synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.
pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso
wc: 14.8k
content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair
art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333
“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.”
You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?”
“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour.
If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space.
Pack you up and bring you with him.
But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position.
“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips.
“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.”
A routine mission.
It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment.
Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on.
“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.”
“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face.
He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you.
But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play.
Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his.
“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured.
“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.”
He liked the ring of it.
His wife.
All his.
He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time.
Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness.
You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself.
“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud.
“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it.
“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed.
Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed.
The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it.
Soon, you’d have the best.
“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both.
“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed.
“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes.
You wanted to believe him.
“Uh-huh,” you exhaled.
He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you.
His home.
Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.
“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you.
“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.
“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.
“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours.
There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.
But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up.
And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press.
Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.
Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress.
“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it.
Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.
He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too.
You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum.
He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body.
Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay.
“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone.
Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body.
But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck.
He didn’t want to let go.
And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts.
They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot.
He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position.
But he’d get to stay with you.
Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment.
“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in.
“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.
Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out.
You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.”
That was just who you were.
What you’d do.
You gave him what he wanted.
Even when you didn’t like what he asked for.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.”
“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him.
But you giggled, and that was good enough.
“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested.
“We already-”
“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?”
“I just want you.”
Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.
He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.
Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them.
Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become.
Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible.
They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.
It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on.
All just a galaxy away.
It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe.
Risky, sure, but it’d been done before.
And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem.
The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet.
Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter.
No, a more pressing issue had presented itself.
A distress signal was being sent up.
Someone was below – and begging to be rescued.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen.
“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.
Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time.
“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”
“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far.
Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months.
“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded.
“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”
Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.
It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.
And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.
There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.
“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it.
He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.
Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.
“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.”
“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.”
Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave.
There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth.
“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing.
He told himself it was the right thing to do.
That it was what you would expect from him.
He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages.
You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera.
But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up.
“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it.
He wanted to touch the screen.
Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong.
“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it.
And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and-
Holy shit.
“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.”
A baby.
He was going to be a father.
His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.
Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments.
“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie.
No. You surely didn’t mean…?
“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?”
It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space.
Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it.
You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks.
“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.”
Never.
He’d fucking be there.
“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he?
Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four.
“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.”
He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.
But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.
“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze.
Found his mouth opening, about to say no.
Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel.
But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way?
Would he be able to look his children in the eyes?
He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.”
Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it.
He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship.
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You should move on.”
It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.
You couldn’t let go of him.
Six months turned into six years without Satoru.
The one thing you were terrified of had come true.
You lost him.
Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him.
Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks?
You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you.
It’s always someone else.
Until it’s not.
Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come.
“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-”
“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket.
You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father.
Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug.
Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead.
When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.
Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.
Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere.
She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru.
But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt.
“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry.
“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys.
She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh.
You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it.
If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes.
You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about.
Apollo and Artemis.
After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery.
To be fair, you had done it in his place.
Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went.
The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call.
And then nothing.
NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious.
Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing.
Somewhere you’d never be able to reach.
You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them.
Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint.
You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.
At least the ocean was on Earth.
It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand.
But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too.
You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk.
Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed.
And Satoru had missed all of it.
Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one.
And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway.
Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.
There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it.
Him.
But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids.
The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it.
You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class.
Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings.
Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had.
You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it.
“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.
“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake.
His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go.
“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.
“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing.
“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over.
You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them.
“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”
You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.
“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.
Your chest hurt.
Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.
“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him.
“Oh, um-”
“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.”
People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”
“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”
“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence.
Satoru would know what to do.
But he wasn’t here.
And all the decisions were yours to make.
Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.
Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.
“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.
“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair.
You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field.
Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home.
Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play.
He didn’t.
To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either.
Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.
You told yourself that you were being an active parent.
Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards.
Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work.
And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.
He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing.
The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute.
Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy?
Smile back when they spoke to you?
Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.
You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them.
But eventually, the school year wrapped up.
You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that.
Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it.
A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids.
Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out.
“Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing.
“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her.
“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose.
They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too.
“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting.
“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you.
It was nice of him.
This was nice, actually.
A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans.
But it wasn’t terrible.
You loved your children. Loved being their mom.
Maybe you could learn to love your life too.
You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang.
“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.”
You didn’t want to consider if you would.
“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded.
You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to.
All you really wanted was for them to be happy.
“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him.
Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.
His eyes were dark.
Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them.
But they were deep. Warm.
“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.”
“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too.
He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”
“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously.
“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
Their mission was fucked.
Suguru was dead.
Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call.
Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder.
Now they had neither.
The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process.
Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too.
Like his best friend wasn’t gone.
He’d never get him back.
No one would.
Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home?
He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.
God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl.
The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it.
Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut.
But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now.
He wished you were here.
Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him.
That his best friend was somewhere better.
Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him.
Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life.
Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he?
He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-
The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief.
Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest.
Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.
Loading messages from the past eleven years.
No. No no no no no.
It was wrong.
It had to be fucking wrong.
The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-
Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back.
He did. He would.
The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone.
Begging him to not make you.
Gojo froze.
Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message.
Part of him wanted to hit stop.
Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it.
But his fingers weren’t fast enough.
And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying.
Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying.
The twins. His twins.
Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this.
Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera.
He was.
Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another.
His children were growing up without him.
From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids.
In what? Fifty minutes?
Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back.
They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him.
Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them.
And you, god, his pretty, perfect you.
Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead.
Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening.
You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked.
His girls a wormhole away.
Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you.
But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.
What if it was too late?
What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth?
The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met.
Would you stop missing him too?
He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.
You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home.
Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you.
Gojo felt like a stranger.
Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his.
“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.”
“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off.
Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours?
He didn’t actually want an answer.
But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway.
You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up.
It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt.
An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed.
A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately.
Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.
Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do.
Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade.
But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-
He puked.
Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.
An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade.
Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame.
“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait.
But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it.
His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was.
And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back.
A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier.
His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.
“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.”
He was terrified to know how long.
“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.”
He wanted to see him. See both of them.
Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now.
“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.”
His chest hurt.
Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The mission should’ve been routine. Simple.
Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony.
