—that foolish, tender part—had hoped you would be more than a pawn on a royal chessboard.
There is no cruelty in the king’s eyes, but neither is there softness. There is only that strange, piercing contemplativeness, like he is studying you through smoke, measuring something that can’t be weighed with scales or numbers.
Behind you, Phainon is still as stone. The distance between him and you that has always been proper now feels unbearable.
(“Princess,” Phainon starts, later, when he accompanies you back to your chambers. “You’re to meet with the seamstress after the meeting.”
“Tell her I am unwell,” you say, hurrying down the corridor as fast as you can. It isn’t a lie; you do feel ill, your stomach roiling and roiling uncomfortably.
“Princess,” Phainon says again, keeping pace with you. “I understand this is sudden, but—”
“You don’t understand anything!” you snap, harsher than intended. Your words echo in the corridor, clipped and cold.
He falters just slightly, enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightens, though he says nothing. Loyal as ever. Silent as ever. You regret it instantly. Your footsteps slow; the tightness in your chest presses deeper now, regret curling alongside the sickness in your stomach.
You stop a few paces ahead and close your eyes for a breath. “I’m sorry.”
He approaches again, careful. “You’re not well,” he says, as though offering you permission to feel as overwhelmed as you do.
“No. I’m not,” you say.
He nods once, gently, and then says, “I’ll tell the seamstress you need rest.)
The throne room is overwhelmingly vast when it is just you and your father standing inside it. Your footsteps echo against the marble as you approach the dais, the train of your gown trailing behind you. The light through the stained glass paints the floor in fractured colours—crimson, gold, deep sapphire—but it does little to warm the air between you. Your father watches you with cool detachment from the foot of the throne, hands clasped behind his back. His crown sits slightly askew on the crown of his head.
“I would like to leave the palace,” you say, the words coming faster than you’d meant. You swallow and lift your chin. “Just until the prince of Castrum Kremnos arrives.”
Your father arches a brow. “Leave? And where, exactly, would you go?”
“To the coast,” you say. “To the summer manor. I won’t be idle—I’ll continue my studies with Mistress Calypso—”
“Your nursemaid?” he interjects, a faint sneer in the word.
“She is my governess as well,” you say. “I’m not asking for leisure, Father. I… I feel ill here. I haven’t been sleeping. I find it difficult to breathe within these walls.”
There is a long pause. A crow calls somewhere beyond the windows. Your father regards you a moment more; then, he exhales once, short and dismissive. “You may go,” he says. “There is no use for you here until the prince arrives anyway.”
You flinch, just slightly, but you nod. He doesn’t notice, or perhaps, he doesn’t care.
“You may take your guard and Mistress Calypso,” he says, already dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not have the court talking of you dragging half the palace to the shore for your whims.”
“It is not a whim,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Is that so? Very well, then. See to it that you leave tomorrow before dawn.”
“Yes, Father,” you murmur, dipping your head even though he no longer faces you. You remain where you are until he disappears into the adjoining corridor, footsteps echoing until they vanish entirely. Only then do you lift your gaze again and let your shoulders sag.
The next morning dawns muted and grey, the sky still heavy with the last clinging fingers of spring. Your trunks are packed by the time the sun crests the horizon, and Mistress Calypso waits patiently near the carriage. Phainon stands beside it, already in travel leathers, a pale grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a sword belted at his hip. He helps you into the carriage without a word, though his eyes linger on you longer than usual—not as a guard, but as someone who has quietly noticed how tired you’ve become.
The journey to the coast takes most of the day, winding down through green hills and old roads, past vineyards not yet in bloom and sleepy villages with bright rose bushes. The sea appears at last like a sliver of melted silver along the horizon, widening with each turn of the road until it swells fully into view—vast and blue and endless, the waves curling like ink upon the shore.
The coastal town lies nestled in the curve of a shallow bay, its rooftops the colour of worn terracotta and its buildings pale from salt and sun. It smells of brine and fish and rosemary, and the narrow streets are paved in rounded cobblestones that shift slightly beneath the wheels of the carriage.
The manor sits just beyond the town proper, high on the cliffside and overlooking the water. Pale limestone walls rise from wild green, sea-thistle and tall grass climbing up the stones. Ivy winds around the old balconies and shutters. The air here is sharp with the scent of salt and the sea, but it is clean. For the first time in days, you inhale without feeling caged.
Phainon and manor’s maids begin unpacking the trunks, while Mistress Calypso busies herself with inspecting the interior for dust and damp. You slip away quietly, sandals crunching over gravel, until you find the narrow path that winds down to the town below.
You aren’t alone for long. Phainon catches up with you, as he always does. “Princess,” he chides, “don’t walk away like that.” But you smile at him widely and he softens, shaking his head.
The coastal folk are not the court. They do not bow or stare. Few even seem to recognise you.
You pass through the open-air market with your hood pulled loosely over your shoulders, but it’s more habit than disguise. The baker merely offers a polite nod as he stokes his oven; the fishmonger continues haggling with a hunched old woman, and the children dart barefoot through the plaza fountains, trailing laughter. Here, they do not see a princess and her guard. They only see a boy and a girl, walking through streets unfamiliar to them.
Phainon walks half a step behind you at first, out of instinct more than instruction, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. But as the crowd thickens and the scent of roasted almonds and sea-brine swells in the air, the stiffness in his shoulders begins to loosen. A boy juggles apples near the fountain and nearly drops one at your feet. You catch it before it rolls away and toss it back with a grin.
“You should be careful,” Phainon says, though the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “If anyone did recognise you—”
“They haven’t,” you say, tugging him towards a stall where seashell necklaces hang in neat rows. “And they won’t.”
You buy one with a pale pink conch strung between two tiny ivory beads, trading a copper coin from the hem of your sleeve. The merchant gives no second glance; he simply pockets the coin and moves to the next customer. Phainon watches you quietly.
“You’ve changed,” he says after a while, once you’ve wandered beyond the edge of the market, towards a low stone wall that overlooks the bay.
“Have I?” you ask, settling on the wall with your arms around your knees.
“You’re… lighter,” he says, and then immediately flushes, like the word has embarrassed him. “I just mean, you seem more at ease. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
“I suppose my father trading me off to some prince I’ve never met from some kingdom I’ve never seen will do that to a person,” you say. You lower your gaze to the water. The tide has begun to turn, waves curling in slow arcs towards the shore.
“I think,” Phainon says, “you could ask your father to let you stay for longer.”
“He might prefer it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” you say. “But it’s still true.”
A gull cries overhead. A boat rocks gently in the harbour, its sails furled tight. The air is cooler now, and the stars begin to prick through the veil of twilight, soft and faraway. You reach into your pocket and pull out the seashell necklace, the pink conch warm from where it’s rested against your skin. Without a word, you hold it out to him.
Phainon blinks. “For me?”
“For the boy who’s always chasing after me,” you say. “Consider it a reward.”
He takes it gingerly, like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. Though he doesn’t say thank-you, he loops it around his wrist.
(When you return to the manor that evening, Mistress Calypso eyes your wind-tangled hair with something like fond disapproval, but she says nothing—only sets a cup of chamomile tea on the table and reminds you to take your tonic before bed. That night, the waves sing you to sleep, and for the first time in many weeks, you rest.)
“Isn’t it cruel, Phainon?” you say, walking through the market once again, the next week. “I always thought parents were supposed to love their children no matter what. My father did love me, when I was very young, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember.”
Phainon walks beside you in silence, his eyes scanning the street as if the right words might be hiding between the bread stalls and spice carts. The market is livelier today—someone is playing a tin whistle near the fountain, and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the warm air. You pass a stall draped in bright fabrics dyed indigo blue and pomegranate red. Children dart around your legs, laughing, their feet kicking up dust. But all you can think about is how far away the palace feels now—how far away you feel from it.
“Sometimes, I wonder if I only think he loved me because that’s what children are meant to believe,” you continue. “But the older I got, the quieter it became, as though his love faded with time, the way stars disappear at dawn.”
Phainon exhales slowly. “It’s not meant to be that way,” he says. “But it happens.”
“Did it happen to you?”
He shrugs. “My parents were bakers. They had too many mouths to feed to waste time on affection. But they gave me bread when I was hungry and kept me warm. Maybe that was love in their own way.”
“I think I would have rathered bread and warmth, too.”
A wind stirs, carrying with it the faint tang of approaching rain. You tip your head back towards the sky. The clouds are heavy, charcoal grey and swollen, rolling in fast from the sea.
Phainon notices it too. “We should—”
His warning comes too late. A single drop of rain lands on your cheek, followed swiftly by another on your brow. Then the sky breaks open all at once, a sudden, sharp curtain of rain that scatters the marketplace into bursts of movement. Children squeal and dart into open doors. Merchants scramble to cover their wares with linen and oilcloth. You laugh, startled, as the rain soaks through your sleeves in an instant, the hem of your dress sticking to your ankles.
“Come on,” Phainon says, reaching for your hand without hesitation, and you let him, your fingers slipping into his with a familiarity you don’t allow yourself to think about. He tugs you under the cover of a narrow alcove just beside a shuttered pottery stall. It’s cramped, the two of you standing close with your shoulders brushing, the sound of rain pounding the roof overhead.
