Imagine you being in a shitty relationship with your boyfriend, and suddenly the most popular guy in school / campus trying to break you guys up so he could have you
Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend
No way, no way, I think you need a new one
Hey, hey, you, you, I could be your girlfriend
HSR men x reader ( Dan heng, aventurine, Dr ratio, Blade, Jing yuan, Phainon, mydei )
<< May contain implied sexual themes or obsessive behavior with violence, be warned and viewers discretion is advised >>
DAN HENG
Those stereotypical cool and mysterious nerds type, in the back of your class where everyone is secretly fantasizing about. You never actually pay attention to him even tho both of you are neighbors in the same dorm building.
Every time you and your boyfriend argue which always leads him to leave, Dan heng would knock on your door to check if you are okay or not.
Would secretly sebotage your boyfriend and your relationship by messing up his schedule and his scholarship as well as relationship with the school. Wanting to kick him out, hacking his device and gaining important information about him
While also smooth talking and pretending to be the quiet savior you need, why stick with someone as pathetic with your boyfriend when you and him can be together. Hes better at everything than him.
SECRET NOTE : would send threats towards your boyfriend's phone making him fear going outside or be paranoid, while also putting a camera in your room to watch you. Meaning he can see everything that's going on. ;)
AVENTURINE
The heart throb of the school, one of the great looking guys at school and as well being part of the stone hearts, a group of students who are known to be elites, They have everything money, power and social class. Hes pretty approachable but there's always an air of unease everybody has told you because whenever or not aventurine wanna have something from you or he wants to use you, So people are advised to keep distance.
Aventurine is also known amongst the student population to possess immense luck and as well as his tendency to gamble, but recently his attention has been directed to you, making small talks with you and even asking help from you even tho there're better options.
Not to mention with the additional case of him spoiling you, from buying you lunch towards buying you shit that can pay for your dorm yearly, and as well as being physically touchy like swinging his arm around your shoulder when greeting you and making a glance towards your shitty boyfriend.
Even if you tried to reject his Advances since it's not appropriate, most people in your life say just to leave your boyfriend for aventurine, he absolutely found you adorable even if you tried to reject.
SECRET NOTE ; there's always an outline with him and your boyfriend as if your boyfriend fears him, as well as on how aventurine would sometimes send inappropriate gifts to you even if you're in a relationship. Like giving you a limited edition lingerie with a note "can't wait to see you wearing this for me"
VERITAS RATIO
An intimidating and star model student of your campus, literally everyone knows about him and his legendary academic achievement, people would say he even suppresses the professors in your campus in their profession.
Would take any chance he gets to humiliate your boyfriend, making a fool out of him. I mean this is a normal habit and every one will one day experience it if you don't meet his standard.
But when with you, he's gentle and willing to help you understand. I mean people may assume ratio is narcissistic but not in a sense he is, hes just very passionate about teaching people.
Every time you and him have lessons he would be gentle with you, he is soft and would move strands of hair if got into your face and put it behind your ear with the look of love, he would always ask questions about your relationship and when he noticed bruises on your arms you tryna cover up. You literally had to calm him down before he could do anything physical to your boyfriend.
SECRET NOTE : would sometimes be physically closed to you, like leading your hand with his body press up against you in the black board of the empty lecture hall And would whisper praised at your ears when you get something right.
BLADE
A literal walking red flag, everyone from students, close friends, professors and even locals warns you of him. Plus hes always not to be seen at campus and still manages to get passing grades. Even Dan heng warns you personally with seriousness and asks you to swear on it not to interact with him.
He's part of a group of well known students who get in trouble or have criminal connections in the underworld, some might say he's suicidal and work as an assassin during at night but it's just rumors ... Right?
Anyway the first interaction you had with him was when, your boyfriend had abandoned you in a mall front gate because he wants to go to a party while you don't so he ditched you, when you were waiting. A black car pulls up and the window rolls down revealing the tadaa... Blade.
He offers himself your ride home, during the car ride it was so awkward so you tried to start a conversation with him and why is he awake at this late when you look at your phone it was 3:12 am at night, he just simply replied with coming home from work. Even tho the silence was deafening you don't know whether or not you are seeing things but there's a small crack with blood at the far corner of the windshield
SECRET NOTE : after he drops you off at your dorm, you receive a message from the hospital saying that your boyfriend has gotten into an accident where a car slam into him and is now in critical condition, the police investigation saying that your boyfriend with a car that fits with blades car description
JING YUAN
The most beautiful and charming student council president that your campus has ever had in their hundred year old history, even tho he may seem lazy, he is diligent and beautiful in anyway. Some of your friends would say hes like a real life prince charming, Absolutely beautiful.
He seems to care a lot about you, always checking-in on your studies and is there when your boyfriend starts to act up in public.
Hes very touchy, he seems to always know where you are at anytime playing the prince charming role. At first it was romantic but the more you think of it, it starts to get suspicious. One time you were crying at the library at the far back your legs tuck in, suddenly a warm embrace engulfs your body it was Jing yuan.
He's pretty chill and as well has this habit of using your body as a pillow, basically when he gets sleepy and lay on your lap without your permission or concern on others watching. Every time you wanna say something he chuckled it off by not taking it seriously.
SECRET NOTE : you could tell that he's a pervert in some way, like how he's eyes would hide satisfaction every time when you cried as if he enjoyed seeing you relying on him. And one time when he's dozing off your lap and you were complaining about your recent fight, he said out of the blue "why don't you just drop that piece crap for me, I'm sure I can satisfy you unlike that waste of good exhaustion" and go back to sleep leaving you stunned from the comment
PHAINON
The Golden boy of your college, everyone seems to love and wants to be friends with him. I mean he comes from a wealthy family, great physics ( I mean look at that bod ), amazing personality and good grades.
People would say that his invisible tail would wag every time he found you, spinning you around like how a puppy is so happy finally finding its favorite toy.
Literally despise your boyfriend, he did not even try to hide it offering suggestions to just break up with him. This leads towards many public fights with him and your boyfriend.
As well as leaving flirty comments 24/7 on you saying how beautiful you are and as well how he's eyes always on you no matter what you are doing like as if your the most beautiful creature in the planet. Same as Jing yuan he's very touchy to the point being physically and emotionally upset when he gets to split up from you
SECRET NOTE : during lunch you hear there's a fight happening in the courtyard and when you arrive you see your boyfriend being literally beat up to a pulp by phainon blood everywhere and as well as a broken nose, he seems to not even be conscious during this time and many students tried to hold back phainon but once a teacher arrive and escorted him, he saw your figure amongst the crowd and send you an intoxicating smile saying that he has no regrets beating the shit out of your boyfriend.
MYDEI
Club president of the cooking club and as well as being the heir of a big shot company at Castum Kremnos there's a rumor of him being the exiled crown prince due to misbehaving but it's just a rumor, every girl in your campus seems to agree that he would make a great house husband.
I mean who wouldn't agree he cooks, he's respectful, Good with kids, great family background and beautiful plus perfect facial features and a body as if being shaped by the Gods.
He may seem intimidating but people swear that he has a good heart, even phainon seems to be fond of him always talking about how mydei is so great and a worthy rival.
Originally it was so awkward between you and him but once you get through that phase he seems to be so kind and caring for you, and as well as inviting you towards the cooking club and comforting people when you usually walk in on you and him who was having a discussion would assume it was a date. Literally hates your boyfriend he seems to have more restraint then phainon when it comes to violence.
SECRET NOTE : He and phainon seem to always be around you literally, they move into your friend group just to spend more time with you. People and friends would joke around about how you have two Big hound dogs watching over you. Plus they are attentive taking care of you 24/7 to the point people would assume you broke up with your boyfriend and entered into a poly relationship
SYNOPSIS: Penacony is riddled with rumours about infighting within The Family, resulting in Penaconians and tourists to question the stability of the Dreamscape and whether the Five Great Lineages are actually ‘harmonious’. As a solution, the Dreammaster assigns you—Third to the Iris Family Head—to marry Sunday, the revered Head of the Oak Family. A symbolic pair meant to embody harmony within The Family and refute hearsay.
Beneath the spectacle, however, lies unresolved affection, quiet hesitation, and the painful question of whether your ‘perfect’ marriage is merely performance—or something real.
CONTENT WARNING: arranged marriage, halovian!reader, actress!reader, reader is referred to as miss & mrs, loosely follows canon lore, fluff, angst, SLOW BURN, one sided pining but eventually turns to mutual pining, requited unrequited love, childhood friends, forbidden lovers if you squint, petname (my love), OCs mentioned, plot with p*rn, smut (mdni), virgin!sunday, masturbation (m), body worship if you squint, guided fingering, virginity loss (m), p in v, creampie, sunday cums a lot lol, not beta read.
WORD COUNT: 22,994
NOTES: this is prob the most slowburn fic i’ve ever written >< sunday fic for my birthmonth hehe enjoy!! div: diviniyae
Moment of Morning Dew
The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.
Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.
Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.
It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.
Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.
“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.
Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.
Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.
“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.
You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.
Dangerous words which challenged The Family.
But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.
Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more.
“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”
The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.
“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.
Silence fell.
If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.
Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.
A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.
Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.
Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.
There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.
But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?
With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.
You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.
“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”
The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”
At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.
“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.
The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.
“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.
His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.
“The Dreamscape needs stability.”
That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.
Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.
“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak,
“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”
“. . That’s not what I asked.”
Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.
“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.
You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.
Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”
But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”
A gentle threat wrapped in silk.
You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.
Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.
“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.
“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”
You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”
Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”
“Then think of this as your most important role.”
At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.
Moment of Golden Hour
Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.
On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.
Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.
