Premise : Picture a parallel universe where all your blorbos are the ones expressing their profound yearning for you (yes, YOU) through the sacred arts of fanfics, fanarts and exchanging kudos. Perhaps you're a celebrity, perhaps you're just an ordinary person charming enough to have an entire fandom behind you or, you're the fictional character in this universe instead. Let's dive into this website, shall we?
Note : So uh, I typed this down with almost zero critical thinking and 100% whimsy within one hour. Character selection is random, too. Please excuse any unintentional errors <3
— THE WRITERS AND ARTISTS
Phainon has an erratic writing pattern, no one can guess what this guy will whip up in his next post. One moment he's weaving gourmet in text-form about an emotion-packed forbidden love story between knight and monarch and the next he's posted some unedited word vomit with a witty ‘no beta we die like ___’ tag. That, or it's his stick figure comics against the world. Everyone thinks he's mad funny though, so the readers forgive him.
Scaramouche who started as a HATER. What do you mean people are so obsessed with one person that they've made a digital shrine of fanfics and fanarts for them? He's going to do a thorough research on you... for the sake of ethically sourced hate of course. One thing leads to another, his ‘research’ spirals and all you need to know is that he's a diehard [Name] simp now — not that he'd admit it.
Mydei who, in great contrast to his usual self, writes some very cutesy stuff. “What if you two turned into chimeras for a day” stuff like that. He's mostly known for his chibi drawings though. Very escapism-from-a-burdened-life themed, if you want to psychoanalyze, that is.
Sunday who just can't cross the boundary of writing gentlemanly hand-kisses and heartfelt hugs in terms of physical affection, even though he's probably read hardcore smut by someone else. And even when he's writing about kissing your hand, he's squirming in his seat, wings restless enough for him to start taking flight or something. His characterization tends to be very thoughtful though so the readers don't care.
One of the very first dwellers of the website, Gepard's... unique drawings fed many people back in the days and are still remembered fondly to this date. Nowadays, he isn't as active as he used to be though.
Venti's blog is dedicated to poetry about you, everyone is low-key jealous of his rhyming skills. He's also one of the more active people, sharing others' works regularly without fail.
Dr. Ratio who becomes SICK of the amount of mischaracterization floating around about you in the fanfics and the burn from the majority of the fics not meeting his standards, so, he starts writing fanfics catering to his specific needs himself.
Alhaitham who posted like two or three 10k something word-count fics and then dipped because he lost motivation. The readers are still in mourning, because he left them on a devasting cliff-hanger. Kaveh, Cyno and Sethos have made a ‘Day X until @/vulturevolans posts’ chain in the comments. They just don't know it's Alhaitham who's the writer.
Albedo is that artist whose works you'd think would be hung on museum walls, yet, he's here posting jaw-dropping art with you as the muse. His ‘character study’ series of sketches about you is noted to be... very brainrot-worthy, let's say.
— MISC. INHABITANTS
Aventurine is the famous ‘commissioner’ guy who drops by people's inboxes with hilarious memes seeking fic or art, or just to appreciate the existing works. You can bet he's commissioned something out of every writer and artist on this site.
Childe is another commissioner. He'd most likely commission Phainon though because he knows Phainon can whip up a good flirting-through-sparring oneshot with accuracy ensured about how a sword works and all. They say Varka of Mondstadt has this fic printed and binded like a book.
Don't tell the Trailblazer and March 7th, but Dan Heng is one of the admins who manage the site. He knows every work posted here like the back of his hand. He may or may not know about the true identities of everyone who has an account on this website.
— NOTABLE READERS
Anaxa who gets exposed as a fanfic reader in class after he accidentally comments, ‘‘This looks like something that you'd find in fanfiction.[you].net.’’ while grading a few students' (read: Phainon and Castorice) essays. He got back at them with the threat of ‘If the next fic doesn't meet my standards, I'm failing you.’ though. So, no worries.
Argenti who's known as the ‘long comment guy’. He leaves whole paragraphs of praises with sparkly rosy emojis under every work on the site, without exception. It's kind of an honor to receive his comments.
Ayato, Jing Yuan, Flins, Neuvillette and Zhongli aren't really part of the dramatic crew. They tend to savour the works from a distance. They don't even have to commission the writers here, the sincere compliments and ideas they share are enough to keep the facilitation of brainrot smooth.
in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.
“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.
“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.
“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”
it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.
“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.
you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.
you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.
it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”
well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”
and that certainly didn’t make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
it’s deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”
there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."
mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.
“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”
“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”
“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.
mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.
“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.
“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.
you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.
“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.
but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.
“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”
“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.
but his darling wife doesn’t know that.
and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.
the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."
you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."
phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?
“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”
“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”
she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”
“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.
mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”
“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.
“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”
“y-your highness, i only—”
mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.
phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”
but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”
you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”
ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”
“mydei.”
…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”
he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.
“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.
“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”
ah. that does it.
mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.
“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.
“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“i’m not mad i—”
“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”
mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.
phainon smiles. “then tell her.”
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”
the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.
right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.
because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”
“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”
there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.
and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he just—?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.
“the prince has a sweet tooth.”
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”
mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.
still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”
phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.
oh no.
“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”
you frown. “phainon—”
he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”
“huh?”
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"
“that’s enough.”
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.
nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.
it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.
and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.
“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.
you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?
“... and i wanted one today.”
“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”
his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.
it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.
“if it’s for you,”
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i’d do anything.”
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.
ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…
is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.
for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.
the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
“you came back to me,” you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
“i always will.”
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.
“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”
with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”
“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.
“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless that is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him.”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
────────────────────────
After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
────────────────────────
In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
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,
summary:- you just read a novel from the famous "lygus", a popular novelist who quite literally everyone knows. you absolutely despise him. why? cuz of this damn novel he wrote which had sooo much potential but guess what? it had been watered down to no plot, only sadistic torture of the innocent main character, phainon. And now, you are stuck in it, taking the role as the main villain who is responsible for his suffering.
CW: female reader, non-canon au (historical), we are a little shit, phainon is lowkey insane (yandere-ish), aglanaxa are my parents, suggestive, obsession, violence and graphic mentions of torture
-> part 2 is here!
Phainon’s eyes were empty.
The once brilliant light that had burned in him, an unyielding will, a warmth that had once drawn people in—was gone. Now there was only ash where the fire used to be. His sword hung at his side, more a chain than a weapon, and the weight of countless lifetimes pressed into his shoulders until his back was permanently bowed.
Around him, the battlefield was silent. There were no corpses left, no ruins, no reminders of the ones he’d fought for—only the void. The void, and the cruel knowledge of every cycle he had lived and lost. Faces blurred and dissolved in his mind, the names of his companions vanishing one by one until nothing remained but a hollow ache he could no longer place.
And yet… the cycle would begin again.
It always did.
Phainon’s lips moved without feeling. “I… will carry out the sentence..for i, am the executioner.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
"WHAT??" You scream out loud in frustration, slamming the book shut so hard the poor spine probably filed for abuse charges.
You stare at the cover like it was something terrifying (which it was). The Last Dawn of the Deliverer, by the “genius” himself—Lygus. Bestseller. Five-star reviews. And now, officially, the bane of your existence. What the hell is wrong with him?
“This is it? This is the grand ending?” you rant to no one, waving the book around like a flag, compensating on throwing it against the wall with full strength, but the book costs too much for it to be thrown around like that.
You flip it open again just to make sure you didn’t hallucinate it in some bizarre fever dream. Nope. It’s all still there. The endless misery. The memory loss trope. The eternal despair. You can practically hear Lygus giggling to himself while writing it, thinking he’s so deep and poetic while he rips Phainon apart piece by piece.
You flop back on your bed, groaning into your pillow. "Fuck this author, Fuck this book, Everything sucks!! AAAAAGH"
You’d been rooting for him from page one. He was everything a main character should be—resilient, kind, stubborn in the face of impossible odds. And then Lygus went and… executed him, in the most metaphorical and literal way possible.
You toss the book onto the floor. “Trash. Garbage. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend unless I want to ruin someone’s week.”
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You ignore it, still fuming. Honestly, if you could punch your way into that novel just to drag Phainon out of it, you would.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought lingers, half-bitter, half-joking: If I ever woke up in that world, I’d make sure none of this ever happened.
.
.
.
.
"WHAT THE FUCK??"
The words leave your mouth before your brain can catch up.