The rain comes heavier now—thick sheets of it, washing the colour from the sky and smearing the edges of the market into pale, trembling silhouettes. It’s as if the sea itself has leapt into the clouds and poured down onto the town, soaking everything in its path. The cobblestones are already slick, puddles forming in the dips between them. Water rushes in rivulets along the gutter, swirling with petals from the overturned flower cart you passed by just minutes ago.
You shiver, rainwater dripping down your temples. Phainon’s cloak is coarse and rain-damp, but warm. It smells faintly of him: sun-dried linen and leather polish, salt and steel. He undoes it; and wraps it over your shoulders as he fastens it clumsily at your throat, his fingers brushing the hollow of your collarbone, and you don’t move. You barely breathe.
His touch lingers, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he wants to do more. Then, he draws back, expression shuttered.
The alcove is carved into the curve of an old wall, likely once part of the town’s inner ramparts. Its stone is damp and moss-slick behind your back, but you don’t dare shift. If you move, if you speak, you’re afraid everything will spill out—and it’s not the kind of truth you can shove back once spoken.
You stare at the market, though it’s empty now, save for the most stubborn vendors crouching beneath makeshift coverings. A woman pulls a basket of apples under an awning with an exasperated grunt. A dog scampers down the alley, drenched and wild-eyed. You try to speak—to untangle the knot growing steadily tighter inside your throat—but your voice fails you.
“Phainon…” you say, soft and shaking, eyes still fixed on the grey blur beyond the archway. You cannot look at him.
He doesn’t respond, though you feel him shift slightly beside you. Waiting. Listening. The words are right there: You make me feel safe. I don’t know how to exist in the palace without you. I think I’ve fallen—
“I—” you try again, but your mouth closes around the rest. Nothing comes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak where it bunches at your chest.
It’s too much. Everything is too much. The chill from your soaked gown clinging to your skin, the ache in your chest that’s grown bigger every day you’ve been at the coast, the quiet way Phainon looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—it all unravels you from the inside.
You press your back harder against the stone wall and slide down just enough that your shoulders slump and your knees bend, curling in on yourself like the fragile thing you’ve spent years pretending you’re not. Phainon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch you, either, but his presence is steady and unwavering, as it always is.
Your breath fogs in the cool air, heart racing and thoughts tangled. You wonder if he knows—if he’s always known—and you’re simply the last to understand what you’ve become, what you’ve come to need.
The rain hammers down around you both. The marketplace stays empty. The skies remain grey. Still, he stands beside you, silent and stolid, as if he, too, cannot speak the thing that lies heavy between you.
(It’s as if you are children again, scolded for playing too long by the fountains in the courtyard. Mistress Calypso clucks her tongue as she pulls the soaked cloak from your shoulders and ushers you through the manor’s side entrance, both you and Phainon dripping water onto the tiled floor. You don’t resist when she pulls your hands into hers and frowns deeply at your cold fingertips.
“Idiots,” she admonishes. “Running around like storm-chasers. Look at you both: half-drowned and already flushed.”
You’re too cold to argue. The fever came on fast—maybe it had been waiting for the first excuse to bloom. Your limbs ache; your skin is too warm and too tight. Phainon’s face is pale, lips tinged with grey, but his hand steadies you at the elbow as you waver on your feet. You don’t make it to your own chambers.
Mistress Calypso directs you both to the same guest room at the end of the east wing: closer, easier, warm. The fire is already lit. One of the maids must have stoked it while you were gone, and the flames crackle gently in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the stone walls.
She has you both strip out of your damp clothing behind a screen, averting her eyes though she’s seen you in worse states since infancy. Fresh linens are brought, and the manor’s softest night things, smelling of cedar and rose. You pull the wool shift over your head with trembling arms, and when Mistress Calypso guides you to the wide feather bed, you don’t protest.
You don’t even realise Phainon has followed until the mattress dips under his weight. “You’ll share,” Calypso says briskly, tucking blankets around you both. “You’ll warm faster that way. Don’t argue; I’ve had enough of your foolishness for one day.”
Phainon shifts beside you, awkward and uncertain, but says nothing. It’s the first time you’ve shared a bed since you were children who knew nothing better. You’re both too exhausted to protest her orders, and truthfully, neither of you want to be anywhere else.
She lays a damp cloth on your forehead, then Phainon’s. Her touch is gentle now, brushing hair from your temples, fingers cool and firm. “Try to sleep,” she says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
You nod faintly. When she leaves, the room settles into silence, punctuated only by the pop of firewood and the wind outside whispering through the shutters. Phainon lies on his back beside you, stiff as stone. You, curled slightly on your side, are close enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath the blankets, though not quite touching.
“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Phainon mutters eventually.
You smile weakly. “They’ve a mind of their own.”
Feverish and trembling and tucked beneath thick quilts like unruly children, you finally sleep, pressed into the silence you cannot name and the warmth you cannot speak of yet.)
“The prince of Castrum Kremnos will treat you well, Princess,” Phainon says one afternoon, as the two of you walk a winding trail that cuts through the windswept cliffside. The sun is veiled by thin clouds, casting a soft, silvery sheen over the sea. “I’ve never met him, but I know a soldier who has, and—”
You stop walking. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you turn towards the edge of the overlook. Below, the sea churns, restless and dark, rolling and breaking against the jagged rocks far beneath. The air is sharp with salt and cold with the promise of another rain.
“Princess?” Phainon turns to look at you. His voice falters into silence.
“Please don’t call me that,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, but he waits. Always, he waits.
You wrap your arms around yourself, the breeze tugging at the hem of your light wool cloak. The wind toys with your hair, and curls it at your temples. You can’t bear to look at him, so you look at the horizon instead—where the sky meets the sea, blurred in shades of pewter and indigo.
“I don’t want him to treat me well,” you say. “I don’t want to be treated like anything. That ship will arrive soon, and when it does, I’ll meet a stranger. I’ll smile at him, and I’ll dine with him. I’ll be paraded beside him in silks and jewellery, while the court whispers about how well the match turned out. And in time, I’ll be expected to love him—or at least tolerate him—and bind myself to him before the gods and bear his children in a kingdom I have never seen.
“And none of it will have anything to do with me. Not with what I want, or what I fear. There are other ways to secure alliances, Phainon, but they do not care.”
Phainon stands with his arm at his sides, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. He knows better. Instead, he listens.
You glance at him, then, catching his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound like a sentence to you?”
“It sounds like a prison,” he says, voice soft.
You search his face, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If I did not bear the title of a royal,” you say, barely more than a whisper, “would you treat me differently, Phainon?”
He draws a slow breath, and when he exhales, something in him loosens. His gaze drops to the earth for a moment, and then returns to you. “Yes,” he says. “I would.”
Your throat tightens.
“If you weren’t a princess,” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something that aches, “I’d steal your hand in the street. I’d kiss you when you looked at me like that—when you see something you want to show me, too. I’d braid wildflowers into your hair just to make you laugh, and I’d call you by your name, your real name, until you were sick of hearing it and asked me to never say it again.”
Your heart kicks hard in your chest. His words are simple, but each one is a tether pulling you further into the confines of your rib cage.
“I’d take you dancing at the summer festival,” he says, stepping closer. “Not in a hall with stuffy walls and bowing nobles, but barefoot in the town square, beneath paper lanterns, with music spilling out of open windows. And I’d hold you so close, no one would doubt what you meant to me.
“I would have written poems about your smile, even if I was no good at it. I’d have carved our names into the old fig tree by the palace gates. I’d bring you honey cakes when you were cross at me. I would have walked beside you—everywhere—not as your guard, but as the boy who accidentally climbed through your window and the man who loved you.”
Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t look away.
You take a step towards him, lips parting, the confession trembling just behind your teeth. “Phainon, I—”
The words falter. Your voice breaks and nothing comes. You clench your jaw against it, but the surge of feeling is stronger than pride, stronger than caution. So instead of speaking, you slump down to the ground, sitting down with all the grace of a weary heart. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill.
Phainon is beside you in seconds. He crouches low, but doesn’t touch you—doesn’t press. He simply sits there, knees drawn up, watching the wind rake through the tall grass and whip the water below.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can’t say it. I don’t know how.”
There is no one here, in this secluded spot, and even if there was, the coastal folk don’t know you. It’s this logic, you’re sure, that compels Phainon to wrap his arms around you, tentatively, and draw you to him. You fold into him as though you’ve done it a thousand times before, as though your body knows something your tongue is still afraid to say. His chest is warm, the fabric of his tunic soft, and when you press your cheek against it, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath your skin.
The sea below crashes against the rocks in a rhythm older than names. Overhead, gulls wheel and call out across the sky, and the clouds—those heavy, brooding things—have begun to break apart, letting through faint bands of light. The wind is calmer now. The storm has passed, but something in you still trembles like a girl lost in it.
Phainon’s hand shifts to the back of your head. He cradles you against his body.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says into your hair. “There’s no need to be sorry.”