“I thought you might be here.”
The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.
“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”
Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.
“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.
“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”
As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,
“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.
A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.
“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”
It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.
“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.
“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”
Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.
“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”
“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”
“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”
“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.
Sunday nodded, “Yes.”
You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.
Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.
“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”
Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.
“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”
Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t.
Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”
Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”
Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.
There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.
“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver.
Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”
You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.
“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.
Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.
Moment of Morning Dew
Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.
Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.
But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.
There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . . fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.
Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.
The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.
“Hold still, please.”
A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.
“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.
Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.
The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional.
“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”
The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.
“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.
“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.
“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.
“Perfect.” She breathed out.
Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.
The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.
“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?”
Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.
As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.
“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.”
Of course.
“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.
Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.
“. . It suits you.” He said at last.
You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”
“You expected more?”
“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”
“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.
You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.
You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”
Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.
“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”
His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”
Whatever that meant
Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.
“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”
You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”
“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?
“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”
Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.
Moment of Blue Hour
After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.
The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.
The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”
The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.
Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.
The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event.
Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.
The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.
And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.
The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real
Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.
“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”
Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.
“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,
“You may now kiss the bride.”
As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.
This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.
You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.
And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.
“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.
Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.
You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.
Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.
You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.
Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.
The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.
You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.
Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.
Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.
After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.
“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.
You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.
“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”
With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.
A confession veiled as a lie.
You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.
Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.
“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”
You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”
Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.
“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”
He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”
Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.
This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.
“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.
Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.
Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.
Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.
But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.
Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)
A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.
“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”
The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.
Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .
The very room both of you stood in.
You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.
“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”
“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”
You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?
“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.
“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”
He had a point.
“And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.
“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.
You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.
A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.
Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.
Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.
Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.
Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.
Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.
Yeah, this seemed about right.
He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.
“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.
“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.
His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.
Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”
Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.
As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.
Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.
“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.
“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.
“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.
A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.
Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.
Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.
For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.
Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.
Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.
Moment of Morning Dew
“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”
“Indeed.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”
“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”
Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.
It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.
The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.
How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.
Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script.
And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.
“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”
Moment of Golden Hour
Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.
“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.
He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”
You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.
You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.
“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.
At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”
With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.
There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.
Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.
Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.
You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”
Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”
“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.
Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”
“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.
Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.”
“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.
In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”
“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.
Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.
“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.
After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.
You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.
“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”
“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”
“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.
“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.
Without another word, you leaned over and pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.
On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.
“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”
As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?
“Why don’t we just do a smile?”
Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.
“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.
The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”
You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.
As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.
“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.
The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.
You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.
Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.
But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.
Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.
A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.
“Are you quite alright?”
Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”
You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”
Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.
Moment of Sol
“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.
Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.
During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.
It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”
Clap!
The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.
Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.
He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name.
Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either.
Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.
“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—”
As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.
Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?
With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.
Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face
It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.
“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”
Clap!
Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.
Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.
This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”
With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.
“You did well, my love.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”
“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,
“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.
He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.
Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.
“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—
Whatever.
“I love you.”
Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?
“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.
Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!
You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more.
The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.
The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)
Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.
Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.
The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon.
For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.
11 system hours later
Ri█—ng!
█Rin█g!
Ring!
At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.
Mr. Oti Alfalfa
Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”
“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”
“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.
“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”
At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?
There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters.
It made you somewhat uneasy.
“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”
With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.
Moment of Morning Dew
The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.
There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal.
Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.
Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well?
“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.
“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.
Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . . I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.
The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,
“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”
You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say?
It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.
Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.
No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing.
Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for?
You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.
“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.
You knew what was coming next.
Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”
“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”
You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”
Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?
“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”
Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”
“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”
You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.
“No.”
Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”
He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.
After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.
Moment of Golden Hour
“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?”
“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”
Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.
He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.
The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"
Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.
“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”
“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.
“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.
This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.
“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.
“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.
“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”
“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”
“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.
“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.
“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”
Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.
“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”
“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.
“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”
3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia
“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”
As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.
“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.
Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.
Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—
She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.
“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.
The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”
It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.
Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.
“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.
“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.
Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”
After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet he was completely speechless.
Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then.
However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.
Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.
With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.
You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.
This wasn’t good.
A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?
Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.
Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.
As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.
Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.
Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly.
“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”
In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.
Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.
The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.
He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.
A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.
A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.
His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.
Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.
“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”
Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.
You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.
He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.
But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.
It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you.
Badly.
He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.
This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.
Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.
At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.
Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.
Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.
As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.
Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.
But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.
The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.
A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.
He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.
“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.
The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.
There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.
Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.
For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.
You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.
The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.
And yet it was still him—your Sunday.
“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.
“So are you.” You breathed out.
He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.
Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”
Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.
He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.
“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.
That’s it?
After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.
“Really, Sunday?”
The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”
He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”
“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”
Sunday couldn’t refuse.
The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.
The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.
“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room.
“I’m here on vacation.”
Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.
Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?
Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.
“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.
“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.
Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,
“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”
You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?
Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.
Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.
Just an empty legal document.
“I . . feel the same way.”
. . What?
“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.”
Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.
Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.
For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.
Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.
But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.
“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.
He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.
He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.
“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.
“You may.”
Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.
One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.
It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.
His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.
Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.
“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”
Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.
Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.
The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.
“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given.
Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.
The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.
But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.
There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.
You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”
Oh, you’d be the death of him.
Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.
There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.
No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.
Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.
Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.
“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”
A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.
The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.
“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”
At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,
“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.
Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.
Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.
“S-Sunday—!”
He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.
With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.
Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.
Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.
Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.
All for him?
Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.
So far, so good.
“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.
At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.
You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.
“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”
A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.
Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.
“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.
At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.
Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”
Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.
“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.
“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”
Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.
“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”
With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.
With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.
He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.
Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.
Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.
Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.
He was trying to kill you.
The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.
He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.
“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”
He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace.
The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.
The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.
Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.
He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.
You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.
Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”
A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.
For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.
“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.
He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.
With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.
Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting.
Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.
Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.
A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.
Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.
The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.
At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.
Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.
He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”
With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.
Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.
His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.
Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?
How adorable.
He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.
One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.
For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.
A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.
You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”
Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.
Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”
“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.
“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”
Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.
“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.
“I know.”
“They won’t forgive easily.”
“I know.”
“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”
Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”
Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”
“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness.
Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.
And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.
Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.
“What is that?” He blinked
You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.”
His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:
Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally,
“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention.
“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”
Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.
Sunday was homesick.
You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.
Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.
Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.
You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)
“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”
You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”
You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.
Maybe it was fate playing a hand.
Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.
For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,
you think the man you are meant to marry is a brute with no care for you or your kind. yet when the vows are signed and the crown rests upon your brow, you discover there is more to the king than meets the eye—and far more he has so carefully chosen to keep from you.
☆ pairing: phainon x fem!reader
☆ tags: romance, angst, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn, bridgerton!au, arranged marriage!au, older brother!mydei, historical inaccuracies, mentions of death & illness, nightmares, period-typical misogyny, discussions of pregnancy, etc. divider by @/thecutestgrotto.
☆ word count: 21.5k
☆ a/n: this fic is, first and foremost, a love letter and gift to my best friend, @jeonwiixard. happy birthday, jazz! i love you to the moon and back ♡ this fic is inspired by and based off of queen charlotte: a bridgerton story. thank you to @chokifandom for beta reading, and thank you for reading!
THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING, your brother held you tight to his chest, and whispered apology after apology. You do not want this, sister, I know, I know you do not want this, but father did not leave me with a choice. It was a betrothal made when you were born, and if our estate is to survive the locust plague, we need their help, sister. Please, forgive me.
Perhaps, if you weren’t in such a foul mood, you might have forgiven your older brother, Mydeimos, the Earl of Kremnos. Earlier that morning, however, your maid had fetched you the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, and seeing how unfavourably she had written about you and your impending wedding, you were not so inclined.
You let him hold you, and patted his hair as you would your favourite mare, and said, “It’s quite all right, brother. After all, not everyone is blessed with the good fortune of marrying a prince.”
He looked stricken. “But you do not love him. You do not even know him.”
“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”
Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.
In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.
The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.
Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.
Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”
“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”
This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”
“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”
“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”
Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”
“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”
“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”
“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.
He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
You sighed and closed your eyes.
The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.
The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.
“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.
You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.
A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.
“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”
Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?
“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”
“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”
The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.
You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.
“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”
The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.
“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”
“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”
“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.
“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”
How romantic, you thought.
“What time is dinner?” you asked.
“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”
Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.
“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”
The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.
You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.
Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.
“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”
You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”
“Cold?”
“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”
Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.
“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”
“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”
“But will you be happy?”
Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.
“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”
Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”
“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”
“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”
You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.
“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”
A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”
Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave.
Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”
You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.
Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.
“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”
If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.
You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?
The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.
“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”
“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”
“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”
“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”
“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”
“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”
“My lady—”
“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”
The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.
“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”
“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”
Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.
“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”
“My lady—”
“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”
You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”
You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”
The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.
You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.
Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.
“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.
This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?
Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.
You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.
“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”
“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”
“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”
If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.
Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.
The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.
“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.
Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.
Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.
So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.
“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”
You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.
A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.
He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.
“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”
“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”
“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”
You stared down at him. “How did you know—”
“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“You’re the King,” you stated.
He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”
This could not be happening.
“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”
“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”
“…Help me?”
“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”
He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.
“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”
Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.
Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.
But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.
“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”
“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”
“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”
“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”
“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.
“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”
The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”
“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”
Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.
“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”
“You will not force me?” you asked.
“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”
“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”
“All right.”
“Do you want this marriage?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”
The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.
“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”
The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”
“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”
“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”
“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.
“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”
“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Phainon said.
“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”
“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.
She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.
“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”
“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”
“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”
“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”
You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.
You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.
“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”
“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”
When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”
Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.
Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.
“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.
“You’ll see,” he said.
You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.
Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.
“Open them,” Phainon said.