“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.”
The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver.
“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.”
If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was.
Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him.
“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”
Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever.
“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?”
Everything hurt.
His body, his heart, his soul.
Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family.
The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated.
“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins.
You hadn’t even confirmed-
“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.
The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.
Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style.
No. You couldn’t-
“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.”
What a load of fucking shit.
The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it.
“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”
Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.
“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.”
Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed.
Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden.
“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?”
He could never hate you.
Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.
He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night.
Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.
“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”
No no no.
He could still make it.
Couldn’t he?
If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole?
Hadn’t he lost enough?
Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand.
You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-
A wedding dress.
“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight.
The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer.
You looked like an angel.
And Gojo sorta wished he was dead.
Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage.
And then a noise in the background startled you.
The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out.
Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.”
Another man was calling you baby.
Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open.
“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.”
“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly.
“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it.
And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat.
“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.”
It could be.
It would be.
Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time.
That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time.
Behind you, there was a knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?”
No.
This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you quietly answered.
Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.
But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead.
“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.”
The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared.
“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.”
Gojo wanted to strangle him.
Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son.
Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be.
“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him.
Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes.
See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him.
Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t.
You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru.
Not that you could even see him.
You thought you were talking to a ghost.
That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads.
“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.”
No. Please no.
He was.
“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened.
Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received.
A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago.
You weren’t married yet.
Maybe there was time.
And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back.
He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in.
“What the hell-”
Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now.
“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.”
That wasn’t a fucking option.
They had to make it.
But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right.
And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch.
He was barely showering.
Barely eating.
Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures.
They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad.
Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time.
Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever.
He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed.
Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them.
By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family.
This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean.
Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.
Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home.
“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research.
“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-”
“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled.
It couldn’t end like this.
He’d be too late if he stayed.
“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack.
“Shoko, they don’t-”
“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.”
“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion.
“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.
He didn’t have the seconds to debate it.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship.
“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.”
“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander.
Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to.
And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from.
He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator.
Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home.
Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.
He should make it.
Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers.
If only he could send out a fucking transmission.
He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out.
Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.
But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too.
When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected.
He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his.
Some part of him felt like it was all light years away.
Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?
Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day?
Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.
But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole.
Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls.
Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar.
He could do this.
Failing wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had brought him here.
“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here.
But he hoped you could feel him.
That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet.
The landing fucking sucked.
Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you.
It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing.
“Are you okay? What the fuck is-”
Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief.
“Uh, could you give me a ride?”
Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder.
“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you.
“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over.
Gojo still had your number memorized.
Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him.
No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either.
But they did.
“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick.
“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.”
“Satoru?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.”
Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit.
He was finished.
Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins.
Would you be happy to see him?
Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him?
He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel.
Was he too early?
Too late?
Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it.
He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there.
Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it.
And there it was.
Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him.
He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it.
His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had.
The one he hadn’t been there to give you.
You couldn’t be-
Someone tapped on his back.
He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.
“Dad?”
It wasn’t you.
Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he?
“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-”
“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-”
“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.”
Every word was a fresh punch to the gut.
A great grandfather.
He never even got to be a father.
Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids.
“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.
“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?”
Four months had been forty years.
Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done.
A fool masquerading as a man.
Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears.
Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all.
He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again.
Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection.
His children wouldn’t need him.
For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave.
“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.”
God, he felt like he was going to die right now.
Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed.
“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-”
It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time.
“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.
Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.”
He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions.
Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there.
He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo.
Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach.
“You’re-”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully.
“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”
“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.”
And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.
Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life.
“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand.
“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now.
“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.
Because right now, he was filled with hate.
Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.
He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe.
Mostly though, he hated himself.
“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”
Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.
Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.
“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.”
She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.
To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet.
Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.
Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person.
Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.
And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed.
He would never get to know.
His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it.
His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back.
A loving fiancé and father.
Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day.
you think the man you are meant to marry is a brute with no care for you or your kind. yet when the vows are signed and the crown rests upon your brow, you discover there is more to the king than meets the eye—and far more he has so carefully chosen to keep from you.
☆ pairing: phainon x fem!reader
☆ tags: romance, angst, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn, bridgerton!au, arranged marriage!au, older brother!mydei, historical inaccuracies, mentions of death & illness, nightmares, period-typical misogyny, discussions of pregnancy, etc. divider by @/thecutestgrotto.
☆ word count: 21.5k
☆ a/n: this fic is, first and foremost, a love letter and gift to my best friend, @jeonwiixard. happy birthday, jazz! i love you to the moon and back ♡ this fic is inspired by and based off of queen charlotte: a bridgerton story. thank you to @chokifandom for beta reading, and thank you for reading!
THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING, your brother held you tight to his chest, and whispered apology after apology. You do not want this, sister, I know, I know you do not want this, but father did not leave me with a choice. It was a betrothal made when you were born, and if our estate is to survive the locust plague, we need their help, sister. Please, forgive me.
Perhaps, if you weren’t in such a foul mood, you might have forgiven your older brother, Mydeimos, the Earl of Kremnos. Earlier that morning, however, your maid had fetched you the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, and seeing how unfavourably she had written about you and your impending wedding, you were not so inclined.
You let him hold you, and patted his hair as you would your favourite mare, and said, “It’s quite all right, brother. After all, not everyone is blessed with the good fortune of marrying a prince.”
He looked stricken. “But you do not love him. You do not even know him.”
“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”
Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.
In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.
The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.
Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.
Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”
“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”
This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”
“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”
“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”
Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”
“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”
“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”
“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.
He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
You sighed and closed your eyes.
The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.
The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.
“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.
You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.
A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.
“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”
Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?
“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”
“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”
The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.
You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.
“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”
The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.
“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”
“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”
“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.
“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”
How romantic, you thought.
“What time is dinner?” you asked.
“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”
Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.
“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”
The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.
You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.
Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.
“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”
You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”
“Cold?”
“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”
Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.
“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”
“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”
“But will you be happy?”
Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.
“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”
Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”
“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”
“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”
You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.
“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”
A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”
Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave.
Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”
You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.
Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.
“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”
If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.
You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?
The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.
“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”
“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”
“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”
“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”
“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”
“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”
“My lady—”
“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”
The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.