You stay like that, wrapped in him, while the wind combs gently to the grass and the scent of the sea clings to your skin. Your dress is muddy, and your shoulders ache, but here, in the quiet hollow between cliffs and sky, you are allowed—for the first time in what feels like forever—to simply be.
You don’t speak again for a long while. You let the silence hold you both. When at last you lift your head, his hand falls away, but he doesn’t move far. He watches you with that same unreadable expression—half-guard, half-man—eyes the colour of deep sapphire skies.
“I’m scared,” you say.
“I know.”
“If I asked you to take me away from all of it, would you?”
He doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to the earth once again, and he holds you close and buries his face into the crook of your neck.
(“I would want to,” he says finally, lips warm against your skin. “More than anything.”)
The halls of the manor are dark by the time you return. The oil lamps have been extinguished, and the shutters latched against the rising wind. The others sleep in the opposite wing—Mistress Calypso, the maids, the steward—and only the distant hum of cicadas and the gentle creak of wood frame the silence as you walk side by side, like children sneaking back in from mischief.
You reach your chamber door, and Phainon stops as he always does. He lingers just a pace behind, like a shadow unsure of its shape. A week ago, he might’ve bowed and stood outside your threshold with the discipline of a man sworn to service. But tonight—tonight, something hangs unfinished between you. Unspoken. Unburied.
You turn the key in the lock and open the door. He begins to step back—but your hand reaches for his.
He stills immediately, and the look in his eyes is not confusion. It’s caution, hope barely daring to surface. You don’t speak. You simply tug, gently, and he follows. You shut the door behind him, lock it, and turn to find him watching you. Your heart hammers, thunderous in your chest.
Phainon gives you that lopsided grin, the one that used to irritate you for how easily it made your guard drop. “My, Princess,” he says. “How very forward of you.”
You arch an eyebrow, walk past him to the chaise without a word, and throw one of the embroidered pillows directly at his chest. He catches it with one hand, chuckling.
“Do all royal invitations come with threats of smothering?” he says.
“Only for the most insufferable guests.”
“So violent,” Phainon teases. “Should I be worried?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” you reply. “That depends on how much more teasing I’ll have to deal with tonight.”
“More, probably.”
You watch him, waiting—for a joke, a quip, another deflection—but he simply stands there, silent, watching you in return. He sets the pillow down carefully. The candlelight plays against his jawline, his collarbone, the faint line of a scar along his knuckle you weren’t witness to him earning. He’s right in front of you. You ache.
Toeing your sandals off, you sit down on your bed, patting the spot next to you. Phainon obliges, unlacing his boots and unclasping his cloak.
“Will you indulge me once more?” you ask.
“Of course,” he says. “Of course, I will.”
“If I wasn’t a princess, and you weren’t my guard, and we were just two people alone in this room,” you say, unwavering despite the nervousness that flits inside your chest, “what would you do with me?”
Phainon stills, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on your face for a long, measured beat, as though he’s trying to decide if you really want the answer. If he is allowed to say it out loud.
But he leans in slightly, voice low and steady. “I’d start with your hair,” he says, and your breath hitches.
“I’d take it down,” he murmurs, fingers moving slowly, carefully, to the pins holding it in place. One by one, he slides them free, until the last piece falls and your hair tumbles down around your shoulders. He doesn’t touch it, yet; he watches it fall like silk over your collarbones.
“I’d run my hands through it,” he continues, “because I’ve spent months wondering how it feels. If it’s as soft as I imagine. If it would slip through my fingers, or tangle there and stay.”
He lifts one hand, and brushes a lock behind your ear. Your skin burns beneath his touch. “And then?” you whisper.
His gaze drops, and a quiet smile plays at his lips—something almost shy. “Then I’d trace your face, slowly, with just my fingertips. Your cheekbones, your jaw. I’ve watched you turn away when you’re not trying to laugh. I’ve watched your mouth tighten when you’re fighting not to speak your mind. And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you let all of that go.”
“I’d kiss the space between your brows first,” he says, brushing his knuckle there, “because you furrow them when you’re reading. When you’re worried. Then your nose—because you scrunch it when you’re annoyed, and it drives me mad.”
You let out a quiet breath of laughter, and he grins. “Your lips,” he says, voice dipping, “I’d take my time with. You always speak so carefully. I’ve always wanted to see what you’d say when your mouth is only mine to kiss.”
“Your neck,” he goes on, and his voice is like velvet now. “I’d kiss the hollow of your throat, and the curve where your shoulder begins. You hold tension there when you’re trying not to show you’re tired, and I’d kiss you to make you feel better.
“Your hands—they’re so small compared to mine. But they’re strong. I’d hold them open, palm to palm, and kiss each finger, because I want to know what touches the world before it touches me. Your chest, because that’s where your heartbeat lives. I’d rest my head there and listen.
“I’d trace the line of your waist. Hold your hips steady beneath my hands. Kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else dares to be tender. I’d go slow,” he whispers. “Learn the map of your body like a pilgrim, not a thief. And if you asked me to stop, I would. But if you let me…”
“Phainon,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes, like your voice is something holy.
“And then?” you ask, again.
“I’d kiss you,” he says, and his eyes flutter open, “until your lips were red, until you forgot how to speak. I’d find every place on your body that makes you shiver, and claim them all.”
Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. You pull him closer. “Do it, then.”
He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t tease. He merely leans in and kisses you. It begins soft, a brush of lips. But the second time, it’s deeper—warmer. It’s as if you’re making up for every time you looked at each other and turned away; every secret glance; every second you stood too close and did nothing.
His hands rise to your face, cradling your cheeks as your mouth parts beneath his, and your fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, dragging his shirt with them. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and you marvel at the heat of his skin, at the strength of it. Every inch of him is sun-browned and scarred, hard-earned.
Your hands find the hem of your dress, and slowly, you lift it over your head. You sit bare-chested before him, skin kissed by firelight, heart beating so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it. Your arms twitch to cover yourself, but you don’t.
Phainon’s gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger, but with awe.
“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so beautiful.”
You duck your head, bashful, but Phainon will have none of it. He closes the space between you again, kissing you like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. His hands tremble slightly when they touch your skin, moving carefully across your ribs, your waist, as though he’s still not sure he’s allowed. You guide him. You teach him.
You lie back against the pillows, and he follows, bracing himself above you. You undress each other slowly, fumbling at times, laughing once when his belt catches on itself and breaks the moment.
You touch, explore, learn. You whisper when something feels good. He listens. He mirrors your movements, unsure at first, and then with more confidence, brushing kisses over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach, like you’re a language he’s finally been permitted to speak.
When he pushes into you, it’s slow and careful. You clutch at his shoulders, eyes locked to his, you breath stuttering in your chest at the stretch and burn and fullness of it. He goes still, watching your expression, concerned and cautious. You nod.
He presses his forehead to yours, and the movement begins—gentle, uneven, his hands cradling your hips. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. The ache turns to pleasure, a pulse in your core that builds and builds, and the sounds you make only encourage him: little gasps and whimpers, your name on his lips, his on yours.
There are no titles here. No barriers. Only two bodies moving together under candlelight, tangled in silk sheets and first loves.
You cry out as pleasure crashes through you, seizing your limbs, your breath, your thoughts. He follows soon after, gasping into your neck, trembling above you; he is, you think, a man who’s finally been allowed to feel everything he’s been denied.
(“Is it strange that I don’t want the sun to rise?” you whisper into Phainon’s throat. He’s tucked your head under his chin, while his fingers trace patterns onto your spine.
“Not strange,” he whispers back. “Cruel, maybe. But not strange.”
You shift slightly, enough to press your cheek against the warmth of his collarbone. His skin smells like salt and cedar, and something softer—like the sheets between you, like sleep.
“If morning comes,” you murmur, “it all goes back to how it was.”
“I know,” he says. You feel the breath he lets out, the way it lifts his chest just slightly; then, he adds, “But it’s not morning yet.”)
Dawn comes cruel.
The pale light bleeds in through the gaps in between the drapes, casting the room in watery gold. You blink slowly from where you lie tangled in the sheets, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Phainon is already awake beside you—half-dressed, back half-turned, one hand dragging down his face in exhaustion or disbelief, or something in between.
You sit up, letting the silk slip from your bare skin, and watch him for a moment. There’s a softness to his posture, something almost boyish in the slope of his shoulders and the way the morning light outlines the curve of his neck. A purpling mark blooms at the base of his throat—your mark—and something about that fact knots your stomach with heat and something else you dare not name.
“We should’ve slept,” you say, voice rough with sleep.
“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.
“For an hour.”
“Better than none.”
You rise and cross the room. Your fingers brush the back of his hand as he laces up his bracers—not for armour, just for show. “You should go,” you whisper. “Mistress Calypso always wakes early, and if she finds you here, no explanation will suffice.”
He smiles faintly at that. “I know. I dived into a laundry basket because of her, remember?”
You laugh softly, but the sombre thought of him leaving wedges in your mind like a splinter. Phainon seems to realise it, too, because he simply nods once with no protest or drawn-out goodbye; just the quiet acknowledgement of what the world expects. He leans down, presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the inside of your wrist, and finally the corner of your mouth: a promise and a farewell folded into one.