The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.
Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative.
“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”
You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”
“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”
Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”
“Of course.”
He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.
“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”
He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”
“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”
You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.
“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”
You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.
Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.
“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”
“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”
He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.
“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”
“…What is it?”
“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”
You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”
“Yes.”
“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”
“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”
“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”
“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”
“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”
“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”
“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”
“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”
“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”
“Except a husband,” you said.
“I—”
“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”
“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”
“Please—”
“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”
Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.
“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed.
You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.
You had been so foolish.
This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.
How foolish you’d been!
He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?
You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.
Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.
Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.
“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.
Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”
To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.
“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.
You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”
Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”
“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”
“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.
Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.
“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.
“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?
“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.
“Something like that.”
Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”
“Please do.”
“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”
You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”
“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”
“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.
Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”
“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”
“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”
You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.
Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?
“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”
“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”
“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”
Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”
“You speak as though you know him well.”
“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”
“What changed?”
“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”
You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.
“How did the Queen die?” you asked.
“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”
“That is terrible,” you said.
“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”
“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”
“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”
You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”
“What are friends for?”
You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.
“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”
“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”
“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”
“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”
Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”
“What sort of rumours?” you asked.
“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.
Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.
Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”
True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.
Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”
“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”
“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.
You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”
You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”
“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”
“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”
“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”
You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.
“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”
“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”
“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”
“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”
“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”
You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.
“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”
“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”
“Use what I have?”
“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”
You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.
“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”
“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”
“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”
“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”
After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?
Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.
You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.
Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.
“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”
Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”
“Perfect,” you said.
Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.
This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.
You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.
“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.
You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.
Your stomach twisted with nerves.
Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.
“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.
You blinked. “How did you—”
“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”
Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”
“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”
“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”
“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”
“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.
“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”
Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”
Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.
“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”
Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”
“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.
His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.
You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”
“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.
The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.
Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.
He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”
That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.
“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”
His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him.
“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.
Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.
“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”
“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”
“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.
His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.
“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”
“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”
Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”
“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.
He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”
He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”
You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.
When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.
“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.
“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.
He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—
Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.
“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”
That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”
He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.
“May I?” he asked again.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”
You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.
“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.
You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.
“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”
“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.
The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”
He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.
“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”
He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.
“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”
“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”
He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.
Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”
“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”
“Next time?”
“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”
“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.
“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”
“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”
You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.
Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.
“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”
“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”
“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”
“I am trying—”
“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”
“…I see,” Phainon said.
“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”
“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”
“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”
You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?
“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”
“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”
“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”
You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.
You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Phainon called out.
You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”
Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.
“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”
You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.
Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”
Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.
“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”
“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.
“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”
The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.
“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”
You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.
Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.
“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”
You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.
You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”
“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”
“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”
“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”
You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.
“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”
“That seems rather cruel.”
“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.
“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”
You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.
“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.
“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”
Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.
“They don’t look like it,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”
“What happens if someone touches them?”
“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”
“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”
He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”
The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?
It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.
“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”
“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.
Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.
“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”
“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”
“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”
“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.
Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.
The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.
“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”
Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”
“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”
“They see us often enough.”
“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”
“And does that trouble you?” he asked.
You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”
He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”
“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”
“Let them suffocate.”
“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.
“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”
Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”
You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”
“A ball.”
“A ball,” you said.
“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.
You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”
“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”
“And you think that’s preferable?”
“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”
“Together how?”
“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”
You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”
“For the sake of the country?”
“For the sake of my wife,” he said.
You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.
“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.
“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.
“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”
Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”
“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”
“And on making sure I smile often enough.”
“She’ll insist on that regardless.”
You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”
He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”
“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true.
You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.
He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.
“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.
“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“And the music?”
“We’ll have the orchestra.”
“The guest list?”
“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”
“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.
Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”
His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”
The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.
Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.
Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”
“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.
It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.
You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.
You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.
“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”
“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”
“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.
“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”
“The ball was his idea,” you protested.
“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”
“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”
“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”
“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”
Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”
“I did,” you said.
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”
“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”
“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”
“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”
“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”
The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”
“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”
“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”
Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.
Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”
“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”
“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”
“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.
“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”
“No, I—”
“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”
Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread.
“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”
“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”
“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”
“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”
“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”
“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”
“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”
“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“What is it I can’t handle?”
Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”
“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”
“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”
“I cannot,” he said quietly.
“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”
“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”
“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”
Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.
“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”
“Phainon—”
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.
How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?
The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.
“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”
“Where did he go?” you asked.
“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”
The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.
“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.
On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.
You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.
It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.
Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.
You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.
You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room.
Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”
“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”
Castorice cleared her throat and began:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded.
The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.
You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”
Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”
“I—what?”
“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”
“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”
“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”
You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”
“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”
“…Nightmares?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”
You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—
Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?
“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.
“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”
“About His Majesty?”
“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”
“What do you think he’s hiding?”
“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”
“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”
“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.
“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”
You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”
“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”
“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”
Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”
“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”
“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”
You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”
“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”
“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—
“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.
“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”
Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.
Lady Caenis.
You had to tell Phainon.
You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this.
Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.
You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”
Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”
“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”
“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”
“And where did you get the paper from?”
“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”
“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”
“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”
Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.
Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”
You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.
Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.
“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Now, please.”
Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.
“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”
“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”
You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”
“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”
Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”
“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”
“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”
“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”
Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”
“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”
“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”
“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”
“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.
“It’s also true, isn’t it?”
Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.
Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”
“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”
“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”
“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.
“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”
“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”
“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”
You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.
“Get out,” Phainon said.
Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”
Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”
“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”
“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”
“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”
“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.
“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”
Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”
She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.
“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”
He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”
Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person.
You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.
She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.
“She would have liked you.”
You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”
“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”
He went very still. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”
“Who told you?”
“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”
He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I know.”
“It makes me look weak.”
“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”
“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”
“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”
Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”
“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”
“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”
“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”
“Since she died. Seventeen years.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”
He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”
“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”
“Yes.”
You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”
“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”
He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.
“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”
You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.
synopsis: “there’s something going on,” he says. “a chain of robberies, not random. it’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. i’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across marmoreal. whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. and i can’t keep up on my own.”
in which spider-man enlists the help of his favourite detective to uncover a series of robberies in new okhema city.
tags: modern!au, spider-man!au, romance, angst, action, smut, frenemies to lovers. profanity, violence, oral sex, fingering, blood and injuries, mentions of drug abuse & human experimentation, etc.
word count: 19.5k
a/n: reposted from my old account. thanks for reading!
Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good guy.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. He’s not out here winning humanitarian awards or remembering to replace the Brita filter before it turns green. But still. He flosses most nights, and tips well on the rare occasions he orders pizza for dinner. He saves cats from trees, catches robbers in the middle of getaway attempts, and makes a decent grilled cheese when the mood strikes. In the grand cosmic scale of morality, he figures that puts him somewhere between a broke college student and a D-list superhero with a heart of gold.
Which is why, as he’s currently being pursued across rooftops by New Okhema’s most persistent detective, Phainon feels the situation is a little unfair.
“I don’t deserve to be chased like this!” he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. “I’m a pretty good guy!”
The boots pounding behind him don’t slow. “You’re obstructing justice!”
“You’re harassing a concerned citizen!”
He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heart’s doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when you’re behind him.
Because if there’s one thing Phainon’s sure of, it’s this: you hate him.
Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good.
He can live with that. He’s been hated before. (He just wishes it didn’t make him kind of want your approval.)
“You’re breaking at least three laws just by standing there!” you shout as he swings up and over the next building.
You’re getting closer. He can hear it in your voice—less winded than his, more focused. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or terrified. Probably both.
“Do you ever take a break?” you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.
Phainon whirls around, arms raised. “Do you ever let anyone live?”
Your eyes narrow like you’re imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident.
“Okay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.” He backs up, hands still in the air. “No chasing or tasers. Please.”
You don’t answer, which means you’re at least considering it. He’s getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at all—like how you always pull your sleeves down when you’re thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when you’re about to disagree with someone but don’t want to start a fight.
“Look,” he says, tone dropping, just a bit. “This isn’t about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Street—”
“You stole—”
“Borrowed,” he corrects quickly. “With intent to pay.”
You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.
“There’s something going on,” he says. “A chain of robberies, not random. It’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. I’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. And I can’t keep up on my own.”
He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting that’ll make his stomach twist in that way he hates—because you’re usually right.
“I think they’re watching me,” he adds, quieter now. “I think someone knows who I am.”
The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainon’s boots and rustles your coat, but you don’t move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. It’s the kind of stillness that unnerves him—not because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainon’s chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.
“That’s a bold claim,” you say slowly.
Yeah. He knows. He also knows you’re not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. You’re listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tell—he’s seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when you’re filing pieces together in real time.
“You have proof?” you ask.
Phainon knows you won’t move without proof—not a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesn’t have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feeling—that awful, skin-tight certainty—that something out there has started moving towards him, not away.
“I don’t have anything concrete, but… I’ve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,” he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. “They’re too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? They’re not stealing cash or valuables. They’re taking very specific things—equipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.”
“Show me,” you say. Your eyes don’t leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears you’re looking through it.)
He blinks. “What?”
You cross your arms. “The footage. The files. Whatever you’ve got. If you’re serious about this, I need to see everything.”
“Oh.” Phainon’s voice pitches up an octave in surprise. “Cool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.”
Phainon didn’t lie. Chartonus’ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building that’s had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittently—CHART NUS’ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when it’s feeling generous—and the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.
He’s perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. There’s duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someone—possibly Chartonus himself—has carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.
Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hair’s damp, and there’s a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.
He looks across the table at you. You’re the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coat’s slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams cop—straight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.
“I told you,” Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. “Best sandwich in the city.”