“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”
“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”
Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.
“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”
“My lady—”
“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”
You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”
You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”
The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.
You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.
Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.
“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.
This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?
Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.
You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.
“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”
“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”
“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”
If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.
Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.
The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.
“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.
Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.
Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.
So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.
“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”
You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.
A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.
He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.
“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”
“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”
“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”
You stared down at him. “How did you know—”
“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“You’re the King,” you stated.
He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”
This could not be happening.
“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”
“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”
“…Help me?”
“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”
He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.
“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”
Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.
Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.
But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.
“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”
“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”
“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”
“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”
“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.
“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”
The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”
“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”
Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.
“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”
“You will not force me?” you asked.
“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”
“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”
“All right.”
“Do you want this marriage?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”
The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.
“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”
The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”
“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”
“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”
“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.
“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”
“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Phainon said.
“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”
“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.
She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.
“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”
“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”
“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”
“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”
You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.
You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.
“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”
“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”
When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”
Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.
Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.
“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.
“You’ll see,” he said.
You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.
Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.
“Open them,” Phainon said.
The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.
Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative.
“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”
You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”
“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”
Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”
“Of course.”
He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.
“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”
He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”
“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”
You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.
“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”
You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.
Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.
“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”
“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”
He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.
“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”
“…What is it?”
“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”
You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”
“Yes.”
“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”
“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”
“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”
“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”
“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”
“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”
“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”
“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”
“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”
“Except a husband,” you said.
“I—”
“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”
“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”
“Please—”
“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”
Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.
“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed.
You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.
You had been so foolish.
This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.
How foolish you’d been!
He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?
You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.
Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.
Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.
“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.
Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”
To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.
“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.
You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”
Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”
“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”
“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.
Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.
“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.
“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?
“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.
“Something like that.”
Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”
“Please do.”
“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”
You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”
“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”
“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.
Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”
“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”
“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”
You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.
Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?
“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”
“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”
“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”
Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”
“You speak as though you know him well.”
“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”
“What changed?”
“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”
You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.
“How did the Queen die?” you asked.
“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”
“That is terrible,” you said.
“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”
“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”
“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”
You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”
“What are friends for?”
You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.
“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”
“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”
“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”
“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”
Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”
“What sort of rumours?” you asked.
“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.
Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.
Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”
True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.
Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”
“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”
“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.
You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”
You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”
“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”
“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”
“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”
You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.
“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”
“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”
“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”
“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”
“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”
You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.
“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”
“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”
“Use what I have?”
“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”
You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.
“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”
“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”
“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”
“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”
After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?
Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.
You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.
Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.
“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”
Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”
“Perfect,” you said.
Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.
This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.
You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.
“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.
You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.
Your stomach twisted with nerves.
Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.
“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.
You blinked. “How did you—”
“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”
Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”
“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”
“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”
“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”
“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.
“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”
Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”
Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.
“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”
Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”
“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.
His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.
You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”
“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.
The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.
Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.
He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”
That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.
“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”
His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him.
“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.
Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.
“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”
“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”
“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.
His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.
“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”
“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”
Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”
“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.
He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”
He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”
You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.
When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.
“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.
“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.
He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—
Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.
“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”
That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”
He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.
“May I?” he asked again.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”
You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.
“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.
You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.
“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”
“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.
The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”
He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.
“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”
He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.
“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”
“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”
He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.
Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”
“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”
“Next time?”
“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”
“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.
“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”
“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”
You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.
Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.
“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”
“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”
“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”
“I am trying—”
“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”
“…I see,” Phainon said.
“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”
“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”
“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”
You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?
“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”
“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”
“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”
You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.
You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Phainon called out.
You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”
Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.
“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”
You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.
Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”
Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.
“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”
“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.
“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”
The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.
“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”
You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.
Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.
“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”
You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.
You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”
“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”
“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”
“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”
You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.
“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”
“That seems rather cruel.”
“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.
“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”
You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.
“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.
“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”
Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.
“They don’t look like it,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”
“What happens if someone touches them?”
“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”
“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”
He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”
The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?
It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.
“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”
“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.
Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.
“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”
“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”
“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”
“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.
Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.
The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.
“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”
Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”
“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”
“They see us often enough.”
“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”
“And does that trouble you?” he asked.
You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”
He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”
“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”
“Let them suffocate.”
“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.
“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”
Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”
You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”
“A ball.”
“A ball,” you said.
“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.
You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”
“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”
“And you think that’s preferable?”
“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”
“Together how?”
“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”
You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”
“For the sake of the country?”
“For the sake of my wife,” he said.
You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.
“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.
“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.
“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”
Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”
“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”
“And on making sure I smile often enough.”
“She’ll insist on that regardless.”
You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”
He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”
“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true.
You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.
He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.
“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.
“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“And the music?”
“We’ll have the orchestra.”
“The guest list?”
“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”
“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.
Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”
His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”
The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.
Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.
Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”
“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.
It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.
You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.
You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.
“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”
“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”
“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.
“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”
“The ball was his idea,” you protested.
“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”
“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”
“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”
“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”
Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”
“I did,” you said.
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”
“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”
“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”
“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”
“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”
The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”
“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”
“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”
Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.
Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”
“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”
“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”
“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.
“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”
“No, I—”
“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”
Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread.
“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”
“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”
“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”
“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”
“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”
“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”
“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”
“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“What is it I can’t handle?”
Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”
“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”
“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”
“I cannot,” he said quietly.
“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”
“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”
“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”
Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.
“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”
“Phainon—”
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.
How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?
The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.
“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”
“Where did he go?” you asked.
“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”
The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.
“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.
On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.
You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.
It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.
Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.
You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.
You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room.
Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”
“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”
Castorice cleared her throat and began:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded.
The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.
You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”
Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”
“I—what?”
“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”
“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”
“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”
You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”
“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”
“…Nightmares?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”
You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—
Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?
“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.
“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”
“About His Majesty?”
“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”
“What do you think he’s hiding?”
“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”
“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”
“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.
“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”
You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”
“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”
“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”
Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”
“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”
“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”
You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”
“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”
“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—
“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.
“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”
Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.
Lady Caenis.
You had to tell Phainon.
You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this.
Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.