When he slips out, the door closes with a soft click. You exhale.
You move through the rest of your morning on instinct—pulling on a light gown, brushing the knots from your hair, fastening a necklace you don’t even remember choosing. You find Mistress Calypso in the parlour, seated in an armchair with her book on her lap and her cup of chicory in her hand.
“I wish to visit the marketplace today,” you say. “The sea air is good for me, and I want to walk before the sun climbs high.”
“As you wish, Princess,” she says. “I’ll send one of the girls with you.”
You smile. “I’d rather go alone, if I may. I’ve grown tired of fussing.”
“You always were a stubborn little thing,” she sighs.
“Would you have liked me soft-spoken and obedient?”
“Stars, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She waves you off, and you leave before you can change your mind.
Outside, the market stirs to life with colour and noise. The scent of salt and fruit and spice fills the air as fishermen arrange their catch and fabric merchants unfurl bolts of dyed silk to flutter in the breeze. Shopkeepers shout over one another, offering baskets of ripe pomegranates, jars of preserved lemons, bundles of thyme and bay leaf, and combs cut from metal. You walk slowly past the stalls. A younger girl thrusts a petal-stained hand at you, offering a bundle of dried flowers with uncertain eyes. You buy it immediately.
Phainon appears eventually, as he always does. You find him standing just beyond a barrel of olives, his arms folded, posture loose. He wears no armour today, and there is no sword tucked into his belt. He only wears his simple shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a sardonic little smile on his lips.
“Is it dangerous to let the princess wander alone?” you ask when you reach him.
“More dangerous not to,” he quips.
You grin and link your arms together, pulling him with you. You share grapes and honey-coated figs. He dares you to out-bargain a spice merchant, and you do, though the old man throws in an extra pouch just for your smile. Phainon nearly gets pickpocketed by a boy no older than ten, and ends up giving him a coin anyway.
When you walk past the stalls selling sweet loaves of bread, some of the older women smile knowingly in your direction. One offers you a braided loaf of bread with lavender baked into the crust. Phainon insists on paying for it, and the baker swats his hand away.
“Let a soldier buy a gift for his princess,” Phainon says, exaggeratedly courtly.
“Buy it for your wife, then,” the old woman retorts, winking.
You leave with warm bread, a small jar of honey, and cheeks that refuse to cool.
Later, with the heat rising and the stalls beginning to close, you and Phainon slip away from the crowded square and walk down to the narrow, pebbled shoreline. The beach is quieter here, tucked behind a rise of sand and sea-worn grass. Pebbles clack underfoot as you both step closer to the water’s edge. You kick off your sandals, letting the cold saltwater lick at your ankles.
Phainon sits first, knees bent, arms draped across them. You lower yourself beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted back towards the endless stretch of sky. Your fingers graze his over the sand.
For a while, neither of you speaks. The wind plays with the hem of your skirt. A gull shrieks in the distance. Phainon says something, low and teasing, about kidnapping you onto a fishing boat and vanishing into a life of anonymity. You laugh. You tell him you’d hate the smell of fish guts, but your hand doesn’t leave his.
“I could stay like this forever,” you say eventually.
“I know.”
You look at him. “But I won’t, will I?”
“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”
It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.
“Princess!”
You both jolt at the voice—breathless, hurried, and too close. A maid stumbles over the rise behind you, skirts bunched in her hands, cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. When she spots you, her face nearly crumples with relief. “I’ve been looking everywhere,” she pants. “Please forgive me—there’s news. A messenger has come from the capital.”
You straighten at once. “From the king?”
She nods, still catching her breath. “He carries your father’s seal. He’s waiting at the manor.”
Behind you, Phainon has already risen. He’s gone silent again, every part of him falling back into his role: the guard, the shadow. You brush the sand from your dress, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The sea wind picks up, and suddenly, the morning is no longer yours. The world has come to collect you.
You trudge back to the manor, not bothering to fix your appearance. Let the messenger see you wild-eyed and wind-snared. Why should you care? Phainon’s offer of running away suddenly seems ironic, and you bite back the sudden laugh that bubbles up your throat. The maid rushes ahead, her slippers slapping unevenly against the stones, but you walk slower. Your feet drag through the fine grit that clings to your soles, and the humidity makes sweat bead at your temples.
Phainon doesn’t speak. He walks beside you at a careful distance, eyes forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You want to reach out, just once more, and say something small. But you don’t; if you do, you might not stop.
The manor gates loom up ahead, black iron wrapped in ivy, and beyond them, the sun-splashed courtyard where the roses are still in bloom. A shadow waits at the threshold. The messenger is tall and narrow-shouldered, dressed in the king’s colours—deep blue and silver—and he carries a leather satchel with the royal seal. His eyes flick over to you with the barest hint of surprise. You wonder if it’s the sand on your calves or the flush on your cheeks he notices first.
He bows. “Your Highness.”
“You’ve come a long way,” you say, dipping your chin, just slightly.
“I bring a letter from the king,” he says. He extends the sealed parchment, and you take it with hands you hope don’t shake. The wax glints blood-red in the afternoon sunlight, imprinted with the crest you’ve seen since childhood, familiar and final all at once.
You break the seal with the nail of your thumb. The parchment unfolds stiffly, the script inside unmistakable. Your father’s hand: ornate, precise, and devoid of warmth.
The prince of Castrum Kremnos is to arrive at the capital in two weeks’ time. His arrival must be met with the dignity and preparation befitting our kingdom and future alliance. You are to return immediately and make the necessary arrangements.
You are not to delay. Your presence is required.
— By Order Of The Crown.
(You glance at Phainon, stricken, wanting nothing more than his arms to wrap around you and soothe away the tension in your shoulders like he’d told you he would last night.)
iii). If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.
The prince of Castrum Kremnos looks rather like a brute: long, messy hair, bright golden eyes that rake over your face, robes the colour of red rubies, and strong arms that look like they could crush a boulder. Yet, when he takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your knuckles, his fingers are gentle.
“Princess,” he says, after he straightens up. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”
You tilt your head to the side in greeting. “Welcome to our kingdom, Prince Mydeimos. I trust your journey here was pleasant.”
He smiles, and his eyes gleam like coins freshly struck. “Long,” he replies, “but not unpleasant. I do hope it will have been worth the ride.”
You withdraw your hand with care, suppressing the urge to wipe it against your skirts. Behind you, the courtiers shift in interest. Somewhere near the dais, your father watches with thinly veiled satisfaction, his expression the mirror of a man who has already counted his gain.
“Mydeimos,” he says, voice echoing throughout the hall. “We are pleased to host you. You must be tired. I’m sure my daughter will be happy to show you the gardens after you’ve had a moment to rest.”
“If it pleases you, I’d be glad to give the prince a tour,” you say, schooling your expression.
“Excellent,” the king says. “Then it’s settled.”
Mydeimos’ golden gaze flicks to you again, appraising. “I would be honoured.”
The moment the two of you step past the threshold of the great hall, into the quieter, sun-warmed corridor beyond it, it feels like slipping out of a costume. The marble walls hush the sounds of courtly interest behind you, and the breeze filtering in from the open arches smells faintly of lemon blossoms.
You lead him in silence for a while. Mydeimos falls into step beside you without complaint. His presence is large, but not overbearing, his footsteps heavy but measured. The sword strapped to his back shifts slightly with every step, a quiet reminder of who—and what—he is.
When the garden gate swings open with a soft creak, you both step into a world of colour and calm: roses spilling over trellises, white hydrangea blooming in the shade, and the soft burble of the fountain in the centre where ducks often gather in the early morning.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, gaze trailing over the grounds. “Your kingdom is fond of beauty.”
You glance at him. “Is yours not?”
“We don’t have the same luxury of fertile grounds,” he says simply. “But we do what we can.”
You walk slowly towards the edge of the reflecting pool. Mydeimos stops beside a small cluster of marigolds, crouching to inspect one without plucking it. His fingers are rough, but he touches the petals with unexpected care.
“You know why I’m here,” he says after a moment. His voice is low but not unkind. “There is no sense pretending otherwise.”
“The alliance was finalised only weeks ago,” you say quietly. “My father moves fast.”
“He’s trying to protect what he can,” says Mydeimos. “And he thinks a marriage will keep the borders from collapsing.”
“He is probably right.”
He looks up at you. “That doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy it.”
“I have no interest in being your wife,” you say.
“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.
“My heart belongs to someone else,” you say, softer now, “though no one else knows. It’s… complicated.” If you are to be wed to this prince, he must, at least, know the truth.
To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff or sneer. He only nods once, slowly. “Then I won’t insult you by asking if it’s returned. But I will promise this: if we are forced into this arrangement, I will treat you with respect. I won’t make a mockery of you.”
There is something sincere in his voice, you think. Something lonely, too. “Thank you,” you say. “That’s more than I expected.”
He straightens up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I’d prefer to have a friend in this, if nothing else.”
You consider him—messy hair, calloused hands, and eyes like summer lightning—and nod. “I would like that very much.”
He smiles at you, this time less like a prince and more like a boy your age who has also had to grow up too fast. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “At least between us.”