You’re no longer on your bed, no longer in your cramped apartment surrounded by snack wrappers and half-finished laundry piles. No, you’re in a throne room—because of course you are. And it’s exactly the kind of place a villain would be caught dead in: high arched windows bleeding in cold light, black marble floors that reflect your every twitch, and a ridiculously oversized throne that could seat three people but is apparently meant just for you.
The problem is, you recognize this room.
It’s the opening of Chapter 27—the point in The Last Dawn of the Deliverer where the "Tyrant of Humanity- Lycurgus” (aka the absolute bastard responsible for 90% of Phainon’s trauma) is introduced. And now? Yeah. You’re sitting exactly where that tyrant sat.
A cold realization slams into you like a freight train. You glance down at your hands, still your hands. No sudden delicate villain fingers with jeweled rings. You touch your face—still your face, familiar skin, same jawline. You’re not in someone else’s body.
But when you look up…
The guards lining the throne room bow stiffly, their armor clinking in perfect unison.
"Your Excellency," one says, voice sharp with discipline and one might even say, fear. "We’ve captured the rebel scouts you ordered us to find. They await your judgment."
Oh no.
Oh no.
You don’t have to ask who those “rebel scouts” are—you know. This is the chapter where Phainon first meets the villain. Where you—well, not you, but the villain or the author whose job you now apparently have orrders the execution of innocents to break Phainon’s spirit. Because, well, the author is the villain in this novel.
You open your mouth, about to scream “WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT PRANK IS THIS?!” but stop when you catch your reflection in the polished marble floor.
It’s still you. Same hair, same eyes. But here, in this world, everyone is looking at you with the kind of fearful respect reserved for people who could order your death with a snap of their fingers.
The guard shifts uncomfortably. “…Your Excellency?”
Your brain is doing cartwheels. You’re still you—but somehow, in this world, you are the villain. The tyrant. The architect of Phainon’s suffering.
Which means—
You swallow hard.
If you do nothing, Phainon’s story plays out exactly as you read it.
But if you act… maybe, just maybe, you can burn this entire plot to the ground.
You force yourself to stand, channeling every ounce of fake confidence you’ve ever used in your school classroom during project presentations. “Bring them to me,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake.
Because if you’re the villain now? Fine.
You’re going to be the worst villain Lygus has ever had the misfortune of creating.
And that is, by defying every single string plot that he created, you were going to make your own plot now.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The guards move in perfect formation, spears glinting under the cold light as the massive double doors creak open.
Bootsteps echo against the marble.
And there they are.
Phainon walks at the front, wrists bound in iron shackles that look far too heavy for any human, though he moves like the weight is nothing. His head is high despite the bruising at his temple, silver hair catching the light, eyes sharp yet it was still..gentle.
Behind him follow Aglaea, Mydei, and Anaxa—each worn from travel but had the aura of authority, the kind of people who refuse to bow even when they should. Hyacine keeps close to the triplets, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon—stare wide-eyed at the towering throne room. And, only Castorice had come without chains.
God. Seeing them in person—these people you’d only read about feels unreal. In the book, this was the point where Lygus twisted the knife: the villain making a cruel spectacle of their capture, ordering their execution to shatter Phainon’s last shred of hope.
Not this time.
The guards shove the group forward, forcing them to kneel. “We found them attempting to smuggle food and weapons to the rebel base in Amphoreus, Your Excellency,” one announces, voice dripping with satisfaction.
In the novel, this was where the villain sneered. Where they spat some venom about traitors and loyalty before making Phainon watch helplessly as the others were dragged away.
You lean forward on the throne, resting your chin in your palm. And then—
You smile.
A warm, genuine smile that doesn’t belong in this scene at all. “You protected Amphoreus?” you say, voice bright with approval. “Incredible work!! Truly inspiring :)”
Absolute, stunned silence.
The guards exchange bewildered looks. Aglaea’s head jerks up sharply, Mydei blinks like he’s trying to confirm he heard correctly, and Anaxa mouths something under his breath that’s definitely not polite.
Phainon’s gaze narrows, suspicion flickering there, as though he’s waiting for the punchline.
“You’re not… angry?” Phainon ventures cautiously.
“Angry?” you scoff, waving a hand. “Why would I be angry at people risking their lives to protect innocents from an invading force? That’s… admirable. The kind of courage I like to see.”
You lean back in the throne like your personality didn't do a complete 180 flip. “In fact, I should be thanking you. Amphoreus has been through enough, it’s about time someone stepped up to defend it.”
The triplets exchange glances, then you throw a glance at the three, yet they didn't withdraw themselves, Classic Tribios. No wonder they were the leader of the group.
You clear your throat. “Right. Well. You’re free to go. Guards—untie them. Immediately.”
The room goes still again.
“…Your Excellency?” one guard asks, like maybe they misheard and you actually meant execute instead of release.
You meet his eyes. “Did I not make myself clear?”
Chains clatter to the floor, and your eyes return to the group.
"Host them a party, assign them their following rooms and clothing. Their headquarters will be in the royal palace from now on."
The guards looked more shcoked than you after the ending of the novel. Their expressions shifted from confusion, to disbelief, to the kind of internal screaming usually reserved for emergency war drills. One of them even opened his mouth, probably to remind you that these people were enemies of the crown, before thinking better of it under your glare.
Phainon was the first to move. He straightened to his full height, chains gone, rubbing his wrists in silence. His eyes were locked on you, unblinking, and then, within a flash, his empty eyes changed to those of a fake saccharine facade. He smiled widely at you, bowing down towards you, thanking you for your 'gratitude'.
Girl, no, you were just saving your ass from the torturous death he was about to give you.
Aglaea exchanged a glance with Mydei, her lips pressing into a tight, mistrustful line, but then her alluring yet empty, turquoise eyes stared right at you, and she smiled at you. Full of elegance, as always.
The three triplets had the most maturity out of all of them, despite their appearance of an 8-year-old child.
“You’ll be given rooms in the west wing. Fresh clothes, proper food, and baths. The party will be tomorrow evening, make sure they’re not served the bland menu. I want them to be treated like actual heroes."
Your voice made the guards jump to action, bowing before hurrying out to arrange the chaos you’d just dumped in their laps.
Ah, money and power is the best.
“I’m… sorry, what exactly is going on here?” Mydei’s tone was as destructive as the power he was known for. “Last I checked, we were getting skinned alive for having golden blood. Now we’re getting royal hospitality?”
You smiled like you were enjoying an inside joke no one else was in on. “Consider it a… shift in policy.” You let the words hang in the air.
“You fought to protect Amphoreus. That’s more than I can say for most of my so-called loyalists. So yes, you’ll be treated with respect. You’ve earned it.”
The group turned their back as the soldiers lead their way into the guest-area hallway of the palace.
"Y-your highness?! We can't possibly do that! This is against the law your father had passed down decades ago!"
"We'll just make a new one."
"YOU'RE MAJEST-?!" You glare at him, which means "Shut up before your head is displayed on the palace entrance."
The poor man’s mouth snapped shut so fast you were half-surprised his jaw didn’t break. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the marble, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to the titans before retreating with the rest of the stunned guards.
The grand throne room door groaned shut behind Phainon’s group, leaving you alone with the echo of their footsteps and the faint, suffocating silence of a palace that was not used to this kind of disruption.
You slumped back in the throne, running a hand over your face.
The door to the side of the throne creaked open, and in swept Chancellor Caenis—one of the chief advisors you vaguely remembered from the book. Sharp nose, sharper tongue, and a political backbone made entirely of stone. She looked at you as if you’d personally thrown the kingdom into ruins, (which you did but anw).
“Your Excellency,” she began, each syllable dipped in acid, “would you mind explaining to me why the most dangerous insurgents in the empire are not only alive, but being hosted in our home?”
“Because,” you said sweetly, “unlike most of my staff, I can recognize competence when I see it.”
“That competence,” Caenis snapped, “has burned our supply lines, toppled our outposts, and rallied half the borderlands to their cause. You’ve given them access to the palace, Your Excellency. Do you understand what that means?”
“Mind your tone, Caenis,” you said sternly, making her shrink down, stretching your legs out. “It means they’re under my watch, where I can keep an eye on them. It also means Amphoreus has a fighting chance at surviving the mess my father had made 50 years ago, purely because he hated the golden-blooded. I will not be the one who enables my father's cruel actions, not anymore.”
Caenis’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again like a fish gasping for water on land. “And the law your father—”
“I said,” you interrupted, leaning forward with the kind of slow, deliberate motion that made her stiffen, “we’ll make a new one. Or perhaps you’d like to argue with the tyrant herself? Do you want a miserable death, Caenis?"