You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”
Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”
“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”
“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”
“And where did you get the paper from?”
“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”
“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”
“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”
Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.
Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”
You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.
Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.
“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Now, please.”
Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.
“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”
“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”
You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”
“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”
Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”
“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”
“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”
“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”
Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”
“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”
“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”
“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”
“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.
“It’s also true, isn’t it?”
Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.
Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”
“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”
“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”
“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.
“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”
“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”
“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”
You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.
“Get out,” Phainon said.
Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”
Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”
“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”
“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”
“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”
“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.
“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”
Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”
She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.
“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”
He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”
Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person.
You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.
She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.
“She would have liked you.”
You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”
“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”
He went very still. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”
“Who told you?”
“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”
He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I know.”
“It makes me look weak.”
“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”
“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”
“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”
Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”
“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”
“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”
“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”
“Since she died. Seventeen years.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”
He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”
“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”
“Yes.”
You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”
“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”
He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.
“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”
You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.
the sounds of your six year old's giggles indicates their arrival before anything else does. it's followed by a car door slamming shut and locking, and you smile softly at the sequence. you hear rintaro's voice as it creeps up the driveway, something prompting kaiya to laugh even more.
you wipe your hands on a towel, leaving the cookies you'd been working on to pause. the front door gets nudged open by rintaro's knee, and you can't help but laugh at the sight of kaiya dangling off of his back, duffel bag dangling from one arm and groceries on the other. you grin, leaning against the counter, “you didn’t need to get stuff for dinner, i would’ve.”
“i was already out,” he says, winking at you. “what kind of husband would i be if i made my perfect queen go out?”
you chuckle before reaching out to help him with the duffel bag, “how was soccer, angel girl?”
“i kicked someone!”
you gasp, “rintaro!”
“i wasn’t on the field, how was i supposed to know she would!”
kaiya slips off of her dads back, making her way over to you. you shake your head and ruffle her hair, and she squeals at the affection. “besides- she called me a liar anyways!”
now, you and rintaro look at each other.
your heads tip accusingly at each other.
“what do you mean, kaiya?” you ask, but your eyes stay focused on rintaro.
“kaiya go shower.”
your child merely giggles.
“we were talkin’ about sharing the soccer ball, and we were talking about how we should share always, and i told them about how you and daddy share everything!”
rintaro tries to hold in a snicker.
you can’t help but fight your own back.
“please continue, kaiya.”
“kaiya, go shower.”
your six year old jumps up and down, “and she says ‘no they don’t!’ and i said ‘uh-huh they do!’ and she says ‘they can’t share clothes, those-‘ uhm ‘-those are for boys and girls only!’”your jaw slacks as rintaro brings a fist up to cover his grin. “so i told her that you wear daddy’s shirts all the time!”
your heart flutters at the idea of you taking his shirts is being observed and discussed by your daughter, something you’d never imagined coming true making your heart swell with love.
“and then,” kaiya continues, “she said ‘they can’t share food!’ and i said ‘mommy shares daddy’s food all the time!’”
you giggle affectionately, crossing your arms and shake your head.
rintaro shrugs, “mommy moreso steals my food, babe.”
“mommy would never!” she squeals. “so then-“ she takes a deep breath in while rintaro casts you an amused look of betrayal. “i told her that sometimes you even share underwear!”
“EXCUSE ME!” you gasp. “we do not!”
“well…” rintaro hums, and your head whips to face him. “you do steal my batman boxers a lot.”
“they’re shorts!”
“daddy says they’re underwear.”
“it was an accident!”
“rintaro!”
“-and then when i told daddy-“
“KAIYA PLEASE GO SHOWER-“
“-he told me to kick her because she called me a liar ‘nd said it was gross!”
the kitchen goes quiet. your jaw slacks as you stare at rintaro, shocked by his direction and trying so hard to not laugh at it. “rin, you didn’t!”
“hey- NO ONE. is allowed to think anything about my wife is gross.”
“so i kicked her!”
you put your hands on your hips and tip your head to scold, “you, fresh, cannot kick people just because daddy told you to!” she deflates slightly at your tone, lower lip pouting at the idea of your frustration. your attention turns to rintaro, and you take a massive step forward, “you, adult who knows better, cannot instruct a child to kick someone over something so silly!”
“all is fair when you insult my wife!”
“yeah!”
you sigh and chuckle, but you approach your husband to wrap your arms around his neck. his hands instinctively find your waist, and you can’t help but beam up at him. “you’re a bad influence.”
“i don’t play when it comes to you,” he purrs. he puckers his lips out for a kiss, which you offer in return.
only to smile against him as kaiya giggles excitedly at her parent’s love.
fem! reader ; mom! reader and dad! sukuna ; you have a daughter ; modern non curse au ; sukuna is just a girl dad trying not to get white hairs okay ; very classic trope of the girl dad realizing his daughter like boys
You come home from work to find Sukuna already posted at the entrance, hands on his hips, glaring holes into the front door as if it personally wronged him. The moment it shuts behind you, you stop dead in your tracks.
“Am I in trouble?” You lift a brow, eyeing him cautiously.
“No,” he grumbles. Then he pauses. “Well. Maybe. Depends on how you react.”
“To what?”
“Our daughter held hands with a boy at school today,” he says, staring at you with an expression of pure horror—the kind that screams: can you fucking believe this?
You can’t believe it. Your eyes widen. Your jaw drops. “No way,” you gasp.
“Yeah,” he nods grimly. “Fuckin’ ridiculous—”
“That’s so cute!”
The silence that follows is immediate. He stares at you. You stare back. Then he squints. “Okay. Now you’re in trouble, too. You didn’t react how you were supposed to.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little…dramatic?” you ask, snorting. “They’re four year olds. What could this possibly be an issue for?”
Sukuna bristles.
He does not take kindly to being told he is dramatic, especially when his daughter—who is the only precious, well-behaved child in a world crawling with intolerable brats—is being clearly and maliciously influenced by a boy. Boys do not have good intentions. Anyone with half a brain knows this, and Sukuna is starting to seriously question your parental instincts.
“There’s an issue when some snot-nosed punk is makin’ grabby hands for my little girl!”