“I suppose it is,” you agree, giving him a smile of your own. “Tell me about Castrum Kremnos, my new friend. I have never visited, though I’ve heard many things about it.”
Mydeimos turns towards the hedge-lined path, and you follow his lead, walking in slow, companionable silence for a few steps. “Many things,” he echoes with a dry laugh. “Let me guess—bleak stone cliffs, soldiers with no tongues, and children raised to fight?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the truth?”
“It’s not the whole truth,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “We do have cliffs, yes. Our mountains overlook the ocean, and the citadel sits high above the sea. It’s built into the rock itself. The wind there howls in the winter and makes you feel like you might be swept into the sea if you step too close to the edge. But in the spring… the fog rolls down like a veil, and everything smells of salt and wild herbs.”
You imagine it: the sound of crashing waves below stone towers, boys training with swords in the mist, women weaving thick wool in candlelit halls. You ask, “And the people?”
“Stubborn,” he replies. “Proud and practical. Not particularly good at small talk.”
You laugh at that. “I can’t imagine how you survived court, then.”
“Barely,” he admits, glancing at you sideways, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m adaptable, even if I’d rather be sparring or riding.”
You reach out to brush your hand against the soft lavender lining the path. The breeze stirs the petals and sends their fragrances trailing through the air. “I don’t think I expected you to have a sense of humour.”
“I’ve been told that a lot.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you laugh again, and this time it feels freer, lighter than it has in days. You almost forget that you had worried yourself sick over this man, feeling so ill at the prospect of marriage that you’d put yourself through a self-imposed exile. But it was worth it, you remind yourself, because you now know that Phainon is yours and you are his.
“I think we’ll get along just fine, Prince Mydeimos,” you say honestly.
He gives you a short, mock bow. “Then I’ve accomplished something today. Although… I have told you about my kingdom, boring as it may be. It is only fair that you tell me something about yourself, Princess.”
The path begins to curve back to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells begin to chime the hour.
“I am madly in love with my soldier,” you say, surprising even yourself with your candour.
He straightens, clearly startled—but not offended. If anything, he looks intrigued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, the tilt of his head more thoughtful than disapproving. “That,” he says slowly, “is quite the answer.”
You don’t flinch, though your cheeks warm. You lift your chin and meet his gaze squarely. “I assumed you wanted honesty.”
“I did,” he admits. “Though I expected a more… diplomatically evasive kind of honesty.”
“I’ve had enough of diplomacy for today,” you say. “You asked who I am. That is who I am.”
Mydeimos studies you for a long moment. “Does he know?”
“Yes,” you say. “But it changes nothing.”
You expect a sigh, a frown, some bitter commentary on alliances and duty. Instead, he hums, low and contemplative. “Then he must be brave. Or foolish. Or both.”
“He’s many things.” You smile faintly. “Brave among them.”
“I won’t ask who he is,” Mydeimos says. “It doesn’t matter to me, and I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for either of us to say more than we already have.”
You nod in agreement. He offers you his arm, and you place your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” you murmur.
“For what?”
“For not being angry.”
“Ah.” His mouth quirks. “I might be. Later. In private. When I’m alone and wondering what sort of fool I’ve been made into. But right now, I think I quite like you.”
You don’t suppress your grin as you walk in silence back through the hedge gate. It is a tentative friendship, not created out of roses and vows, but made out of something oddly sturdier—honesty in the face of expectation, and the quiet understanding between two people playing parts in a story neither of them wrote.
(“Well, Princess,” Phainon says later, when you make your way back to your chambers. “What do you think about the prince of Castrum Kremnos?”
“Must we talk about this here?” you ask, rolling your eyes with fond exasperation.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”
“He is perfectly agreeable, Phainon, but he is not you.”)
The corridors of the palace are quieter in the late evening, steeped in amber torchlight and the sounds of the servants returning to their quarters. You move swiftly, the hem of your gown caught up in your hands to keep it from dragging on the stone. Phainon walks a pace behind you, silent but solid, a shadow at your back that warms rather than frightens.
You slip through an archway that leads into the west wing—a part of the palace few use, half-forgotten in the shuffle of royal life. It’s not entirely abandoned, but it’s private enough. The corridor ends in a small vestibule with high, narrow windows and an alcove half-swallowed by trailing ivy from the outside garden wall. It is, in essence, a hidden corner of stone and moonlight.
You turn to face Phainon as soon as you’re sure you’re alone, chest rising with the breath you’ve been holding in all day. “We only have a few minutes.”
He doesn’t ask if it’s a good idea. He doesn’t ask if you should be here. He simply steps forward, steady and certain, and brings his hand to your cheek.
“I hated seeing you walk beside him,” Phainon murmurs.
“I know.” You lean into his touch. “But I had no choice. My father expects—”
“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”
There is nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant chatter of wind through the ivy. His forehead rests gently against yours. His fingers graze your wrist, and even that is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your chin up, and he kisses you, soft at first, slow and sure. Your hands twist in the fabric of his tunic, and—
You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon.
You jolt back as if burned, heart leaping to your throat. Phainon instinctively moves in front of you, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade out of habit, until he realises who stands at the edge of the corridor.
Prince Mydeimos leans against the archway, arms folded across his broad chest. His golden eyes gleam in the dim light—far more amused than angry. “Well,” he says lightly, “I was looking for the stables. Imagine my surprise.”
Neither of you speaks. Phainon tenses like a drawn bow, and you feel your shame blooming hot across your cheeks.
But Mydeimos raises one hand, palm outward. “Relax. If I was going to cry treason, I’d have done it already.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, soldier, you’re either very bold or very stupid.”
Phainon doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you want to soothe his skin with your thumb.
“Mydeimos,” you begin, voice low, “please—”
“Don’t worry,” the prince interrupts. “I’m not here to tattle like a child. I told you before—I like honesty.” He looks between the two of you. “And this… this is honest, isn’t it?”
You nod slowly.
Mydeimos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. It complicates things, but I suppose it makes my position easier to refuse when the council starts pushing for wedding dates.”
You blink. “You’re not going to—?”
“No,” he says, smiling a little. “I may be considered one of the best warriors around, and not very well-versed in matters of the heart, but I know enough, Princess.”
Phainon finally speaks. “You won’t tell?”
Mydeimos shrugs. “It’s not my secret to tell. But if you value her, soldier, you’d better be careful. The king may be blind, but the court is not.”
The prince disappears with a rustle of his cloak and a low whistle trailing behind him, as though he really means what he said—that he won’t tell. The corridor grows quiet again; the lack of his presence leaves behind a vacuum. You don’t move. Phainon does. He steps away from you, the warmth of his body vanishing as if a door has slammed shut between you both. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and when he finally speaks, it’s not the softness you’re used to—it’s something harsher, brittle and breaking.
“You can’t let him do that.”
“What?” you say, disoriented.
“You should’ve stopped him.” He turns to face you fully now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You should’ve told him the truth—that you’ll marry him. That it was just a mistake. That this—” he gestures between you, his voice rising—“whatever this is, it ends now.”
The words knock the breath out of your lungs. “Phainon—what are you saying?”
“You can’t let him call off the engagement because of us,” he says.
“He said he doesn’t want to marry me if I don’t want to,” you argue, stepping towards him. “He said he understood—”
“He’s being kind!” Phainon shouts. “Because he’s honourable! Because he’s giving us a chance to walk away before this escalates any further!”
“You want to walk away?”
“I want you safe,” he says. “This is not safety. This is selfishness. We are selfish. Do you think I don’t want you? Gods, I want you more than I want to breathe. But if it means your father sees your reputation torn apart in court, if it means Castrum Kremnos turns its fleets away and innocent people die on the borders, then yes. I want to walk away.”
“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.
“I’m not!” he bites back. “I’m as guilty as you are. But you’re the princess. You’re the one they’ll parade down the aisle and pin like a jewel to someone’s throne. Not me. I’m just the stupid son of some village baker with a sword. I was never supposed to climb through your window all those years ago.”
“You don’t get to decide that!” You push past him, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like this is just a lapse in judgement. You don’t get to—to kiss me and hold me and touch me, and—and then just run the moment something happens!”
“I’m trying to protect you!” he yells.
“Then stop pretending it’s about me,” you say. “Stop lying and admit it. You’re scared.”
Phainon freezes. “Of course I’m scared,” he says, low and bitter. “You think I want to watch you marry another man? You think I want to hear the bells ring and know you’re standing at an altar I’ll never be allowed near? I want to kill every man who’s ever looked at you the way I do. But I don’t, because I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m nothing. I’m a sword in your father’s army. That’s all I’ve ever been.”
You’re shaking now, rage and grief tangled together so tightly you can barely breathe. “Then why did you ever touch me?” Your voice breaks. “Why did you let me fall in love with you?”
He lifts his eyes to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper of war-torn resolve. “Because I thought—just once, I thought—that maybe the gods had made a mistake.”
“Then fall out of love with me,” you whisper, venomous and hurt. “Go ahead. If it’s for the kingdom, if it’s for the people—fall out of love with me, Phainon. And I’ll fall in love with Mydeimos like I’m supposed to. I’ll do my duty.”
Phainon’s face crumples. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Princess.”