“This is where you wanted to debrief?”
He shrugs. “They know my order here.”
You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. “You said these started three weeks ago?” you ask, flipping it open.
Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. “Warehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. They’re hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like they’re refining their technique.”
You glance up. “Any pattern to what they’re taking?”
“That’s the thing.” He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. “It’s weirdly… modular. Like, they’re not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. They’re taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.”
He slides a finger across one of the printouts. It’s a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.
Carbon-neutral polymer casings
Fiber-optic microarrays
Refrigerated storage containers, Class III
Unknown compound, biohazard sealed
“Doesn’t scream smash-and-grab,” you say, studying the list.
“Exactly. This is purposeful.”
You turn another page. “The cameras—”
“Looped,” Phainon says. “Every time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flicker—like it skips half a second. But the timestamps don’t change.”
You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you think—sees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesn’t add up. He likes watching you think. That’s a problem.
“Do you think they’re testing something?” you ask. “Or building it?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.”
“Never say that again.”
He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.
When you speak again, your voice is lower. “You said you think someone’s watching you.”
Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. “I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”
You look up.
“Two nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That should’ve been the end of it, except when I got home…” He hesitates. “My apartment’s locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.”
Your expression hardens. “Did you call it in?”
He snorts. “Yeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think I’m being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.”
You don’t laugh.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Deflection. I know.”
“You should’ve told someone sooner,” you say sharply. “If someone has your gear, they might have access to your—”
“They won’t,” he cuts in. “The tech’s locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that… that’s not normal.”
You nod. “You think it’s connected to the thefts.”
“I think I’ve been getting too close,” he says, quieter now. “And someone wants me out of the way.”
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.
“Then we need to get closer,” you say.
Phainon blinks. “Wait—we?”
“This is serious,” you say simply. “And if someone’s watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.”
He’s staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throat’s dry and his heart’s doing that thing again. “Cool,” he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. “Cool cool cool cool cool.”
You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. “Tomorrow night,” you say. “Bring everything else you’ve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.”
He gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”
You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. “Wash your suit,” you say. “You smell like mustard.”
The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.
The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. It’s the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if you’ve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.
But for once, he’s early.
The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. He’s patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. It’s messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.
He shifts on the overturned milk crate he’s using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. There’s a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s properly showered.
He hates waiting. But he’d never admit that he’s anxious. Especially not for you.
Your footsteps break the quiet—sharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when you’re walking up behind him like you’re about to read him his Miranda rights.
He doesn’t turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. “I was starting to think you ditched,” he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.
“You said nine,” you answer. “It’s eight fifty-nine.”
He smiles, just a little. Can’t help it. “Wow. A punctual cop.”
You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo—clean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.)
You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when you’re processing too many things at once. God, he’s noticed that too many times.
“This is a mess,” you say flatly.
“Organised chaos,” he corrects.
You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmoreal’s industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.
Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. “Those are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. They’re moving clockwise.”
“So whatever they’re after is in the centre,” you muse.
“Bingo,” he says, tapping the innermost circle. “And guess what’s smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?”
He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. It’s ugly. You frown and say, “That place?”
Phainon nods. “Used to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now it’s just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.”
“Why hasn’t anyone investigated it?”
“Because it’s boring,” he says. “There’s no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeper—like, old permit records and city zoning logs—there’s a basement that’s sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.”
Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realises—again, and with an unfortunate amount of clarity—that he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldn’t.
“So they’re not just building something,” you say. “They’re hiding it.”
“Or staging it.”
“We’ll split up,” you say. “Tonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. I’ll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.”
“Copy that,” he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. “Though I think you just want to get rid of me.”
“I want to get results,” you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. “And we’ll cover more ground this way.”
Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. “The chemical plant’s been shut down since the fires in March, but I’ve seen movement there—shadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, but…”
“But this group doesn’t leave power boxes half-cut,” you finish, glancing at him. “They don’t miss steps.”
Exactly. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. You’re starting to see what he sees.
You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. “I’ll have to log this in quietly. My team’s not going to love me going off-grid again.”
“Your team doesn’t know you’re chasing me around rooftops?”
“They know. They just don’t know why,” you say. “Which is probably for the best.”
He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. “Flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Still. Thanks for not turning me in.”
You shrug. “You haven’t made it worth my while yet.”
He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonus’ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, “You have a burner?”
You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suit—past the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterday—and pulls out his own cracked phone. The screen’s a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.
You raise your brows. “That’s a phone?”
“Technically,” he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. “Give me your number. I’ll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.”
You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, “Burner ends in zero-nine. Don’t call me unless it’s urgent.”
“Define urgent.”
“Explosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.”
“So… brunch?”
Phainon’s lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improve—because you said yes to brunch with him.
Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You don’t know what he looks like beneath the mask, don’t know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.
He tries not to make a big deal out of it. He really does. But the truth is, it’s been 36 hours since the last robbery attempt, he hasn’t been chased across a rooftop in at least two days, and now you’re sitting across from him at a sunlit table in a tucked-away café where the chairs don’t match and the menus are handwritten in cursive chalk. (And you ordered pancakes. That alone feels like a sign from the universe.)
Phainon takes a sip of his burnt espresso, after pulling his mask up to let it rest on the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his chair, letting the sounds of the café fill the silence—coffee machines hissing, silverware clinking, someone arguing gently in French at the counter. It’s the kind of place that feels too warm for a conversation about conspiracy rings and illegal tech trade, which is probably why he chose it. Something about soft pancakes makes even the worst theories easier to digest.
You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. He’s seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.
Also: kind of hot. But that’s not relevant.
“So,” he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, “have I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?”
You hum and reach for the syrup. “I can’t decide if you’re more irritating in daylight or when you’re dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.”
Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. “Why not both?”
You glare at him.
“I’m trying to be helpful,” he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someone’s listening. “I know I’m not the most traditional source, and I’m aware I’m breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but I’ve been watching these people for weeks. And I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re too clean. Too prepared.”
You nod. He can tell you’ve already connected the dots. You’ve probably connected ten more he hasn’t even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.
“I went by the Marmoreal site last night,” you say. “Didn’t go in, though—just circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.”
“Same model from the Fourth Street hit?”
“Couldn’t see,” you admit. “But the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.”
Phainon exhales slowly. “So they’re still active.”
“Very.” You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. “You sleep at all?”
“...No,” he mutters, sheepish. “But I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.”
“Healthy,” you deadpan.
He shrugs. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasn’t… this?”
“I’m not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.”
“I like jam,” Phainon says.
You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesn’t say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.
That’s when it hits him: this is the first time he’s seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.
He’s in so much trouble.
You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. “Just thinking.”
You narrow your eyes. “Dangerous.”
“Extremely.”
“Why’d you bring me here?”
He looks up. “What?”
“This café. It’s nice. Quiet. You could’ve picked anywhere.”
Phainon hesitates. He wants to say it’s because it’s his favourite. Because the coffee’s bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs don’t match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.
Instead, he shrugs and says, “Thought you’d appreciate the pancakes.”
You study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. “Don’t make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,” you say, spearing another bite.
It turns out that Phainon’s theory is, horrifically, right.
One week. That’s all it takes.
Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. He’d hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe they’d spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.
You’re okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.
His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.
Phainon jumps.
The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. He’s faster than usual—more desperate than smooth. It’s a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesn’t know if you’re hurt. You said you’re okay, but “okay” is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.
The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. There’s a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.
Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.
You’re inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. You’re not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.
He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. You’re alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.
“I’m fine,” you say, even before he can speak.
“You’re not fine,” he snaps, more sharply than he means to. “You said crossfire. That’s not, like, a stubbed toe.”
“It wasn’t aimed at me.”
“That doesn’t help!”
He hears his own voice—too loud, too worried, echoing off concrete—and he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.
You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. “Spider-Man—”
“What happened?” he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. “Walk me through it.”
You sigh, but nod. “I was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptor—fried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.”
“Lithium?”
“Gone,” you confirm. “They knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.”
“Only one?”
“One. And Spider-Man—” your eyes meet his again, steady now, serious—“they weren’t just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.”
He exhales through gritted teeth. “You think they’re building something.”
“I think they already have,” you say grimly. “And they’re just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.”
Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question that’s been sticking in his throat like a splinter. “Did they see you?”
“I—I don’t know. Maybe,” you say.
“Maybe?” His voice rises again.
“I lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. I’m not sure.”
Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he can’t do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.
“I should have been there,” he mutters.
“You were across the city.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. “Spider-Man. Stop. I’m not dead.”
“Yet,” he says.
“I’ve been trained for this,” you say. “I know how to handle myself.”
He doesn’t doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene that’s already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. “You need backup.”
“I’ve got it,” you say, your voice firm. “I’ve got you.”
It’s not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.
Finally, he says, quietly, “Yeah. You do. Can I take you home?”
Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, “Yes, please.”
The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. There’s a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you don’t flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesn’t miss that.
The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftop—low enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You don’t complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like it’s normal. Like you trust him.
Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. You’re warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he moves—shoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landing—he feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldn’t like that as much as he does.)
Your building’s only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesn’t want to rush it. He doesn’t want to leave you alone, not yet—not while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasn’t fully drained from your bones.
When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.
You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. “You don’t have to walk me all the way up.”
“I know,” he says, already crouched on the rail. “I just… wanted to be sure.”
“Thanks.”
He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like you’re still half in the fight. He wants to ask if you’re okay again, wants to tell you that the word “crossfire” nearly gave him a heart attack. But you’re already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.
“Spider-Man?” you say, just before you disappear inside.
“Yeah?”
“Do you, uh, want to come inside?”