She froze completely and a smile appeared on your face again.
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.
She bowed stiffly and withdrew, though you caught the way her hands were clenched behind her back.
As the door closed again, you exhaled, heart hammering. God, that was terrifying. Your legs were shaking underneath the thickness of your dress, ugh as if the sun wasn't enough, you were wearing red velvet and 7 layers ontop.
"I will be going back to my headquarters; do not summon me unless of absolute necessity." You said eyeing at your attendants before you pick up the floof of your gown and walk in a straight posture despite your legs feeling like jelly.
Your attendants bowed low, murmuring the usual rehearsed phrases of obedience, but you could feel their curious gazes burning into your back. No doubt, by dinner, the entire palace staff would be whispering about the insane turn of events in the throne room.
The hallway stretched ahead, sunlight spilling in through the tall arched stained windows, painting the marble floor in ribbons of colours. Every step made the weight of your gown sway against your legs, the distant echo of your heeled boots clacking in time with your pounding heart. You kept your head high, the picture of imperial composure, even as your thoughts ran in circles, screaming.
Okay. You survived the scene. You changed the outcome. No one died. Yet. That’s good. Great, even. But also, holy hell, you just declared open defiance against a law that’s been in place for fifty years, in front of half the guard corps and your most politically venomous advisor. But holy shit, that felt soooo good, You hated Caenis since the beginning, from when you saw her.
The deeper you walked into the west wing, the quieter it became—guards stationed only at the ends of the corridors, and the sound of court politics replaced by the distant cry of gulls from the sea cliffs beyond the palace. You didn’t stop until you reached the private antechamber to your quarters.
The moment the door shut behind you, the mask cracked.
You squeal out and immediately kick off your shoes, asking your maid to fetch the knight's uniform. The overweight gown and jewelry were far more than what you expected. But luckily, Lygus was an extremely good fighter, so people won't question much.
You close your eyes, embracing the silence and then you squeal and giggle again, thinking about Phainon. Oh god, he looked majestic.
It’s honestly unfair, the way Phainon exists normally. His face isn’t just handsome, it’s the kind of handsome that makes you forget basic functions. His silver hair falls in a way like that of moonlight shining, and his eyes are sharp enough to cut through your composure but warm enough to make you want to sink into them and never surface. His eyes truly were the ocean you wanted to sink in.
You smile yo yourself and bury your face in your pillow, screaming in it, relieving all your stress before your assigned maid knocks on the door, asking whether she could come inside.
You clear your throat, trying to smother the embarrassing little squeal that had just escaped into your pillow.
“Enter,” you call, voice only, mostly steady.
The door opens, and your maid, Arnes, slips inside with the careful grace of someone who’s been navigating royal moods for years. She carries the folded knight’s uniform in her arms, the dark leather and gold accents catching the flicker of blue lamplight.
She sets it down on the low table by your bed and dips into a curtsey. “Your Highness, the uniform you requested. Shall I assist you in changing?”
You sit up, smoothing your hair like you hadn’t just been rolling around giggling like a lovesick idiot. “Yes. And quickly."
Arnes moves to help you, deftly undoing the fastenings of your gown. The heavy velvet slides away, layer by suffocating layer, until you can breathe again. You stretch your arms, feeling your muscles complain from hours of sitting still on the throne, pretending to be unshakable.
Once dressed in the uniform, the shift is immediate. The fitted leather plates, the loosened trousers, the weight of the sword belt at your hip. This was much what you were used to from your own world, compared to the heavy 7 layer gowns. Probably a sign to order more free dresses.
Arnes pauses before tightening the last strap. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Highness… but the palace is buzzing about your decision in the throne room today.”
Of course it is.
You glance at her through the mirror, one brow arched. “And what is it they’re saying?”
She hesitates, then meets your eyes in the reflection. “Some think you’ve gone mad. Others… that you’ve found a way to tame the untamable.” A faint smile touches her lips. “They don’t know whether to be terrified or impressed.”
You snort. “But, the commoners are most happy right?”
Arnes’s smile widens, just barely, like she’s trying not to look too pleased about delivering good news.
“Yes, Your Highness. Word reached the market square before the hour was up."
"..I see"
The nobility will not appreciate it, though.
"I will be going for a short nap now. You may leave now, Arnes. Thank you."
Arnes simply bows and nods before heading out and closing the door, leaving you alone again, a little suffocated this time, though. But you head to your bed and lie down. Much more comfortable with trousers this time. And then you felt your eyes get heavy before one final thought runs as you fell asleep.
Phainon is going to break into my room when im asleep isnt he?
Phainon is shocked by how much you murmur in your sleep. You felt more human than the tyrant everyone knew. The air in your quarters was warm and faintly scented with something floral, a sharp contrast to the salt wind he’d grown used to. Moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating the tangle of sheets and the steady rise and fall of your breathing. You were sprawled in the knight’s uniform, still—an odd choice for someone who’d spent the day sitting in a throne—and your sword belt lay within arm’s reach.
Phainon stepped closer, each movement deliberate. He studied your face in the dimness, the faint crease between your brows, the way your hand curled slightly as if ready to grab steel even in sleep. Not the same as the ruler from the book, he knew you should’ve been. You’d looked at him today with… something else.
“You’re not like..from before,” he murmured under his breath,
He crouched at your bedside, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes never leaving yours as if waiting for the moment you’d wake and catch him here.
It would be interesting to see how you reacted.
To his dismay, his hair accidentally brushed against your nose, and your hand instinctively slapped the softness of Phainon's cheek, still asleeep, thankfully.
“…die, Lygus… die—how dare you…”
The name hit him like a thrown dagger. Lygus. That name was awfully familiar; he never appeared in any of the cycles. His jaw tightened, his heart thumping loudly and making his head spin.
Just.. who is Lygus and why does he deserve such hatred from you, the empress herself?.
He sat back slightly on his heels, frowning. Was it an act? A convenient dream to make him lower his guard?
Phainon studied your sleeping face, lit faintly by the moon. There was no mask here, or fake smirk. Just a regular girl sleeping and uhm...drooling on the pillow.
He wanted to chuckle a bit at the sight of you, but that unsettled him.
He leaned forward again, close enough to hear the quiet little huffs of breath when you exhaled. The floral, rrefreshing scent clung faintly to you, and it made him think of spring mornings long before the cycles had started. It made him relive the memories he swore to close off forever.
Of Aedes Elysiae
He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting over the sword belt within your reach. You weren’t careless. Even asleep, some part of you was ready to fight. That… he could respect.
Your hand twitched again, and your lips moved, the words softer this time. “…should’ve—burned him myself…”
Phainon felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward in curiosity.
Maybe he wouldn’t kill you tonight after all.
He rose to his feet soundlessly, stepping back into the shadows of your room. His silver hair caught in the moonlight one last time before he slipped toward the balcony doors. And then, he's gone.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The first thing you were aware of was warmth. Not the gentle kind from a blanket, but the deep, bone-soaaking warmth that came from sinking into a bath.
Your eyelids fluttered open to sunlight streaming through the tall windows of your chambers. The scent of roses and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint steam that curled above the enormous marble tub you were currently reclining in. Two attendants knelt at either side, their hands deft and practiced as they poured water over your shoulders, the heat cascading down your back in soothing waves.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” one of them murmured, bowing her head slightly before taking up a silken cloth to scrub away the remnants of yesterday’s grime. The water shimmered faintly from the oils already mixed into it—orange blossom and something sweet you couldn’t quite name.
You let yourself lean back, the carved edge of the tub cool against your neck. If nothing else, being royalty had its perks. Your muscles loosened as the second attendant worked on your hair, combing fingers through to untangle it before rinsing it in the perfumed water.
“Careful,” you warned idly, “if you pull too hard, you’re walking out of here bald.”
They tittered nervously, but their pace didn’t falter. One reached for a small crystal vial and poured a rich amber oil into her palms, working it into your skin with gentle, sweeping motions. The oil warmed instantly, leaving your arms and shoulders with a faint, golden sheen.
By the time they were done, the water had cooled slightly, and you stood with their help, stepping onto the thick towels they’d spread at your feet. Another servant approached with your knight’s uniform, freshly pressed, the black-and-crimson leather polished until it caught the morning light.
Piece by piece, they dressed you—tightening straps, smoothing seams, fastening the heavy cloak at your shoulders. The scent of the oils clung faintly beneath the crisp leather, a reminder that under all the armor, you were still the Empress.