You square your shoulders. You don’t cry. You won’t give him that. “I mean every word.”
(You cry and cry and cry yourself to sleep that night, streaks of saltwater running down your cheeks and your nose. The next morning, there is a different guard standing outside your doors.)
“Do you find this banquet particularly riveting, Princess?” Mydeimos nudges your shoulder, with the same ease he has shown you since your friendship.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts by the touch of his shoulder against yours. The ballroom is a blur of warm candlelight, colourful gowns, and laughter that sounds too bright to match your current state of mind. You haven’t tasted a single bite of the feast. You haven’t truly slept since that night with Phainon. Your eyes flick towards the far end of the hall—towards the empty space near the guards’ post, where he should be. But he’s not there.
He hasn’t been anywhere.
“Sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Clearly,” says Mydeimos, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been singing a ballad to you for the last five minutes. You didn’t even flinch when I rhymed ‘goblet’ with ‘sorbet’.”
That earns the faintest laugh from you. Mydeimos doesn’t push more than that. Instead, he reclines back slightly in his chair and surveys the grand room as if it’s a chessboard. “I have been thinking lately,” he says.
“A wonderful feat, Prince,” you tease him, and he smiles, just once, quickly.
“Indeed. But I have been thinking about how strange it is… how much power we let titles have.”
“You’re a prince,” you say, glancing at him.
He lifts a shoulder. “Precisely. And yet, I didn’t choose it. I didn’t earn it. I was born with a crown on my name and a sword in my hand and told the world would make way for me.” He takes a sip from his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood amidst gold. “Meanwhile, I’ve seen men sharper than any general be dismissed because they didn’t speak with the right accent. I’ve seen women with more grace than any noble be cast out because their blood wasn’t ‘clean’ enough for court.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell the council about me and Phainon?” you ask.
Mydeimos doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, eyes glinting with something far more serious than his usual jesting nature. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t tell them because I don’t believe love should be a privilege reserved for the highborn. And because… I don’t think either of you deserves to be punished for wanting something honest in a world this rotten.”
You drop your gaze to the still-full plate in front of you, food long gone cold, because your appetite has vanished. “You really think it’s honest? Even when it hurts so much?”
“I think,” Mydeimos says, “that anything worth wanting is bound to hurt. But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
The music swells again, a string quartet weaving a lively melody as men and women line up to dance.
“Come, Princess,” Mydeimos says, offering you a hand. “We must salvage what little enjoyment is left in this banquet, don’t you think?”
You look down at his extended palm, hesitant, and then place your hand in his. His grip is warm. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom, where nobles glide like swans across the marble. The music swells into a sweeping waltz, ornate and majestic, like everything else in this place: grand and golden and only beautiful if you don’t observe too closely. You don’t look for Phainon this time. It already hurts too much.
Mydeimos settles one hand against the curve of your back, the other clasping yours. He moves with a grace that belies his broad demeanour, not stiff like the courtiers who danced only to be noticed, but smooth, fluid, as though music lives in his bones. You let yourself be led, each step a distraction from the turbulence in your head.
“My mother used to dance like this,” Mydeimos murmurs. “Always a bit too fast. My father used to say she was trying to outrun the court.”
You glance up at him. He’s watching the crowd, not you. “She sounds wonderful,” you say.
“There are few things court life respects less than a woman who defied expectation,” he says, eyes flicking to the high dais where the elder lords sit. “Fewer still who remembered her for more than the silks she wore.”
“Your mother was… Gorgo, wasn’t she? Didn’t they call her the Sapphire Princess?”
“Yes. For her eyes. Never for the fact that she broke a treaty engagement and nearly started a civil war because she refused to be sold off like cattle.”
“She was supposed to marry the northern lord, wasn’t she?” you ask.
Mydeimos nods, spinning you gently in between phrases of the music before returning you to him. “She was betrothed to the very man whose army threatens your borders now. But then came my father—Eurypon, the commander of the Castrum Kremnos army. He was a war hero, but he was common-born, and entirely unacceptable for that fact.”
You smile softly. “But she chose him.”
“She did,” he says, gaze finding yours, “and nearly lost everything for it. Her father threatened exile. The court was scandalised. Yet… they married. Their stations were close enough—barely—that it could be spun as political, not romantic. She reminded the court that without Eurypon’s army, her home kingdom of Argyros would have fallen to siege three winters earlier.”
You’re quiet, absorbing this. “She married for strength?”
“She married for conviction,” he says. “And she gambled her kingdom on it. My father was no noble, but he was necessary, and sometimes, that’s all the crown cares about.”
You close your eyes, your mind reeling with ideas now, after Mydeimos told you about his parents. “Phainon, he—he told me he was going to be the commander of the royal guard one day. It was his dream. Master Gnaeus is fond of him, certainly, but he cannot let favouritism come in the way of electing the new captain.”
Mydeimos’ eyes twinkle. “How convenient that you have one of the most skilled warriors of the nation visiting your court, then, Princess.”
(The banquet is not over yet, but you excused yourself early and now, you search for Phainon. You walk fast at first, then break into a near-run, your slippers skidding slightly on the polished stone floors as you hurry down the palace corridors. Your heart thunders louder than the orchestra ever could. You don’t entirely know where you’re going—but your feet do.
Phainon is not on duty tonight, but there are places he goes when he wants to be alone. Places even the guards forget; places he showed you when you were young and guileless. You remember them all.
You find him behind the old watchtower in the eastern wing, where the wall juts out just enough to be missed unless you know to look. The alcove is dim, lit only by moonlight slanting through the high windows. He stands there with his back to you, armour unbuckled and resting on the stone bench beside him. He’s in a plain shirt now, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed.
For a moment, you simply look at him, relief and frustration warring inside you. “Phainon,” you call.
He stiffens, and doesn’t turn. “Go back, Your Highness.”
You ignore the sting in his voice, the distance in it. “I will,” you say, “after you listen to me.”
“I have nothing left to say.” Phainon moves to reach for his armour, but you step forward, blocking his path.
“Then you’ll listen out of duty,” you snap. “If not to me, then to the princess of your kingdom, who is issuing you a command.”
Slowly, Phainon lifts his eyes to yours. The anger in them is subdued, like embers glowing between ash, but it is there. “Is that what we are now?” he says bitterly. “Orders and rank?”
“You told me, once,” you say, “that you were going to become the captain of the royal guard.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” you say. “Everyone knows you are the top candidate for the next position, but Master Gnaeus cannot let his affection for you and me affect his decision-making. If you were to become the captain of the royal guard, then we—” You stop yourself there. “You have a chance now, Phainon. Mydeimos is here, and the court is already restless with the border skirmishes from the north. If war comes, they will need strength. They will need leadership.”
He shakes his head, turning away again. “They’ll never choose me. I’m no one.”
“Then make them choose you. Challenge Mydeimos to a duel.”
“Are you insane?” he says.
“I’m serious,” you say. “He’s a prince, yes, but he respects strength. And the court does, too. If you defeat him—or even come close—they’ll have no choice but to remember you. There are other ways we can secure this alliance, Phainon. And if you become the captain of the royal guard, they cannot say anything about us staying together, because our ranks will be nearly equal.”
Phainon ducks his head and curses under his breath. Then, he looks up at you, and his anger cracks. “You think I can survive fighting a prince and the court?”
“If there is anyone who can, it is you.”)
Dawn has barely begun to stretch across the horizon, but the court is already assembled around the patch of training grounds used as a sparring ring. Nobles in rich brocades and glinting jewels watch from the colonnades, expressions schooled into polite interest or thinly veiled dread. The dew has not yet dried from the stone, and a thin mist curls around the edges of the courtyard, ghostlike.
There is no music, no fanfare; there is only the rustle of silk and the occasional murmur of speculation passed behind a gloved hand. The duel is not public in the usual sense—no civilians, no celebration—but it is undeniably a performance. Every glance, every breath, every footfall will be judged.
On the eastern platform, the king watches from his elevated seat, robed in black and silver, his crown slipping down his forehead. His expression is as if it is carved from stone. You stand just beneath him, close enough to hear the way his ringed fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, right next to Master Gnaeus. You force your spine straight, your expression passive, but your nails leave crescent-shaped indents on your palms. You are not allowed to show favour here: not for Mydeimos, the foreign prince and your suitor; and certainly not for Phainon, your oldest friend, your hidden heart, and your last defiance.
The rules were made clear the moment Phainon approached the council chambers and issued the challenge. If Mydeimos wins, the alliance will be sealed by marriage between him and you. Phainon will be exiled for insubordination and interference in royal affairs.
If Phainon wins, the alliance will be negotiated through trade and defense treaties instead of marriage. He will be named the next captain of the royal guard, by merit and recognition.
At the far end of the ring, Phainon steps forward first.
He is silent, face unreadable beneath the steady press of expectation. His silver-white hair is tied back, his armour plain but fitted with care—worn in places, the leather softened from use. He carries no insignia. The hilt of his sword glints at his back, catching the early sun in flashes as he moves with calm, deliberate steps to the centre of the ring. He does not look at you.