“Our little girl,” you correct.
“She’s mine if you keep this ridiculous behavior up,” he snaps, folding his arms. “I’m gettin’ full custody. You can’t be trusted.”
“You make it so hard to take you seriously sometimes,” you giggle, arms sliding around his neck.
Despite himself, Sukuna softens. Just a little. His hands find your hips, pulling you in closer even though he’s still visibly unimpressed with you.
“He’ll ruin her,” he says, voice strained. “Next thing you know, she’ll be seatmates with him. Then she’ll play with him on the playground. And then they’ll be havin’ lunch dates in the cafeteria, and she’ll be sharin’ her fruit snacks with some punk that we paid for! We can’t let someone’s hideous son eat off our money!”
“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically. “We’ll be short a few fruit snacks! How will we ever recover, babe?”
“Very funny,” he shoots you a dirty look, eyes narrowing into irritated slits as you fight a grin. “I see you’re handling this very maturely,” he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“And I see you’re not overreacting at all,” you counter. “It’s a good thing you stayed calm and collected.”
“He’ll break her heart!”
“He’s four,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, and?” Sukuna snaps. “He’s still capable of evil. I could list about twelve things a four-year-old could do off the top of my head to break my sweet, precious, innocent girl’s heart.”
“Like what?”
“He could share his markers with another girl. Or hold hands with someone else in line. Or hit her with a ball during dodgeball. Or pick her for popcorn-reading when she’s not payin’ attention and expose her in front of the teacher, or—”
“Okay,” you cut in, raising a hand. “Okay. I get it. He can hurt her feelings. Yes. Again, they’re four. I’m sure one ice cream trip will heal her.”
“I can’t believe how little our daughter’s first heartbreak means to you!”
“You mean the heartbreak that didn’t even happen?” you ask, exasperated.
“It’s inevitable,” he hisses. “Don’t you know all boys are the same?”
Sukuna knows exactly how this goes.
At first, his sweet, trusting little girl will think this boy is everything. He’ll help her with homework. Let her borrow his pencils. Maybe, during recess, he’ll even let her win games just to be nice. But boys are all hardwired to behave the same way. Eventually, another girl will catch his attention (because nothing is ever enough for boys) and his perfect, beautiful little angel will have her heart torn clean in two.
Sukuna is not going to allow such absurd nonsense to take place while he’s standing right here. Other people’s failure to raise their bratty runts properly will not be what hurts his precious daughter.
“We should pay him a visit,” he grunts, looking you in the eyes. You’re a little concerned when they almost look too serious to be a joke—you like to pray he’s joking. “Have a chat with him. Maybe his parents too—figure out what sorta parenting methods they use.”
“You’ve officially lost it,” you give him a tired look. “I think you need to sleep more.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” He scoffs.
“I don’t know how many times I have to say it before it clicks—the kid is four!”
“And I don’t know how many times I have to say it before you understand that age has nothing to do with intent,” Sukuna fires back. “Evil doesn’t come with a minimum requirement.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Our daughter is still not old enough to understand you can't eat glue sticks.”
“Exactly,” he says sharply. “This age is a dangerous time—unpredictable. Poor judgment. No impulse control. You’re just proving my point.”
“That is not—” you cut yourself off, exhaling slowly. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, this boy is some kind of miniature menace. What are you suggesting we do? Interrogate him? Put him in a chair under a bright light?”
Sukuna considers this for a beat, giving you a tiny smirk. “Are you making suggestions?”
“No! You are not going to threaten a preschooler.”
“I wouldn’t threaten him,” he scoffs. “I’d just let him know I exist.”
“Absolutely not!”
“What do you suggest then, genius? We can't just leave it,” he snaps. “Today it’s hand-holding, tomorrow it’s sittin’ too close during story time.”
You blink. “Baby—”
“She’s still got those chubby little fingers,” he continues, voice laced with a soft, fond little lilt. (And you wonder, sometimes, how the world might react knowing someone as rough and grumpy as Sukuna could sound so delicate.) “For fuck’s sake, she still mispronounces half her words. Still asks us to check for monsters under her bed. And some punk thinks he’s gonna touch her?”
Your irritation softens despite yourself. You step closer—if that’s even possible—and press a kiss to his jaw. Instantly, he melts.
People don’t tend to think Sukuna can wear the role of fatherhood the way he should, but he does. You like fatherhood on Sukuna. It looks good. Fits him like a glove, in fact.
He’s rough and harsh and doesn’t always have the right words to say—you’d know better than anyone, but he never has a hard time trying for her. Never feels shame or embarrassment for being soft and vulnerable when she’s so tiny and delicate in his arms. Never feels walls come up when the pressure is on and never backs away and runs. Not for her. Not for you, either—but especially not for her.
You like fatherhood on Sukuna. He looks like a better man when he wears it. (Except, of course, when he perhaps considers being a villain in another child’s story all for the sake of his daughter’s hypothetical first heartbreak in pre school.)
“How about we talk to her,” you smile sweetly, pressing delicate little convincing kisses into his jaw with those pretty lips, “prepare her for the realities of this world instead of harass other children.”
“So you’re a victim blamer,” he clicks his tongue, “think the innocent should deal with it rather than hold the guilty accountable?”
“I am an advocate for being a good role model for our daughter so she knows her father examples grace and compassion,” you chuckle.
Sukuna scoffs, rolling his eyes. His arms wrap around your waist, and he brings you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. Your fingers fiddle with the baby hairs at the base of his neck as you hum.
“She’s gettin’ too fuckin’ big.”
“She is,” you sigh wistfully, “she’s already asking me to teach her how to tie her shoes so she can do it herself. What’s next?”
“She’ll read her own bed time stories,” he responds grimly. You giggle at that, and he gives you a small, amused smirk in return. And then, “We should have another little runt.”
You give him a flat stare.
“We are not having another child until you learn how to properly digest your feelings and not lash out at other children,” you scoff.
And then you detangle yourself from his arms and make your way to your living room, where you hear a little voice call out—
Using your husband as an encyclopedia... and he's damn proud of it.
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦
Nanami Kento doesn't brag.