Your sword belt was buckled into place last, the weight of it grounding you in a way the gown never could.
“Breakfast will be brought to your study,” one attendant murmured, bowing low.
“Good, I will be going to visit the heirs in a while.” you replied, stepping away from the tub and toward the tall mirrors.
Man you look pretty.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The corridors leading toward the Chrysos wing (formerly the guest room wing) were nothing like the rest of the palace.
Here, the air carried a faint warmth, tinged with something intoxicating. Not quite perfume, not quite incense but it was softer, subtler, like the lingering scent of someone you couldn’t forget.
Gold-veined marble stretched beneath our feet, and rose-hued glass panels along the ceiling filtered the sunlight into a perpetual blush. Everything about this section felt tailored to seduce the senses without overwhelming them.
Aglaea had been in this quarter for a day and yet it feels like you had been stepping into her domain rather than the opposite.
“They call her the demigod of romance,” one of the palace attendants murmured as she walked ahead of us, tone reverent.
You had to physically hold your mouth back from jsut ranting all about Lady Aglaea, she was truly something, beautiful, smart and etc etc (its 4 am im sleepy rn)
And then, you opened the door to her headquarters.
Her presence hit like the cold breeze during spring — radiant, warm yet cold at the same time, and utterly impossible to look away from. She was truly effortlessly elegant.
Her eyes flicked briefly towards you and looked at us dead in the eyes, before standing and doing a curtsy to show respect to us.
“Lady Aglaea,” you greeted, keeping your tone warm, but not dripping with the kind of calculated charm that she herself wielded so effortlessly. “I trust the accommodations have been to your liking?”
Her lips curved just slightly, the faintest smile, like she was indulging you. “They’re… adequate,” she replied, voice soft but measured. “Your staff is attentive. The space is comfortable. It is… awfully concerning, however, to find myself welcomed into the very palace that once sent knights to hunt my kin.”
There it was — her way of balancing courtesy with truth. Not an accusation, but a reminder.
You didn’t flinch. In fact, you stepped a little closer, careful to match her unhurried pace. “Then consider this my first step in amending a… rather unfortunate history,” you said, letting a bit of sincerity slip through. “You’ve earned your place here, Aglaea. I’d like you to feel that this isn’t just a guest quarter, but now yours.”
Her gaze sharpened ever so slightly, like she was trying to decide whether you were serious or just another ruler playing diplomat. “Possession is a dangerous word,” she mused, turning slightly toward one of the petal-strewn fountains. “It suggests permanence… and permanence suggests trust. I don’t give that lightly.”
You followed her movement, stopping just beside the fountain. “I’m not asking for your trust,” you said. “Only your time. The rest, I’ll earn.”
For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the trickle of water and the distant flutter of the rose-colored drapes in the breeze. Then, she let out a small, almost imperceptible hum. Not quite agreement, but not dismissal either.
“You speak differently than I expected,” Aglaea said finally, her turquoise eyes studying you. “The stories painted you as… colder.”
The corner of your mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Perhaps the stories were written by people who never spoke to me.”
A faint laugh slipped past her lips, light, melodic, and short-lived, as if she hadn’t meant to let it happen. She shook her head slightly, the sunlight catching in her hair as she turned toward one of the tall windows.
“Very well,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward a side door. “Walk with me. If you wish to make my quarters feel like they belong to me, then you should see what I value.”
“I wonder,” Aglaea continued smoothly, “how you intend to keep the rest of us from perishing the nobility before your ‘shift in policy’ takes root.”
"Soon, don't worry, bearer of romance :)" You were cursing yourself internally again on how cringe you sounded in front of one of your favorite girl characters in the entire damn novel
"I would like to ask you regarding the other heirs," you said lightly, looking right at her.
She glanced over her shoulder at you, one brow raised. "Well then, let's start with Mydeimos, shall we?"
You smirk awkwardly. “Ah, yes, the one with the red tattoos?” you're actually quite proud of yourself on how you're acting so wonderfully clueless when you actually know each and every detail about these characters.
That earned you a hum of agreement. “Mydei is the demigod of strife, or what you people call destruction. He's like a furnace, always lit with bottomless fire. This fire will either be completely doused in a storm or melt down his own existence with it. He is one of the most respectful warriors.” She tilted her head toward you, eyes glinting.
"And...About the triplets, the three of them, they are the leader, are they not?"
Aglaea smirks at you before answering, “Teacher. They’re more ancient than they appear. The first demigod of Passage — leaders, truly. They were once the holy maiden of Januspolis, but then, after claiming the coreflame of passage, they separated into 1000 versions of themselves. Only three of them remain now.”
You nodded like a student taking mental notes from their favorite professor. “Hyacine?”
The smirk turned into something gentler. “The demigod of the Sky. She is soft as the lightest breeze and bright as the first rays of dawn. The world had been far too long dark; the time has come for her healing to be the new light.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide a grin. "She sounds like a sweetheart !” and she is a sweetheart, an absolute cutie yet...terrifying when angry. you wish to just squish her chubby cheeks!! and that fat unicorn of hers.
"She is like the sun's gentle rays after a storm," You nod to yourself, this is Aglaea of course shes poetic as hell.
"And about..Anaxagoras?"
"..I do not agree with the ideals of that blasphemer, but we are the same when it comes to the determination with which we seek our dreams. He is a respectable figure and certainly suitable as the Demigod of Reason."
Your lips curved faintly, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. just kiss already bro
Aglaea straightened slightly, her poise flawless, and regarded you with that same unreadable half-smile and cold, empty eyes. “Why do you ask so much about us, Your Highness? Most rulers prefer to keep their distance from those who might eclipse them.”
You held her gaze, letting your own smile mirror hers. “Because I’d rather know the ones who might change my world before they do.”
You leaned forward slightly, as if the next name on your mental list was one you’d been waiting for.
“And Phainon?”
"Your highness, I needn't introduce him to you; you already look at him as if you are familiar with him.
Heat rose, unbidden, at the implication. You forced your expression to remain perfectly neutral, though your fingers curled faintly in the folds of your pant pocket.
holy shit am i that obvious?
“That is because,” you said carefully, “I’ve heard his name enough times to commit it to memory." okay bro 🥀
The demigod’s brow arched ever so slightly. “Of course.”
As the words hung in the air, the double doors at the far end of Aglaea’s marble hall opened soundlessly, Aglaea wishes you goodbye as you head next to..Phainon's quarters.
Would he care? ugh what if he-
Your thought gets cut off by your servant, who opens the door to his headquarters. Revealing a tall, silver-haired man bowing down with an awfully sweet smile, yet an aura which could make even the strongest warrior fall down to his knees.
"Greetings ,Your highness!"
You inclined your head, mirroring the formality. “Phainon.”
“I trust you slept well?” he asked lightly, though there was a glint in his eyes that made the question feel far less casual than it sounded.
You allowed yourself the smallest of smiles. “Well enough.”
His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the sword at your hip, then back to your face. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “The palace can be… unpredictable at night.”
Somehow, you couldn’t tell if that was a warning, an observation, or simply bait to see how you’d react.
You decided not to give him the satisfaction of an obvious answer. “I imagine you’ve seen worse.”
“I have seen worse,” he agreed, stepping closer with an ease that made the hairs on the back of your neck stir. “And better. But rarely something quite as… interesting as last night.”
Oh, he was absolutely doing this on purpose.
Your heartbeat ticked up, though you managed to keep your voice steady. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not.” His tone was the picture of innocence, but the glimmer in his eyes told another story. “Still, I’m glad to see you safe and—” his gaze dipped, fleeting but deliberate, to the faint crease where your jacket met your shoulder “—well armed.”
You swallowed. Gods, he was exactly like in the novel—saying the nicest things in the most disarming way possible, making you feel like you were both being complimented and tested at the same time.
Phainon gestured toward the seating area beside the tall windows, his movements as precise as a blade’s edge. “Would you join me for tea, Your Highness? I promise it’s not poisoned.”
You almost laughed, but the little voice in the back of your head whispered but what if it was? Still, this was Phainon. The Phainon. And this man absolutely hates you whilst you love him. You even notice the red puffiness of his skin underneath his eyes, even his soft lips, scars, and just—everything.
he doesnt know that though.
Your escort peeled away to let you breathe in the courtyard’s evening air after the meeting with the Chrysos heirs. A few servants were already stringing lanterns across the archways in preparation for the banquet. Soft bells chimed overhead when the wind shifted, scattering the last of the petals from the garden paths.