On the opposite end, Prince Mydeimos arrives with significantly more fanfare. His entrance is flanked by two of his personal guards, though they peel away before he enters the sparring ground alone. He is dressed in deep crimson, edged in gold, and his armour is polished to an almost absurd shine. His twin swords rest easily at his hips, curved slightly and sheathed in scabbards inlaid with foreign script.
Phainon does not extend a hand. Mydeimos doesn’t seem surprised. They say nothing, but they bow their heads as the king rises. The hush that falls over the courtyard is instantaneous. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort.
“Let the court bear witness to this sanctioned duel—its terms already set, and its consequences clear. Combatants, you will fight until surrender or incapacitation. Death is forbidden.”
He motions for Master Gnaeus to step forward, and that old man, with his father-like fondness towards you and Phainon, calls out: “Begin.”
Just like that, the world narrows down to two figures moving swiftly across stone.
Phainon moves first—not charging, but closing the distance quickly, decisively, blade angled low. Mydeimos watches him, lips curling into a faint grin, before drawing one sword and blocking the first strike with a clean, practiced motion.
Steel meets steel, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard.
The duel begins as a dance of testing: quick jabs, dodges, parries. Mydeimos is faster, his footwork more fluid, spinning lightly on the balls of his feet with the ease of someone trained since birth for pageantry and power. But Phainon is relentless. He fights like a soldier, not a showman, waiting for Mydeimos to overextend.
They are matched blow for blow, sword ringing against sword, the courtyard captivated by the clash of wills. Dust rises around them in golden clouds, sun now creeping past the pillars and spilling onto the marble arches.
Mydeimos breaks the rhythm first. He feints left, then spins behind Phainon and lands a glancing strike across his shoulder. Phainon stumbles but does not fall. He turns, grits his teeth, and retaliates with a blow that Mydeimos barely manages to deflect. Sweat beads on their brows. Blood blooms through Phainon’s tunic where the blade cut—but he doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He ducks low, aiming a swipe at Mydeimos’ legs, but the prince leaps back, laughing under his breath.
“You’re better than I expected,” Mydeimos says through panted breaths. “But is it enough?”
Phainon does not answer. Instead, he drops his centre of gravity, shifts his stance, and surges forward.
There is a moment—barely more than a blink—when everything shifts. Mydeimos lifts both swords in a cross-guard, but Phainon’s strike doesn’t aim for the swords. It aims just past them—forcing Mydeimos to twist, exposing his side—and Phainon slams his elbow into the prince’s ribs, making him grunt in surprise and pain. Mydeimos staggers. One of the blades flies from his hands.
Phainon doesn’t let up. He drives forward, his movements tighter now, every swing more urgent. Mydeimos parries one more strike, two—but his footing is off. He is sweating hard, slower than he was.
Phainon knocks the last sword from Mydeimos’ hand. Then, he levels his blade at the prince’s throat.
You realise you’re holding your breath when Master Gnaeus steps forward again and announces, “The duel is complete. The victor: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a member of the royal guard.”
Cheers do not erupt. The court is too stunned for that. But murmurs rise, and heads turn. Even the king’s eyebrows raise fractionally.
Mydeimos stares at the sword pointed at his neck, then raises his hands in surrender. Surprisingly, he laughs—just once, rich but tired. He steps back, out of reach, and bows. “Well played,” he says. “I hope you make a fine captain, soldier.”
Phainon lowers his blade.
You do not move. You can’t—not when every gaze is trained on him. Not when the weight of the court settles like lead on your shoulders, pressing into your chest until your lungs feel tight. Phainon looks up, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes find yours. There is a flicker there—just a flicker—of something that is soft, meant for you and you alone. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s a promise. A plea.
But he does not reach for you. Not with the king mere steps above. Not with nobles whispering into goblets and adjusting their gem-encrusted jewellery. Master Gnaeus is already striding forward to escort him from the ring, murmuring something low that you cannot hear.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. You imagine what it would feel like to run to him, to place your hand against the scrape on his cheek and whisper, “You did it,” over and over again into the space between his breaths. But you cannot.
So instead, you force your hands into stillness and let your eyes speak in the language you’ve both learnt too well: restraint; longing.
Phainon holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than wise. Then two. Then, with the barest incline of his head—a bow meant for the crown, but perhaps tilted just slightly in your direction—he turns and follows Gnaeus from the ring.
You remain in place. Behind you, the king speaks, announcing the revised terms of the alliance. There is clapping. The courtiers resume their performance of diplomacy. You follow Mydeimos back into the palace.
(“Tell me the truth, Prince Mydeimos,” you say. “Did you lose to Phainon on purpose?”
Mydeimos blinks, then lets out a soft, almost wounded laugh. You’re alone now, or close enough. The colonnade is empty but for the afternoon sun hanging high above your heads and the low hum of distant music echoing from the feast halls. Mydeimos leans against a stone pillar, arms folded, his tunic stained from the duel and a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.
“Do you really think I would do that?” he asks, looking at you not with offense, but with something quieter. “Throw a duel in front of the entire court? Humiliate myself in front of your father, the king, and the council, when I am a guest in your kingdom?”
You don’t answer.
He sighs, pushing himself off the pillar and taking a few steps short steps closer. “Your soldier bested me. That is the truth of it. I didn’t expect him to fight like that.”
“Mydeimos—” you start, but words fail you. What can you even say, that would be kind to this mighty prince from a mighty kingdom, but also your gentle friend, who promised he would treat you well even if the marriage were to go through?
“I didn’t lose on purpose,” he says again, gentler this time. “But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” He tilts his head, golden eyes studying yours. “No, I do not, Princess. It was an honour to fight against such a skilled warrior. I meant what I said—he will make a fine captain of your guard.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you, Mydeimos.”
“Hush, now,” Mydeimos says with a chuckle. “Friends do not thank each other for such trivial things.”)
Your father summons you to the throne room before the court meets the next morning. Mistress Calypso untangles your hair and pats your cheek, and tells you to not keep him waiting.
The throne room is nearly empty at this hour—quiet, hollow, the banners of the kingdom fluttering faintly in the stale wind. Light from the high windows spills across the polished floor, catching on the familiar stained glass windows. You walk with steps too loud and a heart beating even louder.
The king sits alone on the throne. There are no courtiers, no scribes, and no guards, save for two flanking the doors behind you. There is only your father, his crown placed on his lap and his shoulders wrapped in a robe, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The moment you bow, he speaks—not with rage, but with something closer to weariness.
“I would’ve rather heard the truth from your mouth than have to pry it from a sword fight,” he says.
You keep your head bowed. “I did not think it would change anything.”
“You’re my daughter,” he says. “You’re the heir to a kingdom and the last piece of a woman I loved more than life itself. Of course it would’ve changed something.”
Silence stretches like a shadow between you. Then, in a voice that surprises you with how small it sounds, he adds, “Do you think me such a tyrant that I would barter your happiness away without care?”
You glance up at him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were a season ago. “I only wished to protect the kingdom,” he continues. “You are smarter than I am, daughter, for you have done better than I in securing an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.”
“Father…” you trail off, unsure.
“I have not spoken of your mother to you,” he says, “and it is a great folly on my end. I have not been a good father to you, and she would despise me for it. She was wittier than any noblewoman who has ever graced this court, and ten times as beautiful. She was a commoner, yes, the daughter of a tailor, but she had fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.
“She used to say that fate is only a thing to curse when it doesn’t give you what you already knew you wanted. She would’ve liked Phainon. Gods help me, I think she would’ve told me to step aside and let you choose him.”
“But it was not in vain, father,” you interject. “Phainon was given the chance to prove himself and to the court that there is a reason why Master Gnaeus always favoured him.”
“Do you know,” he says, “the first thing your mother said to me? I was in disguise, wandering the markets, trying to discover the commonfolk’s woes in my kingdom. I had not been prince for long. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You walk like a farmer, but your boots are too clean. Who are you fooling, really?’ She never let me pretend to be anything less than I was.”
You allow yourself the tiniest smile. “She sounds like she would’ve terrified the court.”
“She did. And me, most of all.”
He looks down at the crown in his lap then—polished, heavy, too bright for the early hour. “I have worn this longer than I should’ve. My father died too soon. And I… I have tried not to repeat his mistakes, but I see now that I made different ones. I thought to guard you by turning you into a symbol. I forgot to see the girl who craved a parent’s love and had to learn how to stand taller than every man in this court, alone.”
“Father,” you begin, “I was never alone. I am everything I am now thanks to the people around me: Mistress Calypso’s motherly gentleness; Master Gnaeus’ fondness for me; Phainon’s steadfast, unwavering presence; and now, Mydeimos’ kind friendship. You have not been very kind to me, father, but I have more than sufficed with what I have.”
“I am sorry,” he says at last, swallowing hard. “For nearly binding your fate to someone your heart did not choose.”
“But I have chosen,” you say. “And Phainon has chosen me.”
He studies your face then. Not as a king studies an heir, but as a father studies a daughter grown too quickly—half pride, half sorrow. “Then may the gods bless what I nearly ruined,” he says, and rises from the throne with more effort than he shows. He places the crown back on his head, the gold glinting in the pale morning light.