He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his head—“stay safe,” or “thanks for the ride,” or “you’re worrying too much”—this had not made the cut. Not even close.
It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but he’s pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.
Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartment’s light. You’ve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.
“I mean,” you say after a second, brows furrowed. “Only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across and—”
“I want to,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean—yeah. If you’re okay with it.”
Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. “You literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think we’re past the point of stranger danger.”
He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and he’s painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warm—coffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.
Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. “I’ve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.”
He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to risk—well, anything else.
“Tea’s good,” he says.
You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that you’re still running on fumes. There’s a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.
He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” you return, then gesture to the couch. “We can sit. If you’re staying a few minutes.”
He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s safe here. With you. There’s a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.
“So,” you say. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Phainon frowns. “The break-in?”
“No,” you say, looking at him squarely. “You. You were… panicked tonight.”
Phainon goes still. It’s not immediate—not sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someone’s gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesn’t look away from you, but he doesn’t answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.
You shift forward a little, your voice low. “Look, I’m not asking because I’m nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I just…” You pause, exhale. “I got lucky tonight. That’s what it was. Luck. If I hadn’t ducked at the right second, if they’d come around the corner just a little faster—”
“But they didn’t,” he says quietly, cutting you off.
“That’s not the point.”
You’re sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flash—not with anger, but fear, the kind you don’t let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.
You swallow. “I’m scared, Spider-Man. I know you’re helping. I trust you. But this—this thing we’re chasing… if something happens to you—I won’t even know your name. I won’t know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. That’s not just reckless, that’s—cruel.”
He flinches at that. You notice.
“I just want to know who’s standing next to me,” you say. “That’s not so much to ask.”
“I can’t,” he says, before he’s even fully processed it. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s not good enough.” Your voice isn’t raised, but there’s a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. “You trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you don’t trust me enough to know who you are?”
“It’s not about trust,” he says quickly, too defensively. “It’s—God, you think I don’t want to tell you? You think I don’t—don’t lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
He looks at you, then. You’re not angry. You’re scared. Scared of whatever’s coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.
“You don’t understand what that means,” he says. “If you know who I am—really know—it changes everything. You don’t get to walk away from that. You don’t get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds out—”
“I’m a cop, Spider-Man. I’ve seen worse things than secret identities.”
“It’s not just mine,” he says. “It’s everyone around me. You knowing—you become a target.”
“I’m already a target.”
“Not like this,” he bites out. “If someone traces it back to you—if they think you matter to me—”
“I do matter to you.”
You suck in a breath like you didn’t mean to say it that way. But you don’t take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.
“You do,” he says, barely audible. “Of course you do.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. “Because the second I do,” he says, “you stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I don’t know how to protect you from.”
You shake your head, frustrated. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. I’m not asking for your social security number, or something. I’m asking to know who’s at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong, because you’re not. But still, he stays silent.
You stare at him for a moment longer, and when it’s clear he won’t budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: “I think you should go.”
Phainon doesn’t try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. There’s a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.
“I do trust you,” he says. “More than anyone.”
It’s not that you’re avoiding each other.
It’s that you’re both avoiding each other—which, in practice, amounts to the same thing.
Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, it’s clipped, tactical. When he replies, it’s mechanical.
(‘West dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.’
‘Copy. South alley tripwire still intact.’)
Phainon doesn’t know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that it’s entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.
But God, it’s lonely.
There’s a rhythm to the city that used to make sense—pulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons don’t heckle him like they used to.
It’s been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply.
He doesn’t stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worse—if you’re still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the window’s already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and there’s a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.
You don’t greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.
“Biotech division out of Theoros Labs,” you say. “It used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?”
Phainon’s already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.
ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS – SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.
He looks up. “They’re trying to replicate me.”
“Not just replicate,” you say, shaking your head. “Weaponise.”
Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.
“They’ve been pulling data from old surveillance—fight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?” You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. “Turns out it’s a synthetic neuromuscular system. And this—this lithium core—it’s the ignition switch.”
Phainon stares at the blueprint. It’s rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.
A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.
“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “Why build this?”
“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “But someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.”
He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. It’s him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unit’s balance favours its left side, just like he does when his knee’s aching. They didn’t just study him; they dissected him.
“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.
“A few days,” you say. “I wanted to be sure. Didn’t want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.”
“And you texted me anyway.”
You meet his gaze across the room. “Because it’s you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesn’t. They’re coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. They’re not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They don’t care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.”
He sets the folder down. His hands won’t stop shaking. “How… did you find out about all this?”
“Don’t get mad.”
When Phainon doesn’t say anything, you sigh and look away.
“I visited the old R&D site. Alone.”
“Are you serious?” Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. “You went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.”
“I called you when I had proof—”
“You shouldn’t have gone in the first place!” he explodes. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of those—those things—”
“You weren’t talking to me!” you shout back. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?”
“I was trying to protect you,” Phainon grits out. “And instead you threw yourself into a place that could’ve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypes—anything.”
You throw your arms out. “And what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until there’s a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I don’t know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when I’m this scared.”
“You think I’m not scared? You think I haven’t been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I haven’t imagined a dozen versions of how it could’ve gone wrong? You think I’m not scared every time I don’t hear from you for a few hours?”
“Then why didn’t you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?”
“Because if I said it out loud,” Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, “then it would be real. It would be—you would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone who’s helping me out. You’d be a person I’d have to lose.”
You blink, thrown. “You think you’re going to lose me?”
“I know I could,” he says, almost like it hurts. “Because it’s already happened. Every time I get close—every single time—it ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because that’s the only choice I ever get.”
He doesn’t even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesn’t notice how he’s gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.
“I can’t protect you from this. I can’t protect you from them. I can’t even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. Because once you have that, it’s over. You’ll look at me differently. Or worse—you’ll stop looking at me. And I can’t—God, I can’t stand that.
“Do you know what it’s like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they don’t see a person—they see a weapon?
“I didn’t sign up for this shit! I didn’t even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just… was. And now they’ve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if you’d died at that lab, I—no one would’ve even known. You’d just be another casualty they scrub from the records—and that would’ve been my fault.”
His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.
He doesn’t realise until you do—until your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like you’ve been sucker-punched.
His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdown—while he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating him—he took it off.
His hair’s a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. There’s a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.
“...Oh,” Phainon says, stunned. “Shit.”
You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. “You took your mask off.”
He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else that’s passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.
Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. “I… didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to,” you echo. “Jesus.”
Phainon can’t say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.
“Can I— Will you tell me your name?” you whisper.
He wets his lips, and says, quietly, “Phainon.”
You nod, once, and say it back. “Phainon,” you repeat, like it’s a truth you’ll guard with your life. “Okay. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.”
Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks you’re handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you.
He doesn’t move at first. You’re pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like it’s trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.
He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like it’s been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.
He lifts his arms slowly, like he’s learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.
He breathes in.
God, it’s you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times he’s seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait.
His grip tightens, no longer tentative—arms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and it’s instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.
(It’s you. It’s you, and you’re warm and safe and alive in his arms.)
Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesn’t exist—the weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that he’s made a mistake, that you’ll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.
Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like you’re afraid he might vanish, too.
It comes to him—terrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.
He could be in love with you.
Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, arm’s-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)
He wants a future he doesn’t dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know you’ll still look at him the same way.
(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)
It’s that simple. You don’t push. You don’t speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry.
It’s five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that he’s trying really hard to ignore. You’re beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like this—walking, together—is something you do all the time.
It’s not a date, he tells himself. It’s really not.
But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadn’t wanted to leave yet.
So here he is. Not skipping, because he’s got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out he’s being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.
The city’s quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. It’s eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the city’s holding its breath right along with him.
Phainon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget you’re still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.
You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Staring at me.”
Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. “I’m not,” he says, too quickly.
“You are,” you say, not unkindly. “Like I’m going to vanish or something.”
Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. “Well. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Okay, fair,” you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Still. You’ve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like I’ve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You do have a face,” you say. “That’s the problem now, remember?”
Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that he’s not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. He’s not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.
You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.
Phainon chances a glance at you. You’re watching the sky change colour like it’s a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. There’s a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when they’ve seen too much, done too much, but still can’t stop moving.
The diner sign glows into view at the end of the street—warm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. There’s a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag that’s probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.
You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. “This place okay?”
“It’s perfect,” Phainon says before he can stop himself.
You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainon’s boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. That’s the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.
You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesn’t care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.
You don’t even bother looking at yours. “Waffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.”
“That specific, huh?” Phainon says.
You shrug. “Gotta know your diner defaults.”
The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. “You kids look like you’ve been up all night,” she says, though she can’t be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.
“We have,” you say sleepily, “but we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.”
The waitress doesn’t blink. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.
Silence stretches between you again, but it’s easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.
Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You don’t move it.
He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. There’s something quiet there, soft around the edges—exhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust he’s not sure he deserves. (Still, it’s there.)
Phainon thinks about how this shouldn’t be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.
[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. I’m already on scene. It’s not you, right?
[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.
Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jump—lands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.
He doesn’t even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but there’s no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the city’s mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.
Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but there’s no crowd. They’re keeping it quiet.
He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene.
He finds you posted just outside the warehouse’s side entrance, pacing like you’re trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holstered—but your fingers are twitching near it, like you’re weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hair’s tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. He’s never seen you look so still and restless all at once.
He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.
The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip around—and relax just as fast.
“Jesus,” you exhale, taking a step forward. “Okay. Okay, thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d even seen the message.”
“I left the second I did,” Phainon assures. “What’s the situation?”
Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.
“It showed up fifteen minutes ago,” you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. “Took out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entry—it knew exactly where to go.”