Never.
But if there's one place where his pride swells quietly like a well-fed cat…
it's here.
Because you use him as a walking encyclopedia.
Not Google.
Not books.
Ken.
It all starts innocently enough.
"Ken, why is the sky blue?"
Nanami doesn't answer right away. He puts down the book he was reading, adjusts his glasses, and turns slightly toward you. It's not drama, it's respect for the question.
"Sunlight contains all the colors," he explains, "but the atmosphere scatters shorter wavelengths, like blue, more easily."
You stare at him.
"...I knew you'd know."
Kento nods slightly, but inside: point for me.
Then it escalates.
You're cooking.
"Ken, what exactly does melancholy mean?"
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed.
"It's not just sadness," he says. "It's a gentle nostalgia, a sorrow that doesn't hurt sharply... but it lingers."
You look at him silently.
"Why do you know how to say it so beautifully?"
Nanami clears his throat.
"It's... semantics."
Silent pride number two.
Sometimes they're practical questions.
"Ken, how does an air conditioner work?"
"It depends on the system, but basically it transfers heat from the inside to the outside using a refrigerant."
"And you know that because...?"
"I looked it up once," he says, as if it were obvious.
Because of course he looked it up.
Other times they're absurd.
"Ken, why do people yawn when others yawn?"
Nanami barely smiles.
"Neurological empathy. Our brains are designed to mimic social behaviors."
"So… I'm empathetic."
"Extremely."
He looks at you with that expression that says, “and I like that you're like this.”
And then there are the nighttime questions.
Dark. Silence. You're half asleep.
"Ken…"
"Hm."
"How do bees know where to go?"
Nanami sighs softly… but smiles.
"Through dances that indicate direction and distance based on the position of the sun."
"Ah…"
Pause.
"Thank you."
"That's what I'm here for," he replies, and puts his arm around you.
Pride number seven. Maybe eight.
The best part is that he never condescendingly corrects you.
He never makes you feel stupid.
He never says, “That's obvious.”
Every “Ken, why…?” is an invitation.
Every “Ken, what does… mean?” It's an excuse to get a little closer.
Every "Ken, how...?" is confirmation that you trust him.
Kento sleeping on the sofa seems to be a sign that attracts his children with him...
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦
Kento comes home tired, with that quiet exhaustion that doesn’t complain. He takes off his watch, carefully folds his jacket, and almost without realizing it, ends up lying face down on the couch, one arm hanging loose, his breathing deep and steady. He didn’t plan to fall asleep… but his body decides for him.
And as if it were an unwritten law, the children feel it.
The oldest arrives first, the boy. He already understands that dad needs to rest, so he doesn’t wake him. He sits carefully on the floor beside Kento’s head, his back against the couch. He pulls out a book or a quiet toy. Sometimes, without thinking, he rests his hand over Kento’s, like an anchor.
Then the girls arrive. One by one.
One climbs onto his back with extreme care, as if stepping onto sacred ground. She settles between his shoulder blades, using her father as a warm mattress. Another curls up at his side, her cheek against his shoulder. The youngest tries to copy the others and ends up half on top of him, half sideways, breathing slowly.
Kento doesn’t move, he only lets out a deeper sigh. Because even asleep, he knows. He knows his children are there. He knows they trust him without question.
And his body, large and steady, becomes what it has always been for them: a refuge.
Sometimes he murmurs something in his sleep.
A barely audible “It’s okay.”
A name. No one startles. No one moves.
Because dad is there.
And you watch them from the doorway, your chest tight with love, seeing how your four children gather around Kento as if he were the center of the world. And maybe he is.
Because to them, Kento Nanami is not just their father. He is warmth. He is safety. He is the place where the world stops hurting.
And when he wakes up, his body stiff, one girl asleep on his back, another holding his arm, the oldest still at his side…
Omega!Gojo who, well, doesn't let anyone know that he's an omega. To everyone in jujutsu society, he's Gojo Satoru, The Strongest, an alpha. He could almost laugh at the sheer number of marriage proposals and bonding invites and pregnancy schemes that it brings to him.
Omega!Gojo who then happens to meet...you. Some exchange teacher from another jujutsu school, and the moment he's sauntering up to you to put a move on- he drops to his knees right there in the hallway. You were an alpha - more specifically, his alpha. Fated.
Omega!Gojo who finds himself ridden to madness by you. Who finds himself begging to get you- himself pregnant (he'll make it happen). Who finds himself a marked and mated omega proud to show is bonding mark to a speechless jujutsu society.
synopsis: now that the akasha terminal has been shut down, sumeru city dreams once more. alhaitham has begun dreaming for the first time in over a decade, and all of his dreams always lead back to you
word count. ❤︎ 6.4k words — pls trust it’s not that long just give it a chance for me okay pleaseeeeeee
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; canon compliant ; yearning alhaitham ; discussions of marriage and weddings ; alhaitham stresses over bringing up proposing to you ; hand jobs ; implied cunnilingus ; wet dreams + male masturbation ; semi mentioned unprotected vaginal sex + creampies ; alhaitham comes in his boxers ; small references to his parents and grandmother ; banter and fluff as always
commentary. ❤︎ my last fic of 2025!! omg 🥹❤️
Alhaitham has recently started dreaming, and they are rather strange dreams, at that.
People in Sumeru were unable to dream not too long ago. Or, at least, the fully grown ones with access to the akasha terminal were unable—and Alhaitham is very much an adult who had full access to said terminal until just a bit ago. He has long been eighteen, which legally dictates his rights as an adult Sumeru citizen with full autonomy, without the need for a guardian. He is also well past the threshold of twenty-one, which, according to extensive, peer-reviewed Akademiya research on brain and body development, marks the official onset of adulthood.
By all measurable standards, he qualifies as an adult, and adults in Sumeru did not dream. They have not for as long as he can remember—and yet, he dreams now. For the first time in over a decade, in fact.
The dream today is pleasant.