By the time the sky deepened to midnight blue, the palace had transformed. The great banquet hall glowed with fireflies. A sea of silk, jewels, and gilded masks moved across the floor. The Chrysos heirs, some you’d already met that day, others yet to greet, were wandering around the banquet room, and well, uh Phainon was quite literally stuffing his face with food..
You chuckle to yourself and sit down on the throne at the middle top of the room, all the figures in the room turn towards you and bow to welcome you.
You smile elegantly before raising your hand. Your hand stays poised in the air for only a moment before the ripple of movement stills
"Please," your voice carries easily over the gentle hum of the banquet hall, warm but firm, "tonight is for celebration, not ceremony. Enjoy yourselves."
There’s a faint murmur of relief, polite laughter, and then the room’s energy returns back to life. Music picks up again, lilting strings and soft percussion, while servants glide between clusters of guests carrying tons of champagne and trays of candied fruit.
From the corner of your eye, you watch Phainon— freeze mid-bite when he realizes you’re watching him. His mouth is still half-full, and he’s clearly debating whether to finish chewing like a dignified heir or swallow the entire thing and pretend nothing happened. A sly smile curves your lips. And he freezes up in terror.
He genuinely thinks you're going to humilate him but youre just loving him you just have a resting bitch face trust,
Before you can get too lost in thought, a more deliberate presence approaches. Anaxa. The very air shifts from a careless, free one to one filled with gas in the air, ready to be lit on fire any moment.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice smooth but direct with a mocking tone, “it is… illuminating to finally observe you in person, rather than through the filtered tales of the palace.”
oh that little shit-
You raise a brow, leaning forward just slightly
“Illuminating, hm? Please indulge me on the tales of the palace which you have heard, Anaxa."
your heart is drumming against your chest, stay calm. even a little slip up of your composure can make Anaxa realise everything and then you will die a torturous death just like—
Anaxa tilts his head, sharp silver eyes glinting like polished steel in the flickering candlelight. “Ah, where to begin?” His voice is smooth, yet there’s a razor’s edge to it. “They claim you’re… unpredictable. Mercurial, some say. Dangerous, to those who cannot keep pace with your whims, and even....brutal.”
You bite your lip, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Dangerous, hm? That’s flattering coming from someone who could ruin people's lives with a flick of the tongue.”
He arches an eyebrow, smirk twitching. “Flattery is unnecessary. But observation is essential, especially to their subjects, Your highness, you surely know that, right?”
You lean back in your throne, crossing your arms, heart hammering like a drum. “Subjects, you say? Surely you don’t consider yourself a subject, Anaxa.”
“Not a subject,” he says smoothly, stepping closer, the faint scent of old parchment and ink clinging to him like a signature, “but an observer. One who knows which pieces move the board and which are mere pawns.”
You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes, feigning calm. “And where, pray tell, do I fall on your board?”
He pauses, considering, and that pause makes your pulse skyrocket. “You are… a player unlike any I have studied, you are far more cunning than what rumours suggest, but not..definitely not brutal.”
Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to stay composedl, to not crumble at the soft but piercing edge in his voice. “Cunning, hm? Perhaps. But I’ve yet to see anyone match me yet… including you.”
man you're gonna die cuz of this bratty man, screw his intelligence
“Ah, Your Highness. That is exactly why I am present in the palace… to see if the tales are true, or...” the last part was mumured and you couldn't hear it well.
Your fingers twitch against the armrest of the throne. Every instinct is screaming at you: remain composed. Do not let him see how frustrated you are. And yet the sharpness of his words, makes you want to scream "Execute him" right this moment.
You straighten your shoulders, voice deliberate, keeping the teasing edge that masks the racing of your heart. “Captivating, you say? Then perhaps you’ll find I am worth the attention… but I do hope you can keep up.”
Anaxa bows slightly, that familiar edge of arrogance lingering, but there’s something warmer in the curve of his smile, and subtle acknowledgment. “Oh, Your Highness… I intend to, if only to see how far you will go before the game truly begins.”
This One-Eyed Bastard
Anaxa straightened from his bow, that same unnerving mixture of arrogance and amusement still dancing across his features. “Now then,” he said smoothly, voice carrying just enough to draw the attention of nearby guests without interrupting the flow of the banquet entirely, “thank you for your audience, Your Highness. I may return to my partner, Aglaea.”
With a fluid, almost imperceptible motion, he pivoted on his heel, cloak whispering against the floor, and began moving down the banquet hall. His light teal hair caught the eyes of many nobles, some admiring him and insulting his audacity.
You exhaled, straightening fully in your throne, fingers tapping lightly against the polished armrest. Eyes sweeping across the gathered Chrysos heirs, you allowed the smallest, genuine smile to slip through.
“Guests of honor, Chrysos heirs,” you began, voice firm yet carrying warmth, “your courgae and skill have already shown their value. Your actions have saved lives, protected humanity, and proven your unwavering dedication to the world, even in the face of centuries of misunderstanding.”
Heads lifted, some curious, some wary, as you continued. “From this day forward, let it be known that the Chrysos heirs are no longer considered refugees, criminals, or traitors. You belong here, within the imperial palace, under my protection. Any display of disrespect toward you will not be tolerated.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall, a mixture of disbelief and cautious relief. You held their gaze steadily.
“You are the bearers of coreflames, wielders of powers meant to protect humanity. Your presence is not merely tolerated, it is honored. And for far too long, the worship of the Titans, a heritage unjustly forbidden by my father, was driven underground. Today, I restore it. Let the honor of the Titans and the rights of the Chrysos heirs be recognized again.”
The hall was momentarily silent, the weight of your decree settling into every corner. Then, soft exhalations, whispers, and finally a swell of nods and quiet expressions of gratitude passed among the heirs. Aglaea gave you a small, approving smile from across the room, eyes glimmering as if silently praising your audacity and justice.
Your eyes found Phainon in the distance, silver hair catching the lantern glow as he glanced toward you, expression unreadable but clearly attentive. Mydei, the triplets, Hyacine, Castorice—all subtly inclined their heads in acknowledgment, a rare mixture of respect and cautious trust forming in their stances.
Great, step one to not going through a torturous death!!
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The clinking of goblets and the fading music from the banquet hall gave way to the quiet hush of the palace corridors. Lanterns flickered against the marble walls as you made your way toward the courtyard, your steps light but slightly unsteady from the single cup of wine you’d gulped down.
From around the corner, a familiar figure came sprinting toward you—silver hair glinting in the lantern light, his black cloak fluttering behind him. Phainon, looking simultaneously regal and panicked, skidded (skibidi) to a stop a few feet away.
“I—uh, Your Highness… are you—” he started, but stopped, clearly unsure how to address someone clearly wobbling like a feather in the wind.
“I miss my phone,” you blurted suddenly, voice loud in the quiet hallway, gesturing vaguely toward… nothing, really. “Like… I really miss it. And Wi-Fi. I could really use some Wi-Fi right now...My yuri...my yaoi...” You hiccuped softly, swaying on the balls of your feet.
Phainon blinked, completely still and confused af, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something. “…Your Highness?”
“Wtf is going on, man,” you continued, throwing your arms wide as if the palace walls themselves had failed to answer that question. “One moment I’m like in some fancy hall, everyone’s bowing, wine everywhere, and now… now I’m just… cooked.”
He shifted slightly, glancing down the corridor as if the floor might explode with judgmental glares. “Cooked…?”
“Yes! Cooked! Like a… roasted chicken! Or maybe a marshmallow? Either way, I am fully… cooked. Somebody save me!” You flopped dramatically against the cool marble wall, leaning your head back.
Phainon, despite himself, let out the faintest exhale, lips twitching into a smile he tried—and failed to hide. “…You truly are… unpredictable, Your Highness.”
“Unpredictable?” You lifted a finger, wagging it like a teacher scolding a child, "No way that you're saying that!!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation battling amusement. “…I think… I’m supposed to escort you, yes?”
“Escort! That’s exactly it!” You flopped toward him, grabbing his arm for support. "Go samoyed!!"
you. His silver hair brushed your cheeks as you leaned ever so slightly closer, taking in the faint, clean scent of him—the mix of leather, a hint of smoke from the banquet torches, and something inherently… Phainon. You inhaled like it was air itself.
He tensed. Very much tensed. Every step toward your chambers, his grip subtly tightening on yours, subtle enough to keep you upright but firm enough to suggest he was calculating something. His sharp eyes flicked to yours more than once, narrowing slightly.