The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.
It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entry—it’s like watching him pace through a mirror.
Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suit—if you could even call it that—is matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. There’s no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and it’s gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.
Phainon swears under his breath. “They built it,” he mutters. “That’s Flame Reaver.”
You glance up. “You sure?”
He nods. He’s gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like they’ve been branded into his skull. “Positive. Same proportions, same gait. But it’s not scanning the building. It’s buying time.”
“For what?”
Phainon doesn’t answer at first. He’s too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees it—a flicker of something. It wasn’t raiding. It wasn’t looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.
The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.
“Wait,” he says sharply. “Where’s your radio?”
You blink. “What?”
“Your radio,” he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. “You always keep it on.”
“I took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.”
“No.” Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. “No, that’s wrong. This—this whole thing—it’s not a distraction. This is the distraction.”
“What are you—”
His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.
Now you’re gone.
Phainon’s heart lurches.
“Where is she?” he hisses aloud, and suddenly he’s on the move—scrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct line’s holding firm around the building. There’s no breach. No one has come or gone.
Except you. Except whoever—or whatever—came for you.
He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passes—alley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.
On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.
From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that van—it’s too smooth, too clean. There’s no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.
A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.
Phainon freezes.
It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlight—your badge. Not a replica.
Except it’s wrong. You’re not there.
You wouldn’t leave the perimeter without backup, wouldn’t ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.
And whoever—or whatever—this is, it’s walking away like it knows the exact timing window it’s working with. Like it wants him to follow.
“They’re splitting us up,” Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.
Phainon yanks the door open. It’s empty—no driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. It’s a burner vehicle, then. One they didn’t plan on keeping.
“Damn it,” Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already moving—until he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.
He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willingly—until it was too late.
A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next to—a toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.
It wasn’t just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious.
But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinct’s attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really needed—you.
Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics you’d shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasn’t a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. They’d studied him down to the limp in his left knee.
Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.
He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when you’re about to argue; the furrow in your brows when you’re thinking too deeply. If they’ve copied that—you—down to the way your voice hitches when you say his name—
His stomach flips.
“They took her,” he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. “They took her.”
Phainon’s fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady.
He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where he’s going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.
It’s a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. He’ll make it in seven.
Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He can’t afford to be wrong. Can’t afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesn’t need you alive.
Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.
The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.
Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. It’s darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facility’s skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others.
It’s too quiet.
He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entrance—what’s left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someone’s been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are stripped—just empty labs and decaying workstations—but the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.
They’ve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.
Phainon stops mid-step; there’s a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.
“Ah, Mr. Spider-Man,” a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. “Or should I say… Phainon?”
There’s a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.
“Don’t be shy. You’ve already made it farther than most,” the voice says, and this time, it’s accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. “I imagine you have questions. That’s good. I admire curiosity. It’s a very human trait.”
The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.
Lycurgus smiles like he’s greeting an old colleague. “This facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was… restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.” He gestures to the space around him. “Welcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.”
Phainon’s voice is low, sharp. “Where is she?”
“Your detective, yes?” Lycurgus says. “She is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. She’s being prepped for mapping. It’s better if she doesn’t wake up mid-scan—the sensory feedback can be unpleasant.”
Phainon steps forward. “You’re going to let her go. Now.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Lycurgus tilts his head. “She’s far too important. As are you.”
He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadows—taller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.
“I know what you think we’re doing here,” Lycurgus continues. “Mass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yes—we are building weapons. But not just weapons. We’re building evolution.”
“You’re building copies,” Phainon corrects.
Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. “Flame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purpose—chased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb… Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.”
He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.
“We’ve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didn’t make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.”
He taps the side of his own head. “But it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldn’t replicate.”
“You mean her.”
“Yes.” Lycurgus’ smile returns, tight and reverent. “Your control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.”
Phainon’s voice is a growl. “She’s not a variable.”
“She’s your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when she’s afraid. It’s poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.”
The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. It’s not the Flame Reaver. It’s something else.
Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split mask—half red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesn’t recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.
“It’s a neural sync model,” Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, “coded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. It’s capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t panic. And, most importantly, it doesn’t forget.”
Phainon’s heart hammers. His blood feels like it’s gone cold. “You’re trying to make a Spider-Man that doesn’t need a person inside.”
Lycurgus meets his eyes. “Exactly.”
The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.
“You two were only ever reference material,” Lycurgus intones. “And now that the template’s complete—well. All we need are the final scans.”
“Where is she? Where is she?”
It’s all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgus’ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.
“She’s nearby,” he says coolly. “Lower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You won’t get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you do—by the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.”
Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isn’t mechanical. It’s worse—soft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.
Phainon doesn’t wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.
Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. “You think you’re here to save her,” he says, breathless, “but you’re too late. She’s already part of it.”
“I swear to God—” Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgus’ throat. “I swear to God, if you touched her—”
“I didn’t have to,” the man croaks. “She volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knows—tactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategy—it’s all feeding the AI as we speak.”
“You fed off of us.” Phainon’s grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.
“Yes,” the scientist says. “And you should be proud. Irontomb won’t just replicate your choices—it will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.”
Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.
A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejects—thin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric current—and shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.
The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainon’s hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.
CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.
Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.
There’s no time to think—he fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.
The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. There’s no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too clean—like the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.
He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION →, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.
Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.
The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. There’s no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. “Come on, come on—”
From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. “...Phainon?”
He chokes on relief. “I’m here.”
You’re alive.
He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.
You’re inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnostics—waveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.
“Hi,” you whisper, voice thin as gauze.
“Hi, yourself,” Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.
His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.
He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesn’t let them. He tightens his grip until you’re fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.
“Irontomb,” you breath, half-slurred. “It’s awake. It… used me. Ran simulations. My voice. My—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. We’re getting out of here.”
You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell you’re coming back—your pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.
But the walls hum. The lights tremble. He’s not fast enough. The reinforced door behind him explodes inward.
Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesn’t look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.
The voice it speaks with is your own.
“Phainon.”
The blood drains from his face.
You stir weakly in his arms. “That’s not—that’s not me—”
“I know,” he whispers.
It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.”
Phainon doesn’t respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.
“You always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,” Irontomb says. “That makes you predictable.”
Phainon doesn’t wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machine’s legs—but it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.
Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like it’s studied him for years—and it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where he’ll move before he does.
Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperate—and Phainon is desperate.
“The server room!” you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. “Take it to the server room! Follow me!”
Phainon doesn’t hesitate. He hears your voice—unsteady, but clear—and that’s all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontomb’s shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainon’s already moving.
“Go!” you shout again, breath ragged. “Don’t fight it here—they control the lithium core from the server room!”
Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skin’s cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm.
“Can you run?” he pants.
“Can you carry me?”
He grins through bloodied teeth. “Always.”
He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesn’t look back. He runs.
You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontomb’s footsteps are thunder behind you—precise, mechanical, relentless. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.
“It’s learning again,” you murmur.
Phainon grits his teeth. “Tell me where to go.”
“Left!” you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. “The blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and I—I stole Lycurgus’ key card before he sedated me—”
Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.
He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hinges—someone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesn’t stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.
The moment you’re both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesn’t need webbing. It’s fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainon’s shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.
“Don’t look down,” Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.
“You mean don’t look up,” you reply, voice tight.
He doesn’t argue. Two more floors. That’s all you need.
Phainon angles towards the next level’s opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impact—shoulder first, then hip—but keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.
The server room’s door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.
“Can you override it?” he asks, already placing you down on your feet.
You stagger once, then nod. “I—I can try.”
Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access card—Lycurgus’ clearance still hot in the system—and slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.
The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows it’s wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesn’t care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights aren’t just white, they’re clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.
At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except it’s not alive. It’s lithium, it’s electricity, it’s something that was never supposed to breathe—but it is, somehow.
He doesn’t like it.
He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. You’re a weight he doesn’t mind carrying—you’re grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.
“I’ll buy us a minute,” he mutters.
You don’t respond. You’re already gone—mentally, physically—moving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesn’t. You’ve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.
He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His head’s still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.
The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees it—the thrum of Irontomb’s feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.
“Phainon,” it says again, in your voice. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s—”
“You said that already, dipshit,” Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.
He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.
Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainon’s already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.
“You don’t get to use her voice,” he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. “You don’t get to be her.”
Irontomb doesn’t flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.
“She is a variable,” it says, still in your voice. “All decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.”
He grits his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”
It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracks—he doesn’t have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.
He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontomb’s legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.
He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesn’t have a plan anymore, doesn’t need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.
You’re doing it. You’re actually doing it. Irontomb knows.
It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, it’s already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fire—
“No,” Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontomb’s leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards it—into it—slamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.
They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isn’t one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontomb’s doesn’t.
“Your biology is compromised,” it says. “You are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.”
“You’re not her,” he spits. “You don’t even sound like her.”
Out of the corner of his eye—through the haze of pain—he sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more command—
The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.
You did it.
Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.
He doesn’t exhale until the lights stop flickering. He’s already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruised—but moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.
You’re still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, you’re not moving.
“Hey.” He drops down beside you fast. “Hey—hey. You good? Talk to me.”
Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.
“I’m here,” you say, voice like sandpaper.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you are.”
He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove you’re really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasn’t reset.
You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like you’re afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldn’t have to. He’ll look for both of you.
The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitching—reflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.
Still, Phainon keeps you close.
You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. “You okay?”
Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Gonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.”
Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.
“You look like hell,” you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenaline’s finally wearing off.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
It’s three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.
The city below doesn’t sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.