He’s warm and content, lying with sunlight filtering through closed curtains and spilling across his face. His breathing stays slow and even, lips parting as if he’s about to speak, though no words come. Only a faint sound slips from him, and it’s barely more than a hum. His fingers twitch once, loosening instead of tightening, and the crease between his brows smooths out entirely. He likes what he is seeing—in fact, it leaves him content enough to relax.
He shifts, just slightly, chasing the feeling as it begins to fade, as his consciousness seems to win over.
And then his dream has faded completely.
He wakes to the feel of your palm on his cheek, warm and gentle as your fingers trace lightly over his skin, grounding him. “Wake up,” you whisper, voice laced with worry. “Are you okay?”
Two teal eyes, kissed with amber, blink open slowly—unfocused, drowsy, and slightly confused until they settle on you.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, though his voice sounds a little too quiet to be convincing. Though he’s not upset for the reasons you seem to think.
“Nightmare?” you ask. “You were mumbling in your sleep.”
“No,” he groans as he stretches—and then he tugs you close, bringing you flush against him, your cheek pressed into his bare chest. You grin as soon as you settle into his warmth. “Nothing like that. It was a good dream.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t remember,” he says, closing his eyes. “Just that it was good.”
“Was I in it?” you poke his cheek.
He chuckles, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Hm, I don’t know if that would make the dream pleasant. That might just give me a headache instead.”
“So I wasn’t a part of your very good dream?” you gasp. He opens his eyes to glance at you, and he is met with a playful, accusatory glare. “Were you dreaming of other women, then?”
“Now, now,” he pats your back soothingly with the hand that rests at the small of it, “let’s not jump to unnecessary conclusions here. I told you, I don’t recall the dream. It’s hazy—but rest assured, I am not thinking of other women even when I am not in control of my thoughts.”
That is a lie.
Not that you need to know it, of course. But it’s a rather firm lie because Alhaitham remembers his dream very vividly. (Though he was honest about the fact that there were no other women involved—that part was very truthful.)
He does not make a habit of lying to you regularly. In fact, if anything, Alhaitham is honest to a fault. Some people (including you) have taken to letting him know that his honesty could do with a tad bit of softening before it is seen as a blow. But the fact is that he is always honest, and more importantly, he values being honest with you, of all people, above all else.
But this is a very hyper-specific scenario that he has never encountered before, and thus, being honest at this moment would leave him in a bit of a complicated predicament.
Alhaitham has been having dreams, and by no means are they normal dreams.
The first time, it started with a very sweet and endearing dream where he returned home to find you sitting on the couch. He envisioned in his mind the image of himself bringing home zaytun peaches that he happened to catch on his way back as he passed the market. Knowing that they’ve always been your favorite, he decided to be ever the doting boyfriend and bring them back for you.
Except he was not your boyfriend in this dream—at least, this is what he has since then deduced with his ever-so-brilliant mind. The evidence for that is in the fact that you called him dear instead of your usual baby, and you hand-fed him a slice of a peach as you murmured, have you put in your request for that day off next week yet? Our anniversary is getting closer, you know.
Now, that was a very odd detail in his dream, considering your anniversary is nowhere near the time of year when zaytun peaches are in season. Not even close. The only explanation could be that the anniversary had changed (because you now celebrate something different…like perhaps marriage) or because he simply got the date wrong in his mind when he conjured up this scene as he slept. But he chose not to dwell on it when he woke up because dreams are merely a manifestation of images, thoughts, and emotions that pass through the mind during sleep. They are not always accurate because they occur when the mind is not in the same state of consciousness as when it is awake—and any respected member of the Akademiya who has minimal levels of comprehension skills could decipher that from the Akademiya’s research documents from previous studies into dreams (that he has taken his position as Scribe to his advantage to get his hands on).
But then it got weirder.
The second time he dreamt of you, you were wearing a ring. Not just any ring—but his mother’s ring.
Grandmother, when he was younger and still determined to believe she would recover from being ill and stay by his side, had been very resolute in preparing him for when she would be gone. The first thing she had done was hand him his mother’s ring as she explained, this belonged to me before I passed it down to your father so he could propose with it. You don’t have to use it, of course, but do keep it safe for me, won’t you? And do promise me you’ll find a need for a ring one day, even if it’s not this particular one—I won’t rest well knowing you grew old all on your own, you stubborn boy.
His grandmother would have been pleased to know that Alhaitham has always known he would like to get married someday. He never put a lot of effort into seeking out a partner (until he met you, at least) because he was always under the impression that such encounters happen best when they occur naturally, and not with wasted effort by searching for them desperately. But he had always intended to settle down with a lifelong partner by his side—and not just because Grandmother had asked it of him before she passed. It’s because Alhaitham is only human, and even as much as he values his solitude, he knows a thing or two about loneliness and the aches that come alongside it.
So, when you are wearing the exact ring he has always planned to propose to his future partner with—the partner that he has only ever considered being you—in his dream, he is more than a little startled when he wakes up.
He is not startled because the image of you being his wife is a hard pill to swallow. If anything, it’s a rather fantastic sight. He is startled because the idea of making you his wife at the current moment is an idea neither of you has ever really entertained.
Marriage is something he has always resolutely believed was a commitment that would be brought up as a topic once you both were seriously involved with each other, comfortably established in your careers and finances, and properly on the same page about your agreements of what this would legally entail in order to officially merge your lives together on paper and pen. That conversation has not yet taken place, and he had wagered that it would take another year or two before you would get there.
But the third dream is really what shifts his views.
You’re next to him, pen in hand as you sign a certificate, and he follows after. By official Sumeru documentation, you are legally his wife, and he is legally your husband.
At least, that was the case until he woke up.
And Alhaitham has just not been very content with being your boyfriend anymore after such a vivid image in his mind—such a clear and hard-to-forget display of your love and the joy that comes with loving him, too, written all over your face.
How could he forget that?
The answer is that he does not. He does not forget that, and every added dream since has just been more and more vivid moments of sweet, post-marital bliss beside you. And Alhaitham is getting quite sick of being just your boyfriend and not your husband.
So he has to bring up the fact that he would like to be your husband. The only problem with that is that it never ends up being a good time.