“…Your Highness,” he said finally, voice low and carefully measured, “are you… placing something on me?” His tone was stern like he would not hesistate to finish you off, but that undercurrent of suspicion made your stomach flip.
You blinked at him, panic spreading like wildfire. “W-what?! No! N-no! I swear, I’m not—” You froze, suddenly aware of how close you were to him, the scent of him filling your senses far too completely. “I… I just… I… like… your scent! Yeah, I have a… uh… scent kink… yeah! That’s it!”
He stopped dead in the corridor, turning to face you fully. His silver hair caught the lantern light, his eyes sharp and silver against the dark, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips—half amusement, half utter disbelief.
“…A scent… kink?” His voice was low, controlled, but carried that razor-sharp edge of incredulity he always seemed to manage.
“Yes! Totally! I mean, it’s not weird! Well… maybe a little weird, but I’m not… I’m not trying to poison you or anything, I swear!” You flailed one hand dramatically while clutching his arm with the other.
Phainon tilted his head, eyes blown wide and mouth left open like a concerned puppy.😨 and silently escorted you, he gave you to Arnes, and you went inside before looking behind your shoulder and smiling one last time as the heavy wooden door slammed shut.
Phainon stood in the corridor long after the heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind you, the echo of your giggling and flailing still clinging to the air. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, or maybe on the mess of words and gestures you had left behind.
Cooked? Wi-Fi? Yuri? Yaoi? Samoyed?
His brow furrowed, the sharp, precise lines of his face tightening with thought. What kind of strange codes are these? Are these… instructions? Warnings? A declaration of war? Or… He shook his head slowly. Or is she… insane?
Every word you had said seemed like a puzzle, a string of unfamiliar patterns he was supposed to decode. “Cooked… cooked like a marshmallow… samoyed…” He muttered to himself, pacing lightly along the corridor, his polished boots clicking against the marble. “Do these words hold… some hidden meaning? Or is this… simply… madness?”
His next step was obvious, he needed perspective. He found Mydei first, lounging lazily in one of the smaller rest chambers. (manspreader)
“Mydei,” Phainon started, voice clipped, controlled, but tense. “A moment.”
Mydei raised an eyebrow, lazily stretching, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliverer. What is it?”
He glanced around nervously before blurting, “She—Your Highness… she keeps saying… things. Strange things. Cooked. Wi-Fi. Samoyed. What does she mean?”
Mydei blinked once. Then twice. “…Phainon, has insanity finally peaked upon you?”
Phainon’s jaw tightened, frustration and confusion simmering beneath the surface. “I’m… I’m trying to understand! These words—perhaps they’re codes. Perhaps they signify a hidden plan. Or a… threat. Or… a test!”
Mydei chuckled, amused. “Phainon, she drank one cup of wine."
Shaking his head, Phainon moved next to the triplets. They were seated and talking to eachother.
“She said… words… and I—” Phainon started, but before he could finish, one of the triplets cut him off.
“Snowy!, you sound ridiculous,” Trianne said cheerily. “We heard them. We have no idea either, and there is no word ever created like that which your highness said, she's just tipsy!.”
Phainon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his silver hair, strands falling over his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers, but no, only the flickering lanterns offered light. Unique? Not dangerous? That didn’t calm him. It only made his thoughts spiral further.
He muttered to himself again, pacing again, because of you.
You are kind of cute though, wait what?
Phainon finally slumped into a nearby armchair, black cloak pooling around him, and allowed himself a small sigh. “What am I… thinking? I am meant to observe… to guard… not…”
His eyes drifted toward the corridor where you had disappeared into your chambers, the memory of your leaning into him, the scent of you lingering faintly in his mind, still present.
This is… complicated. Very complicated. Everything is going against what happened in the past 2000 cycles. What..just what is going on?
Phainon leaned back, one silver eyebrow slightly raised, and muttered to himself, half in exasperation, half in awe: “What… is she even trying to do to us?”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Your head throbbed like a drum during a hardcore metal concert, and the faint metallic taste in your mouth reminded you of the banquet’s aftermath. You blinked slowly, trying to process the world, and immediately remembered, oh fuck.
Ugh.
You rolled over onto your back, staring at the ceiling with wide, pained eyes. Your thoughts were fragmented, fuzzy, and somehow still stuck on the way you clung to him last night. Do not think about that. Do not think about that. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT. But, of course, your brain refused to obey.
A faint knock echoed through the chamber door, and your stomach did a nervous backflip.
“…Yeah?” you croaked, voice breaking due to dehydration or pity, you don't know which one it was.
The door creaked open, and in stepped your maid, Arnes, carrying a tray with what looked like a whole full-course meal: water, tea, bread, omelette (?) and some other fancy meat which you are too sleepy to comprehend.
“Your Highness,” she said with a smile that was far too bright for how she usually is. “Time to get you ready for the morning audience.”
You groaned, pulling the blankets over your head. “Audience? Who’s getting audience-ed? Not me. I'm dead now.”
The maid did not dignify that with a response. Instead, she set the tray down, opened the curtains wide flashbang and began bustling about with brushes and fabric. You squinted against the sunlight like a vampire seeing daylight for the first time in centuries.
She had just started fixing your hair when the door opened again.
Revealing silver hair perfectly in place, black cloak flowing, a huge claymore against the doorways.
Why is phainon here?-
“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said, tone warm in a way that made you instantly suspicious. “I trust you slept well?”
You glared at him from under the comb your maid was working through your hair. “No.”
He stepped further into the room, boots silent on the carpet, and set the massive claymore against the wall.
“That is unfortunate,” Phainon replied smoothly, folding his hands behind his back with a cheeky smile. “You seem… functional enough.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, the motion making your head pound harder. “Functional? I’m hanging on by a thread here!''
“I will choose my words carefully then,” he said with infuriating calm, glancing at the tray Arnes had brought in. “Eat, Your Highness. You’ll need your strength.”
You frowned. “Why are you here? Don’t you have other business to attend to?”
He ignored the jab completely, moving to pour tea into a porcelain cup. “I was asked to escort you to the audience chamber. Apparently, some are concerned about your… stability.”
You nearly choked on air, remembering the events from last night.
Phainon handed you the cup, holding it just long enough that you were forced to meet his eyes. “Drink. Before you collapse halfway to the throne.”
You took it, glaring over the rim. “You’re acting all uh normal. Like nothing happened last night.”
His silver brow lifted ever so slightly. “And something happened last night?”
Arnes froze mid-comb, eyes darting between you two with utmost curiosity.
You gulped down the rest of your tea in one go, slamming the cup down. “NOTHING. Absolutely nothinggg, let’s go.”
The corner of his mouth curved, just slightly, before he straightened and gestured toward the door. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
The hallway air was cool, the kind that woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. You walked beside Phainon, trying to pretend the sunlight streaming through the high windows wasn’t stabbing you right in the brain.
His boots clicked steadily on the marble, a calm, almost lazy rhythm. Yours…uhm less so. Every few steps you stumbled just a little—whether from the hangover or the fact that you were still processing him standing there all cheerful this morning, he looked stunning omg.
The gates opened into a sunlit expanse of packed dirt and scattered weapons racks. The heirs were already there, practicing with blunted blades, calling out challenges, ignoring the etiquette of keeping voices dignified.
Phainon stepped aside to let you pass first, his hand brushing lightly at your elbow. “Careful on the step.”
It was one step. You took it perfectly fine, but your heart still did that stupid little trip it shouldn’t be doing.
“See?” you said, not looking at him. “Perfectly stable.”
“Mm,” Phainon hummed, gaze drifting down in that way that made you suddenly hyper-aware of the fitted knight’s tunic they’d shoved you into this morning, and the sword resting at your hip.
“I am,” he said slowly, “quite curious about your skills! :D”
You blinked. “…Skills?”
His silver eyes flicked back up to yours with a spark of mischief. “You wear a blade as though you intend to use it :)”
“That’s because I can use it,” you said automatically, even though the last time you actually sparred with someone, you may or may not have tripped over your own foot.
He stepped a fraction closer, voice dropping into something both polite and way too direct. “May I ask for a duel, Your Highness?”
You nearly laughed. “Right now? In front of the heirs?”
“In front of the heirs,” he confirmed, that faint smile deepening just enough to let you know he already expected your answer. “It would be fun!"
you muttered something incomprehensible, but his hand was already gesturing toward the open sparring ring, as though he were inviting you to tea instead of inviting you to be publicly humiliated.
“Unless,” Phainon said, just loud enough for them to hear, “you would rather decline.”
you swore under your breath, you are too prideful to decline.