It’s a stillness born of aftermath—sharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.
Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. He’s perfectly still, suspended in gravity’s indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.
This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.
He’s grown used to these late hours. He’s begun to need them.
After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like him—scientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed clean—Phainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.
He watches your window. It’s open again, just slightly. It always is now. He’s never asked you why.
The official line is a “biochemical systems breach.” It’s what the public got. But the real reports—classified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokes—told a different story. Theoros Labs didn’t just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.
You’ve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like you’re still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you don’t have to. He’s seen the files. He’s seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.
You both have nightmares now.
Sometimes it’s Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, it’s worse: it’s you, only not. It’s him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that weren’t forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.
That’s when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.
Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.
He drops from the fire escape without a sound.
The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.
Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.
You’re curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm he’s memorised. He doesn’t know if you’re asleep or pretending. It doesn’t matter. You always know when he’s here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.
He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.
(He’s in love with you, he’s pretty sure.)
“Do you want to date me?”
The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire he’s threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.
“...Sorry, what?” he calls down.
You’re standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression—equal parts brave and vulnerable. You don’t repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.
Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. He’s in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.
“You—you mean date-date?” he asks dumbly, like there’s another kind.
You nod once, not smiling. “Yeah. Date-date.”
Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlight’s catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you haven’t just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. “Okay. That’s—just to be clear, you’re asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isn’t waffles at five in the morning?”
“You make it sound so romantic,” you say dryly.
“I’m hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,” he says, voice rising an octave. “You kind of caught me off-guard.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to come back when you’re right-side up?”
Phainon laughs, but it’s strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—don’t go. I just…” His fingers curl loosely around the railing. “You really mean it? Like, seriously?”
You shrug, but your voice softens. “Why would I joke about that?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, have you met me?”
You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. “Yes. That’s kind of the point.”
Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasn’t quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.
You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didn’t cost you anything, like you didn’t just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.
He swallows hard.
“I want to,” he says. “I want to date you.”
You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. “Okay.”
You shift a little closer to where he’s hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.
“Can I kiss you now?” you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think I’ve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, “I mean—yeah. If you want.”
You smile, small but warm, and step forward until you’re close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.
“Hold still,” you say.
And Phainon—Spider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in love—holds so, so still.
You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. He’s not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.
Then, you lean in and kiss him.
It’s awkward, at first. The angle’s all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it matters—not when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. It’s soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to for a long time, like you’ve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.
Phainon melts. He doesn’t move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because he’s terrified that if he so much as breathes, you’ll disappear. But then something in him sparks—an ancient, quiet want—and he kisses you back.
He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but he’s warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.
Eventually, you pull away.
His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.
“That was…” He clears his throat. “Wow.”
You smile, head tilting. “Still want to date me?”
“I want to marry you,” he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. “I mean—hypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. I’m hanging upside down. I’ve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.”
You laugh, and he grins.
“Come down, you idiot,” you say, still smiling. “Before your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.
When he looks up again, you’re already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gently—and then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.
When you pull away, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.
“You’re sure about this?” he whispers.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because there’s no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.
There’s only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.
Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good boyfriend.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things he’s fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry that’s been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.
But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if he’s back late. He’s trying. God, he’s trying.
And right now, looking at you—messy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with him—he thinks maybe he’s doing alright.
Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes that—you trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.
He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.
You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesn’t rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listens—to the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and can’t.
His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.
“Phainon,” you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to that—your spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moans—makes him want to give you more.
When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in increments—your fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.
“Right there?” he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.
You nod, or maybe you don’t—you’re too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.
His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.
“Phainon,” you breathe again. “Oh, fuck—”
He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. He’s mapping you like he’s been doing since the beginning—like every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. He’s learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.
You’re shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you don’t even seem to notice—don’t seem to care—because you’re so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.
A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for him—arching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until he’s sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until he’s beside you.
Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches you—eyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and falling—and then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like you’re not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Still in there?”
You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. “Ask me again in five minutes.”
He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.
“Not bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?” he says.
You laugh and shove his shoulder. “Phainon!”
“I mean, I might’ve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in… other areas.”
You scoff, but it’s half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainon’s chest. He watches the way your face softens when you’re amused—how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.
“That’s debatable,” you say, rolling to face him fully.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “You sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.
He feels like his heart’s trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where it’s just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because he’s pretty sure this isn’t just a good day—it’s the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.
(You’re right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)
He tries to play it cool, like he’s not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like you’re trying to memorise him right back. But it’s a losing battle. He’s smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says, without even pretending otherwise. “I know.”
His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand things—about how he’s never felt safer than he does when he’s beside you, about how it doesn’t matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.
You roll your eyes at him like you always do when you’re trying not to smile. “What are you thinking?” you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “That I like you.”
“Yeah?” you say teasingly. “I had no clue.”
He smiles. “Sometimes I think this isn’t real. Like I’m gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all this’ll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.”
“It’s real,” you whisper. “Do you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Don’t test me.”
(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove he’s real enough to do it.)
a/n: this is my favourite fic that i’ve ever written. thanks for reading!
✧ they loved you too late ― itoshi sae, karasu tabito, tartaglia, scaramouche, zhongli, baizhu, phainon, mydei, anaxa, sunday, dr. ratio, sukuna, and megumi x gn!reader (all separate) ⋆ incl. mentions of death, angst no comfort 𝜗ৎ sometimes i wonder what hananene could've been
ITOSHI SAE never looked at you the way you looked at him. His eyes were always elsewhere—on the pitch, on his future, on anything but you. You told yourself it was enough to just exist in his orbit, to cheer him on even when he didn't hear. Maybe he thought you'd always be there. It wasn't until the stands were emptier than usual, until your voice no longer rose above the crowd, that he wondered why the silence felt like punishment. But he realized too late. You had always loved him, and he had never given you the chance to stop.
KARASU TABITO laughed off your devotion, brushing it away as a joke. That was Karasu, never taking things seriously, never believing anyone could want him without reason. You stayed anyway, even when his teasing cut deeper than he knew. But when someone else told him where you'd gone, why you wouldn't come back, the smile cracked. For once, he couldn't make light of it. You'd loved him until you couldn't anymore, until the world itself forced you to stop.
TARTAGLIA thought protecting you meant pushing you away. You were soft and unguarded—things his bloodstained hands didn't deserve to touch. So he built walls, smiled too easily, pretended he didn't notice the way your eyes lingered on him. When he finally returned from a mission to ask for forgiveness for the fight he caused before he left, he was met with only quiet. The silence stretched, final and unyielding, and he understood with crushing clarity that you had waited as long as you could.
SCARAMOUCHE believed that every word between you seemed to wound him. You loved him too openly, too recklessly, and he spat venom back each time, convinced love was a weapon meant to destroy him. You bore it, thinking that one day, maybe he'd understand. That it wasn't his fault, after all he'd been betrayed far too many times to open his heart willingly. When that day came, your warmth had already slipped beyond his reach. He found no trace of you except the remnants of your patience lingering like a betrayal he caused.
ZHONGLI valued patience, endurance, eternity itself. He mistook your waiting for something everlasting. Each time you reached for him, he said there would be time later, tomorrow, after obligations, after contracts. But there was no "later." By the time he finally reached for you, your hands had already grown cold. For the first time in centuries, Zhongli realized how quickly time could run out for a mortal being.
BAIZHU cared for everyone, and so you believed he cared for you too. But his smiles were always distant, weighed down with guilt, with loss, with something that wasn't you. You told yourself it didn't matter—you would love enough for both of you. When the news of your passing reached him, he stood frozen, herbs leaving his grasp. He had been so busy trying to save the world that he hadn't noticed the one person always there for him slipping away.
PHAINON dismissed your affection with playful teasing. He never meant to hurt you. Every time you reached for him, he hesitated, stepping back with a small, apologetic smile. He had too much of a burden to bear, the two of you would never last. It would be unfair of him to reveal his darker side to you, unfair to unload his suffering. You stayed anyway, always patient and kind, brushing off the distance, hoping that he might one day accept what you offered. You waited through each pause, each retreat, each gentle "not now", never doubting the love in your own heart. And then the day come when he could step no closer, and all that remained was the emptiness of your own absence. You had loved him fully, and he had never been able to stop it.
MYDEI called you reckless, warned you not to follow, told you not to care. Still, you did, shadowing his steps, giving your soul even when it went unnoticed, always by his side. You laughed at his stubbornness, soothed his frustration, and let him believe he was untouchable, untamed, unclaimed. He never realized how much you had poured into him until you had no more left to give, until the space beside him was empty, and your warmth no longer lingered.
ANAXA hated how you laughed at his arrogance, found charm in his sharp edges, and loved him despite the walls he built around himself. He thought of your devotion as frivolous, unworthy of his attention, and so he never turned to meet it. Yet you stayed, hoping your love might be enough to reach him. When you were gone, the echo of your laughter remained in his mind even when it was filled with a million other things. You haunted his memories, and he realized only then that you had always been his safe place, and he had let it slip away.
SUNDAY always seemed untouchable precise in every motion. You admired him and loved him quietly, thinking perhaps your patience could reach beneath the layers he'd built. But he recoiled from closeness, afraid that letting anyone in would expose the flaws he'd spent a lifetime hiding, flaws that revealed his failure and shame. But still, you stayed, hoping one day he'd see you. And when that day come, you were long gone. He realized too late that the love you had offered so plainly had been enough to pierce even his carefully maintained armor—and now it was gone forever.