“Let it be known,” he declares, “that the match was the Princess’ will, not mine. May the court know her judgement surpasses even my own.”
The throne room is full by the time the sun reaches its highest point, with courtiers and nobles lining the marble aisles in their finest dress. You stand beside the dais, dressed in formal regalia, but your hands are warm—not from nerves, but from where Phainon’s fingers briefly brushed yours beneath the folds of your robe when no one was looking. At the foot of the dais stands Master Gnaeus, his weathered face solemn but proud. Beside him, Phainon kneels, one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed.
“Rise, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” your father says, voice ringing clearly through the chamber.
Phainon stands. Sunlight cuts through the windows, catching on the dull bronze of his breastplate at the clean line of the sword at his hip.
“By the authority vested in me as sovereign,” the king continues, “and with the recommendation of Master Gnaeus himself, I name you Captain of the Royal Guard. May your sword be the shield of this kingdom, and your loyalty its unbreakable spine.”
Master Gnaeus steps forward. In his hands, he carries his old sword—notched from years of use, the hilt worn by time. “I have served three kings, and fought more battles than I care to count,” he says, placing the sword flat between his palms. “But I have never met a soldier with a truer heart than this one.” He turns to Phainon and holds the sword out. “I was a younger man when I carried this into battle. Now I give it to one younger still, but stronger, steadier, and far more stubborn.”
Phainon takes the blade, kneeling once more—not to the court, not even to the king, but to Master Gnaeus himself. You catch the gleam in his eyes as he rises. He meets your gaze across the floor, and the faintest smile passes between you like a shared secret.
Mydeimos steps forward next. Dressed in his ruby-red ceremonial garb, he bows to your father, then to you. “It is with honour that Castrum Kremnos finalises its alliance with your realm. But I would be remiss if I did not also speak personally.”
He glances at you, his gaze kind, if bittersweet. “Your Highness, thank you—for your companionship and your presence. You were never obligated to give me either. I have learned more than I expected, and I carry no bitterness at how things have turned out. In truth—” he turns his gaze to Phainon—“I look forward to fighting beside a warrior like you in the campaign against northern raiders. Your reputation, it seems, is well-earned.”
Phainon nods. “I look forward to having you at my side, Prince.”
The moment settles—a rare, rare peace shared between kingdoms and warriors and people who have each made their choices. Your father raises a hand.
“Let this court bear witness to the dawn of a new alliance,” he says, “and the beginning of a reign led not by fear or ambition, but by strength, and by choice.”
Cheers rise like a tide, and the stained glass above scatters the light like jewels across the floor. Phainon sidles over to your side, no longer covert, but open and proud. He leans ever so slightly closer.
(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.
You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)
iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.
There is a man inside your room.
He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.
“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”
You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.
Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”
“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”
“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”
You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”
“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”
“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”
“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”
You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”
You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”
He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.
a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.
He lacks firsthand experience in the bedroom, but you would have never known if you hadn't discussed this moment before it happened.
Xavier tucks your hair behind your ear and looks into your eyes, fully attentive and memorizing every answer as he asks about your preferences in bed, what you like best and if there's anything you're not comfortable with.
You smile when you ask him the same, wanting to know what he's interested in, what he'd like to explore. When your sweet boyfriend, flushed and honest, quietly admits to liking the idea of being dominant—of taking care of you.
I figured, you hum, and kiss him softly before whispering against his lips that you'd like that. You choose a safe word together, just in case you need to stop at any point, for any reason.
On a starry night after a nice dinner date, with the lamp in the corner of your bedroom dimmed by his shirt haphazardly thrown over the shade, a glass of water and lube on the bedside table and a pillow propped under your back, Xavier takes time to learn you completely, to map every inch of your skin.
Kissing every freckle, scar and stretch mark. Learning which flicks of his tongue make you tremble, how to suck just enough so your soft, strong Hunter's thighs tighten around his head.
And when he's as deep inside of you as he can get—hips flush together, forehead against yours, fingers entangled—that's when you see the specks of gold begin to dance around you.
The gentle light he subconsciously casts reverberates with each of his slow, deep thrusts, flickering with each groan he muffles against your neck. Soft, near silent whimpers breathe from his mouth into yours with each desperate, devoted kiss.
"Xavier," you whisper, nails digging gently into the nape of his neck, curling through his fluffy hair, and he moans. Quiet, intimate, a sound saved so long for your ears alone, and you watch as the entire expanse of his large body (perfect posture, gentle strength, curled around you to claim and protect) begins to glow.
He only gets brighter and brighter each time you clench around his throbbing cock, and you drip with your release every time he coaxes you through it. Lovingly, tugging you over the edge until you're falling, just so he can catch you, carry you down, and pull you back through it again.
You're reminded that Xavier is a talented musician by the way he plays you—beautifully, intricately, finding each spot to stroke and press against until you're singing for him, until you can't stop making that sweet music.
Each time your eyes roll back, you see that golden light pressing against your lids. You feel that solid, comforting weight of him against you as he whispers praise into your ear, your hips held steady in elegant fingers (leader, angel) and callused hands (killer, guardian).
So much of your love is still unknown, but when he's in your arms like this, when you've finally joined together in the most intimate of ways, he is golden and he is yours.
His face buries into your chest, planting sloppy kisses against your sweat-slicked skin. He looks up, face flushed and eyes dark with need that balances with sacrificial instinct, devotion that borders obsession, and consuming lust overshadowed only by the purest love.
And when he sees your lips parted with every sweet moan, lashes fluttering open to meet his gaze, the dim light of the room brightens with the golden glow of his skin when he cums deep inside you.
Xavier collapses on top of you after, chest heaving against yours, hips still lazily rolling to keep you stuffed with him. Each wave of overstimulation makes him glow a little brighter, and you're murmuring softly, your hands roaming over his shoulders and across his back.
When each wave of pleasure begins to ebb away, he hears every reverent word that falls, awestruck and breathless and utterly in love, from your pretty lips:
You're glowing, baby.
Look at you, so beautiful.
My sweet star, all mine.
He moans at that last one, mind going blank with pleasure and you (his love, his purpose, his guiding starlight), hips bucking forward and pulling a gasp from your throat.
You have to squint against the light he emits when he fucks up into you again, and again, his cum spilling out and soaking your sheets, making room to fill you up even more, until the morning light comes to replace his own.
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💖all fics: @frostbitten-cherry @asiatic-apple @heartyluv @floatinginaer @sweetcalebb @princessofenkanomiya @lazygelpen @deepspacebunnieblue @cherryartchaos @kireeen @stargirlygirl @draftbeerbibi @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @slovesyouuu @ineffabl-y @grlyeetswrld @toelady @asiaticapple
You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.
°➷ TETHERED - 3.7k
Heeseung loves you in the way storms love the shore. Hard, repeating and certain you’ll never change. You’ve tried to break free, but the leash is still there—in your thoughts, in your breath, in your silence when he calls. He never had to trap you because you always stayed.
➸ sunghoon hard thought masterlist
°➷ TENSION THEORY (ft. jake) - 33k
You were just Heeseung’s girlfriend’s cousin—quiet, polite, a little too naive for your own good. Then you met his friends. Now you’re in the middle of a spiraling mess of jealousy, bad decisions, emotional whiplash and two boys who treat boundaries like suggestions. Oops.
°➷ FRICTION PRINCIPLE (tension theory sequel) (ft. jake) - 45k
You thought things would calm down after the confessions, the crying, the sex. After fists were thrown and secrets dragged out into the open. But Jake is still mean, Sunghoon is still quiet, and now you're still stuck somewhere in the middle-aching for something that feels like love but tastes like possession.
➸ bonus chapter 1
➸ bonus chapter 2
°➷ SMOTHERLOVE - 2.7k
For some stupid reason, you thought letting your boyfriend fuck your best friend would be harmless—a weirdly selfless gift, nothing more. But when it breaks something in you, Sunghoon starts playing dirtier than ever. He says he did it for you, but now he won’t let you forget who he belongs to—or who you belong to.
➸ jay hard thought masterlist
°➷ PLAY THING (ft. jungwon) - 2k
You find yourself caught between two best friends, one losing control and the other taking it. In a night of blurred boundaries, everything shifts.
➸ jake hard thought masterlist
°➷TENSION THEORY (ft. sunghoon) - 33k
You were just Heeseung’s girlfriend’s cousin—quiet, polite, a little too naive for your own good. Then you met his friends. Now you’re in the middle of a spiraling mess of jealousy, bad decisions, emotional whiplash and two boys who treat boundaries like suggestions. Oops.
°➷ FRICTION PRINCIPLE (tension theory sequel) (ft. sunghoon) - 45k
You thought things would calm down after the confessions, the crying, the sex. After fists were thrown and secrets dragged out into the open. But Jake is still mean, Sunghoon is still quiet, and now you're still stuck somewhere in the middle-aching for something that feels like love but tastes like possession.
➸ bonus chapter 1
➸ bonus chapter 2
➸ jungwon hard thought masterlist
°➷ PLAY THING (ft. jay) - 2k
You find yourself caught between two best friends, one losing control and the other taking it. In a night of blurred boundaries, everything shifts.