You stepped into the ring, the crunch of the packed dirt under your boots sharp in your ears. Someone tossed you a wooden practice sword, and you caught it with a little more flair than necessary, mostly to make a point.
Phainon picked up his own sparring blade, testing the weight with an idle twirl. Even holding wood instead of steel, he looked every inch the war hero. A few heirs had stopped their training completely now, watching with barely disguised anticipation.
You squared your stance, forcing your headache into the background. “Don’t go easy on me,” you said.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Your highness !!”
The first clash rang out sharp, wood striking wood. You moved fast—faster than most people expected when they saw the royal robes on you. Your footwork was tight, your strikes precise, and for the first few exchanges, you even had him on the defensive.
holy shit you weren't even in control of your body right now, its as if something possessed you.
“You’re holding back,” you said between breaths, pressing forward.
parrying your next strike and sidestepping with infuriating ease.
You gritted your teeth and changed tactics—feint to the left, twist, swing low—he caught it effortlessly, his blade meeting yours in a firm block.
And then—oh.
His pace shifted.
One second you were trading blows, the next, he was a blur—each strike of his was controlled but unyielding, pushing you back step by step. You blocked one, two, three attacks in quick succession, but the fourth—
Smack.
Your sword flew from your grip, clattering to the dirt. In the same motion, his practice blade rested lightly mockingly at your shoulder.
“Point to me,” he said softly, his silver eyes alight with something far warmer than mockery.
You exhaled, half from exertion, half from the way he was looking at you. “You’re… ridiculous.”
“Perhaps,” Phainon murmured, lowering his sword. “But you are extremely .”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.
He stepped back, offering you his free hand to help you up from where you’d sunk into a crouch. “Again?”
…You took his hand
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
How did this even happen?
“No—here,"
Phainon stepped closer, the warmth of his presence brushing along your side. He covered your hands with his own, guiding the angle of your wrists with ease. His voice was light, like he was talking about something as casual as pouring tea, not swordsmanship. “Your stance is fine, but the moment you strike, your weight’s too far forward. You’d be easy to topple.”
You huffed. “So you’re saying I’d lose immediately?”
His laugh was bright, unbothered. “No. I’m saying you’d be easy to catch.”
It made you blink at him, but he was already adjusting your elbow, fingers brushing your arm just enough to be felt through your sleeve. Around you, the sharp clang of steel echoed from other sparring pairs, but you noticed a small group in the distance, the heirs were watching you both with the kind of smiles people wore when they’d caught onto something they weren’t supposed to.
They’re smiling again. Like they know something I don’t.
Phainon thought
Your sword swings are still clumsy, yet you listen. Really listens. He can see it in the way your brows knit, in the way your body shifts at every correction he gives. You're not afraid to be wrong here, in front of him, even if your cheeks flush each time Phainon steps in closer to fix your posture.
He adjusts your hands again, fingers curling over yuors, feeling the tremor in your grip, clearly focused.
“Better,” He murmurs, softer than he meant to. You glance up, meeting his eyes for just a second before you try the move again.
There’s a warmth in hsi chest he hasn’t felt in a long time. Dangerous, because it’s comfortable. Dangerous, because he can already feel himself cataloguing the curve of your smile, the way your hair catches the light, the slight rasp in your voice after training.
Phainon catches himself smiling before he even realizes it. The heirs probably see it too
He shifted behind her again, leaning in so close that his breath stirs the hair near your ear. “One more time, Your Highness, and this time, don’t think. Just follow me.”
You laughed lightly, saying something about how you’d never be able to match his skill, but he just shook his head, saying a corny joke.
His hands hovered near your waist, not touching but close enough to guide if you faltered. He leaned in just a little, his voice lower now, the faintest hint of a smile in it.
“Good… you’re catching on quicker than I thought. You might even embarrass me at this rate.”
The heirs’ muffled chuckles carried faintly over the sound of practice swords clashing in the distance.
And still, Phainon’s focus stayed locked on you.
Phainon didn’t notice when his hand slid from correcting your grip to simply holding it, his fingers wrapping firm around yours as if anchoring you in place. It wasn’t until you gave the slightest flinch that the moment cracked, reality bleeding in through the haze of focus.
You didn’t pull away sharply—just a small wince, quick enough that you might’ve thought he’d miss it.
He didn’t.
“Ah—” he loosened instantly, brows knitting. “Did I—?”
Before he could finish, the pounding of light boots echoed from across the training ground.
“Your Highness!” Hyacine’s voice cut through the warm hum of practice. She jogged toward you, ponytials bouncing against her sides, her healer’s wand already in hand. “I saw that grip—Lord Phainon!! you absolute giant, you can’t manhandle her like she’s a sparring dummy D:”
“It wasn’t—” he started, then stopped. No use defending when Hyacine was already ushering you toward the edge of the ring like a storm in full force.
You glanced back at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place—something between exasperation and… amusement?
Phainon stayed where he was, wooden sword still hanging loosely at his side, watching as Hyacine fussed over your wrist. The rest of the heirs had paused their own drills, mydei openly smirking, Aglaea exchanging looks like they’d been expecting this all along.
His chest felt strangely hollow without your attention on him.
You chuckle as Hyacine's wand bonked against your head, and you raise up your hands, rotating your wrists faster than a windmill's wings.
Phainon smiled at you, feeling his ears heat up.
He will make you his
The next few months blurred into a strangely warm routine.
It turned out that the Chrysos heirs were actually surprisingly easy to spend time with !!
Hyacine was constantly by your side, dragging you from room to room to “show you important things,” which were, in reality, her extensive plushie collection, an entire cabinet of porcelain animal clay figurines, and a hidden stash of candied nuts she swore no one else knew about and play with her pet unicorn, Little Ica (fat fuck).
You spoiled her without thinking, shes such a cutie!!, slipping her extra desserts at dinner, letting her braid your hair with ribbons she insisted would “bring good luck,” and tucking her in when she inevitably fell asleep mid-conversation.
Aglaea became your quiet partner in tea. The two of you would settle into the sunroom, pale light spilling across the table as delicate porcelain cups steamed between you. She spoke in gentle, deliberate words, always tilting her head slightly as if weighing your responses.
Yet she would always make these weird remarks poetically, because you were still a Gen-Z person, of course, you were used to short abbreviations not long...poetic sentences.
Anaxa, uh well, you bickered with Anaxa as if it were a competitive sport or a habit more tbh. He’d make a smug comment about your “amateur understanding of politics,” and you’d fire back with a remark about his tragic inability to win an argument without pacing like an angry cat.
Half the time, Hyacine had to intervene before you two could escalate into an actual physical fight.
Castorice was a gentle butterfly, always with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her expression unreadable, except for the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes when you said something outrageous. (her smiles are so cutee).
She listened with perfect attention when you brought up the yaoi, even leaning in ever so slightly as you excitedly recounted a story about two male characters who had way too much chemistry for it to be “just friendship.” She'd even write for you and you would squeal and happiness before air-hugging her.
Mydei, on the other hand, was well, the opposite in energy. A beast on the battlefield, but when you sat beside him with a plate of honey bread, he was just a man with a soft spot for sweets and a habit of offering you half of whatever he had.
You never pushed him to talk much; instead, you kept trading recipes and slipping him extra desserts, and somewhere along the way, it became your own not so secret. (everyone knows his insane baking skills and sweet tooth, even the royal chef)
And Phainon…
He was always there, literally, looking at you with a smile.
Sometimes on the edge of your vision, leaning against a pillar like he had all the time in the world. Sometimes directly across from you at the dinner table, eyes fixed on you even when someone else was speaking. There was a certain dark amusement in the way his lips curved everytime you talk with him with a wholesome smile.
But there was something else, too.
A faint, prickling sensation under your skin when he was near, it felt suffocating, sometimes making you think that he might actually kill you with torture, leaving you with amputated limbs and gouged out eye sockets.
But you ignored it for the best, because of how he would hold your hand during sword practice, of how he would always invite you to watch him spar with Mydei.
You should've seen the face he made when he found out you and Castorice...made stories of him with Mydei.
him: 😨
Little did you know that, the more time Phainon spent with you, the more the idea dug into him like a thorn, except instead of festering, it bloomed. He’d catch himself in the middle of sparring with Mydei, distracted by the image of you leaning back into him, flushed and breathless, your laughter spilling into the hollow of his throat.