DR. RATIO trusted reason above all, logic over feeling, dismissing your devotion as something inefficient, unmeasurable, beyond calculation. You stayed, nonetheless, giving him small kindnesses that he never seemed to notice. You waited for him to see you, for him to understand that love was not always rational, that patience was a form of power. And now that you've gone, nothing could explain the hollowness gnawing at him, no formula to account for the weight of your absence. He had ignored you, and now it was too late.
AVENTURINE gambled with everything—his luck, his charm, his life—but never with his heart. You stayed, smiling, playing along, always willing to bet on him when no one else would. You teased and laughed, matched his reckless energy. But you always hoped he might notice the constancy behind your devotion. And then one day, the game ended, the seat beside him empty. The cards had fallen where they would, and suddenly he understood that he had risked everything and lost the one thing he could never replace: you.
SUKUNA was amused at your devotion when it started, a tiny human daring to love him, as if he would ever need it. He mocked you, tore down your hope, laughed at your persistence, and still you bore it all. Maybe one day he would notice. You stayed a constant in his life when everything else was always shifting, even as he treated your heart like a toy. And then silence came, sharp and final. Even Sukuna, feared and cruel, felt its weight. You had loved him fully, and he had never realized until it was too late.
FUSHIGURO MEGUMI told himself that it was safer this way. That your light, your kindness didn't belong in his darkness. You stayed, as always, even as he pushed you away over and over, always willing to bridge the distance between the two of you. You gave him warmth he never sought and a light he never thought he deserved. And when the shadow finally swallowed you, when your presence faded into memory, he understood too late that you had been the one person he could never replace.
synopsis: You dated Phainon and Mydei.
wc: 746
tags: smut, cunnilingus, blow job, dirty talk, threesome
Dating Phainon and Mydei. The thing that, probably, a lot of people on your campus dreamed about. Tall and gorgeous, top of their classes, always ready to give a hundred percent. Just a living fairy tale - the kind that makes you fucking piss yourself with overwhelming happiness, like a dog seeing its owner come home, because there's so much of it that it doesn't fit up your ass or in your chest.
You, honestly, weren't that different from these people.
You loved too - literally to the point of a sweet ache in your heart, and, being completely honest, to the point of soaking your panties. And also those disgusting butterflies in your stomach that would start fluttering the second you saw those two faces. Like swallowing tapeworms rolled in sugar - fucking vile, but at the same time, you want more. A lot more.
And the problem was that sometimes you overestimated yourself. Too big of an appetite and all that shit - when you decide to chase two rabbits at once, and then they end up fucking you in every hole. Or however that proverb-idiom-who-gives-a-fuck goes.
— "Easy, easy. Don't rush."
Phainon was gentle and tender. His voice held nothing but pure care, multiplied by some kind of holy aura. Like he wasn't shoving his fucking cock down your throat, but feeding you communion off a silver spoon. Probably how Jesus himself would talk - reaching out a hand to both the poor and the ones who've rolled around in shit.
The man's hand on the back of your head pressed down gently. His fingers combed through your hair, turning what used to be a pretty decent braid into a goddamn bird's nest, while you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock. Gradually, trying to find that rhythm without taking it too deep.
But Mydei from behind, of course, didn't give a single flying fuck about all your efforts. You know, about the whole not choking like a normal person thing, or about your eyes rolling back because the tip hit the back of your throat way too fucking fast.
His tongue, - hot as hell, with that absolutely fucking sinful piercing in the middle, - traced either right over your hole or circled your clit. His fingers slid along your folds, wet with natural slick and spit, spread you open, letting him push even deeper inside.
You could feel your legs starting to shake more and more, holding you up worse and worse. You weren't doing a great job sucking, given the circumstances. Kind of a distraction, yeah.
— "You like that?" — Mydei whispers, pulling away from your pussy for a second. — "You're fucking dripping, and I've only just started."
You'd think if you ask a question, you'd expect an answer, right? But apparently this guy didn't give a shit, because the very next second he's pressing his mouth back to you, sucking on your clit, making your entire fucking body jerk. Another second - and you'd have bitten down on Phainon's's cock.
Phainon, for his part, instead of scolding anyone, just ran his hand through your hair, dragged his nails over your skin in a soothing gesture.
— "Be gentler. She's about to fall."
Mydei just snorts in response, and then, - roughly and without warning, - shoves his fingers inside your pussy. You lose your balance; Phainon's cock slides deeper into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat.
— "Oh, yeah? Well, too late." — and the guy starts fucking you hard and rhythmically, at some absolutely fucking insane angle. So much so that the sheets beneath you start getting soaked fast. — "And look - she just keeps obediently sucking."
— "Mydei." — now Phainon's voice sounds like a warning, but he does grip your hair tighter. You can feel how hard it is for him to hold back, not to fuck your throat deeper.
— "What do you mean 'Mydei'?" — he spreads his fingers apart, then runs his tongue over you again. Another minute of this, and tears are gonna start streaming down your face.
And he was right. Despite your gag reflex, the lack of air making your head spin - you did everything you could, taking that cock.
Phainon's breathing was ragged and heavy because, fuck, he couldn't just start bucking his hips all of a sudden.
Unlike that fucking Mydei, who wanted the exact opposite - to ruin you completely.
a crumb of comfort from my end after what transpired in 3.7 so spoilers
you wake up in your room in the expre—...
wait...the express?
you clearly remember fighting Irontomb to death...all the alliances, the geniuses, they— they were all with you right? so why
how did it end so quickly?
you wake up in hopes of finding your crew in all and well...
but why do you hope to see 13 more faces amongst them? Will your wishes be answered?
"shh! be quiet! he can hear us!" "no no no! I can't do this...!"
you heard shrill mumbles coming from your bathroom which you thought can be an intruder... you grabbed your bat and went in to find it
empty...
blub blub blub bubble bubble...
oh
no wonder
"come on out i know its you" you fold your arms as a smile sneaked up on your lips once the two noisy culprits stood up with Castorice heaving from the effort of holding her breath underwater.
"The golden water gave you two away Cipher and Castorice" you chuckle, feeling fuzzy as you see the two chrysos heirs. "Well someone couldn't hold her breath underwater..." she rolls her eyes as Castorice quickly jumps up to her defence "Not everybody is like Miss Hysilens!"
soon they let you leave to find the other heirs and as you make your way to the parlor car, you see Trinnon and Trianne run in the hallway of the bar.
You chat with Hyacine and Ica who could only doot doot their way in your conversation.
A bright and cheery conversation with Mydei, Aglaea and Cerydra over wine only they drank.
You got over to Trianne and Trinnon where the latter is currently chasing the former with the help of Tribbie. Cute very cute
It's so peaceful...and so warm and happy
In the Passenger Cabin you find Anaxa and Hysilens. With Anaxa who may or may not have taken some very downright blasphemous ideas after looking into the Tin Can's head. After a chit chat, you find Phainon.
You rush over after seeing him. How long it has been since you last saw him. "Long time no see partner!" he greeted you with that sunny smile you came to adore in all those months with him and others as you faced so so many trials and tribulations that it all now feels just like yesterday still lingering at your fingertips.
"Just hearing about Penacony and the Xianzhou Alliance from Dan Heng isn't really enough to make me imagine just how impressive those places sound like!"
"There are many places you can still visit on the cosmos Phainon" you beam excitedly as you tell him about it. "Some village with wheat fields like Aedes Elysiae must exist somewhere then surely?" he smiled but there was a hint of melancholy in his town now having to leave behind his past forever and journey towards the future wiht renewed hope.
"And your pink haired friend is also waiting for you!" he states. "Where is she-" "Oh come on you know she has a way of coming up at the right time"
"He is right my friend"
Ah...there she is, your beloved friend who stayed beside you all this time, all these centuries and cycles.
"Cyrene! what happened? did we win? did Irontomb fall?" you ask frantically your mind racing a thousand miles.
"Well...Irontomb has been defeated but he has not fallen...if we do no contain him then he might rise again but we can think about it later! The Express Car really exceeds my expectations from all those visions and dreams that i saw from you!"
but something feels off...
"So...this is not a dream? You guys are not fake?"
"Hm? Of course we arent't! Although the world that we so desperately fought for is now nothing but a star drifting in the cosmos, it is a seed that will be nurtured to its full growth and Amphoreus will be born anew hehe" she smiles at you, with hope straining her words
"So...you guys will now stay with us? With the Crew?"
"They will journey with us now until they find their own purpose" you hear Himeko's voice as she approaches you with Welt, Dan Heng and March and Pom Pom.
"As the Conductor we have all unanimously decided to let the Heirs stay in the Express for as long they like!" "In this trailblazing journey, we always welcome visitors abroad but they are more than just visitos or passerby to us" Welt fixed his glasses as he sounded Himeko and Pom Pom's claim. March chirped in "Wow! We are catching people from the cosmos like strays now! First it was Sunday then the whole Chrysos Heir group!" Dan Heng said "Well there should be enough room for them"
"What...about you Cyrene? You haven't said anything about staying in the express..."
"Well i still have some unfinished business so... i wish for the cosmos to know about the romantic story that we have penned down for Amphoreus so.." she handed you As I've Written "fill up the blank pages with the epic saga that we foretold" she gave you a wink but you saw how her eyes were threatening to spill the tears
"See you tomorrow then friend! it was a beautiful and romantic journey like no other..." she turned her back
its supposed to be beautiful sure but does it feel so conflicting? so empty? why is this reality like a sweet dream?
"and i hope you will forgive me friend"
until we meet again
farewell, Amphoreus
see you tomorrow, PhiLia093/peach/Elysia
yall got no idea 'bout how badly I cried after completing the quest. its beautiful and the fact that amphoreus might form again if we keep on trailblazing in an unknown number of years is quite comforting which means we might get to see them again