He’d think about how small your hand felt in his when he adjusted your grip on a sword—how easily he could just keep it there, never letting go. The way you tilted your head to look up at him made his chest feel too tight, and somewhere deep inside, an ugly, possessive heat coiled, whispering that no one else should get to see that expression but him.
He imagined you on the throne, yes, but not alone. No, you’d be seated right on his lap, his arm resting across your waist, his chin on your shoulder as he murmured sweet, private words meant only for you. He’d hold you there in front of everyone, let them see that you belonged to him. Every smile you gave him, every laugh, every soft, fleeting touch, it all fed into the quiet obsession wrapping tighter and tighter around his ribs.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
ACHOO!!
You sneeze, confused, was someone thinking about you? strange. you dont even have a cold D:
You flop back onto your bed, arms spread out like a t-pose.
The ceiling stares down at you in judgement, and you stare right back, stubborn.
Except it’s not really the ceiling you’re seeing. It’s his stupidly perfect smile. His annoyingly flawless hair. The way his voice dips just slightly when he says your name like he’s been doing it for centuries.
Ugh.
You roll onto your side, pulling your blanket halfway over your face before groaning. "Phainon, the man you are!"
You can still hear his laugh from earlier, unbothered and warm in a way that makes your chest feel like someone lit a candle inside it. You hate it. You love it. You hate that you love it.
This man might kill (for) you any moment and you're giggling over him like a lovesick teenage girl.
You bury your face in your pillow. Yeah... If he ever found out you thought about him this much, you’d have to fake your own death and run off as a local outside the palace.
You let your eyes slip shut, letting the image of him linger in your mind—his gaze catching yours across a crowded room, the slight furrow of his brows when you’re not near, the faintest hint of possessiveness that sends a thrill down your spine.
Is he planning to kill me only for himself? man.
You curled deeper into the blankets, sighing into the soft pillow. The faint moonlight spilled through the curtains, lighting up your room.
Your chest felt warm just thinking about it.
It was stupid. He was… well, he was Phainon. And you were just you..and well, you were the reason for his suffering, for his time loops.
Your eyelids grew heavier, thoughts smudging together as sleep pulled you under.
You didn’t hear the faint shift of the window latch.
You didn’t see the pale fingers curl around the edge of the frame.
A shadow slipped into your room, noiseless except for the sound of silk fabric. The figure straightened, white and gold catching the faint moonlight, before his steps brought him to the edge of your bed.
Phainon knelt slowly, almost reverently, like a worshiper before their god. His eyes trailed over you, lingering on the slow rise and fall of your breathing.
“…So peaceful,” he murmured under his breath, voice low with a sound of. His gloved hand hovered above your face for a moment before he removed it, his bare, scarred skin tracing the curve of your cheek.
The contact was feather-light, almost hesitant, but the way his breath hitched made it feel anything but casual.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing just under your eye. “Every look, every laugh, you don’t know, do you? How much I think of you. How much I…”
His lips curved faintly, but it wasn’t kindness. “I should be ashamed. I’m not...You are the reason for my endless pain yet why do i find myself lingering towards you”
He let his hand linger, stroking once more before leaning in, his breath ghosting your ear.
Phainon’s gaze dropped to your hand, half-hidden beneath the blankets. Slowly, he drew it out, careful not to wake you.
He turned your wrist in his palm, studying each delicate line, each faint pulse beneath your skin, as though memorizing it. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and then, without breaking his stare, he lifted your right hand to his lips.
The kiss was soft at first, almost reverent, the warmth of his breath soaking into your soft skin.
“…Perfect,” he murmured against your fingers, letting them rest there as if he couldn’t bear to release them. His voice dropped into something darker, “You have no idea how easy it would be to keep you. To never let you go.”
His eyes softened, but one who might see him in this state would call it, "insanity" or "obsession"
“Maybe,” he whispered, pressing one more kiss to the tip of your finger and nuzzling his cheek against your limped hand, “I’ll take you through eternity with me, all locked up and mine to look at.”
The first time you show Phainon his Tomodachi Life character, it's during one of your nightly video calls. He's in the middle of a sentence when you let out a gasp that half-startles him into silence. He knows that sound — it's the one you make when you suddenly remember something.
"I forgot to tell you!" you say, already flipping your handheld console towards the camera, and for instant the screen's simply too bright for him to make out anything. "I made us in Tomodachi Life."
He squints and soon enough a pixelated, cartoonish, big-headed version of him comes into view. Phainon's surprised by the amount of effort you've put into it, from the dimples on his cheeks to the hair strands sticking out in odd directions on top of his head.
"Wow, honey, it's amazing," he replies with his face basically glued to the phone, analyzing every detail like it's the greatest piece of art since Michelangelo's Pietà.
Your eyes sparkle and you spend the rest of the call describing how you decorated your shared house in great detail.
On a random day blessed by the gods, when your schedules fit well enough for you to spend some quality time together while on campus, you gasp again. But it's not the A tier, Major announcement gasp, it's more of a C tier, I found my favorite pair of socks again and I wanted to share that with you gasp.
"Did I tell you we're about to have a baby?" you casually drop. Phainon stares at you, blinks, raises his brows, then shakes his head like he's just been struck by something.
"I'm sorry?"
"In Tomodachi Life," you specify (thank Kephale).
"Oh," he says. How would a normal person react to this information? "How do you know?"
"This bubble telling you your Miis have something to tell you appears on screen, though I didn't have the time to check. But that must be it because that's how it happened the previous five times."
Five?
Phainon's face becomes the color of a pomegranate seed.
After this, it takes a week or so for him to stop physically avoiding you, and then another three days so that he can look at you in the eye. Although his face still flushes when when you bring up that wretched game.
It's okay. One day he'll be normal about this.
ʬʬ.astronote.com phaimii needs to pay child support
hello! may i have one where reader brings home those cat cakes for hsr men/could you write their reactions? thank you!
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship
blade thinks its stupid. why would you want another companion when you already have him? he shrugs it off before he realizes how much of your attention is occupied by said cake.
one day you just find that he and your new buddy are having a staring contest before you set dinner down on the table. just two silent beings watching to see who's more strong.
"...are you two done yet, can we eat?" - "it has earned my respect. you may keep it."
mydei is very... very wary of the animal dessert thing. tries to intimidate it but it only gets the cat cake to like him more.
"my love, you better get this thing off of me." - "'dei... he just wants to spend time with you! he's harmless!"
he squints his eyes at the thing, and in response the small thing meows happily. you can tell he gives in by day seven when he's just lightly petting it on the head with reluctance. "i thought y-" - "shut it." it's a funny scene to see mydeimos defeated by a simple cat cake that sits upon the throne called his chest.
anaxa thinks they're ridiculous. "hah! you really think this cake deserves to live with u-" when he feels the sharp glance on his back. "that is our son, you can't be mean to him!" - "...okay."
as much as you think he might hate the little guy, he actually gets all into teaching kitty cake everything about algebra and anatomy at the same time. figures out kitty cake speaks an actual language too.
"meow!" - "very well said, son. i'm very proud." when you check back in from the kitchen, serving them new desserts you just learned how to make; "seems like you two are enjoying yourselves." - "mm. our son has learned logic."
caelus has interacted with them before, but questions how you ended up finding one and taking it home. doesn't really mind it though, just let it do what it wants, feeds it, give it water... if that's what they need.
"babe? are... oh." you walk into the the room, placing your coat on the rack nearby. taking a seat beside your boyfriend, you lean your head against his shoulder. "hey." he rings an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.
"do you wanna name her?" tossing a piece of popcorn into is mouth, he leans his head on yours too. "we could do... like, kiwi?" - "perfect."
kiwi just continue to hop around in a circle.
sunday thinks its adorable, immediately scoops it up and sits all three of you down as if to formally welcome him into the family. for a man who would usually be neutral about most matters that didn't concern your wellbeing...
"must we name the little darling?" petting the soft fluff on his head, he places a kiss on your cheek before settling down beside you on the sofa. "only if you wanna, ruan mei gave her to me as a gift." you only fell pleased seeing how well they got along <3
your favorite thing to see was how the adorable little cat dessert would be seated beside the stove while he cooked you breakfast.
ashveil is a very welcoming father, honestly has just accepted the fact that he is a father to one now, feeds the cake whatever his diet is too. you find them just relaxing on the couch together, number one dad over here...
"hey! baby, look. i got him a little suit, matches mine. you like it?" he has the little guy in his arms when he's already got him draped in a coat.
they really bond over small talk. talks to the cat cake like its an actual kid, as if it were your kid before he got with you.