Like right now, for example—he could just be honest with you about what he saw in his dream and be brave and broach the topic of marriage with you. He could sit you up, look you in the eye, and say, I’ve been dreaming about a future with you, and I want to make that future a reality because you are worth building a future with.
Instead, he melts into the mattress when your hands rub over his abs, feeling him up before wandering lower and lower and—oh, you’re doing that thing with your nails where you tease and rake them through that patch of hair that starts at his lower belly, right above the waistband of his boxers. He tells himself that it’s your fault for now that he was unable to bring up the topic because how can anyone focus with a touch like that?
“Sweetheart,” he mumbles, voice strained, “it’s too early to be a tease.”
“Being a tease is how I like to start my day,” you pout. “It energizes me.”
“Well, it shaves off years of my life,” he responds through a breathy grumble—and then you decide (after you’ve had a good giggle at his misery, of course) that you’ll be merciful.
Your hand palms over his underwear and rubs along his half-hard cock, making him bury his face into the crook of your neck as his breath turns heavy. It doesn’t take a lot of work on your end to get him fully erect—and maybe he’d be a bit embarrassed by that, but you don’t give him too long to dwell on it before your hand is tuckin into his boxers and freeing his cock from the terrible, confining prison that is the fabric that covers him. He hisses when he feels himself meet the cool air of the morning, and then he tapers off to a soft moan as you gently smear the pre cum at his tip and stroke slowly.
“You’re feeling generous this morning,” he croaks hoarsely.
You grin as you kiss the side of his head and hum, “It’s important that I remind you how lucky you are so you don’t make mistakes you’ll regret. Even in your dreams.”
“I’m not sure that was something we had to ever worry abou—ngh,” he cuts himself off with a grunt as you tighten your grip around him and properly set a pace for your hand to drag along his thick, hardened length. You have touched Alhaitham enough times to know exactly what he likes and how he likes it. How he enjoys it when you fist him quickly along the tip only for a bit before slowing down and taking your time with precise strokes along his entire length, squeezing at the base.
His thighs spread to give you better access as he burrows deeper into your neck, burying his sounds into the crook of your neck while you take your time feeling the throbbing heat of him pressed into your fisted hand. He’s hot. Flushed and sweaty just from this, and the way he cuts himself off from having better access to air when he hides his face into you doesn’t really help.
“Feel good?” you murmur.
“You…you already know that answer,” he pants.
“I like to hear about the fruits of my labor,” you tease, “if you would kindly give me a review.”
“A review?” he asks, mildly amused. He cannot be amused for too long, however, because you give the base of his cock a little squeeze, and he twitches in your hand and makes a sound that borders on a whine. “Fuck,” he moans.
“I’ll take the sound of that as a good sign,” you grin, “but still, a review of my efforts would be insightful, you see. I like to know that I’m meeting your expectations.”
“You are,” he mumbles, his voice breathless and shaky, “b-but…but I’m afraid I can’t say much until we’ve concluded. For research.”
“For research,” you agree.
And then you quicken your pace, and stroke him faster, and he chokes on a strangled groan before planting his feet onto the mattress and bucking his hips up into your fist and meeting your fist. The familiar ache between his legs builds and builds and builds until suddenly, it snaps in the form of a coil in his belly and erupts with a sensation that jolts through every nerve in his body. He spills into your hand, hot and messy ropes of his cum coating both your fist and the muscled, defined expanse of his abs.
You’ve always liked that display. He can tell that your eyes are focused on the mess he’s making on himself without even looking at you, and he’s luckily too busy with being lost in his own pleasure to be disgruntled by your never ending favortism towards always making him feel very shy.
“So,” you murmur, “how was it? Honest review, please.” He’s silent for a moment, and then you giggle as you add, “Or have I tired you out already?”
Just a moment longer, and he’s lifting his head from the safety of your neck, eyeing you with a rather challenged look as he asks, “Is that what you think?”
“Yes,” you nod smugly.
He gives a dry chuckle before detangling himself from you—before you can protest and ask why he’s leaving, he’s already crawled to that familiar place between your legs, lifting the ends of your (his) shirt and revealing your soaked underwear as he spreads your thighs to accommodate him when he licks through the fabric at your folds. You shiver when his nose bumps your clit.
“I have more research to do before I can give any conclusive results,” he murmurs into your cunt, pressing a kiss through the drenched cloth. “I’ll let you know how you’ve met my expectations in a short moment when I see for myself how quickly you can come undone for me.”
Then he expertly tugs your panties down your legs, buries himself between your thighs like he’s done a million times before, and he has long forgotten his dreams because he is too busy thoroughly enjoying his very rewarding reality.
Getting rid of the akasha terminal was the worst decision Alhaitham has ever helped make.
At first, the dreams he started to have as a result of banning the akasha terminal were making him ache for a certain future with you that he can not currently attain before he gathers enough courage to speak to you about, but now his dreams are just torturing him.
They shift without warning.
This time, in his dream, you’re close—closer in a way that he is not unfamiliar with, but a way that still makes his hands shake like it’s his first time. Your arms are wrapped around his neck and tugging him towards you, drawing him in with an ease that makes his thoughts scatter.
Your mouth brushes his.
Once. Twice.
It’s unhurried, but it’s messy—the kind of kiss that lingers just long enough to make his chest feel tight, but is urgent enough to make his pants tighten, too. Except, conveniently, he has already shed his pants in his dreams. The only thing he has to worry about in this scenario is responding to your kiss and tilting his head, tongue pressing against yours, and exploring your mouth. There’s the faintest sound in the back of his throat—a reflexive sound that makes you hum in appreciation at his eagerness.
His body reacts before his mind can catch up to the fact that this is just a dream.
In reality, his brow creases faintly as warmth pools low, right between his thighs in a very distracting manner. The sheets are tangled around his legs as he exhales through parted lips, breath no longer quite as steady as it was a few moments ago. A soft, incoherent murmur slips out—your name, almost, though it dissolves into something unintelligible halfway through.
In the dream, you smile against his mouth at the sound of that murmur.
In the real world, in his bed, his hand twitches briefly by the fabric near his waist before he stills again, clearly uncomfortable by the building ache between his legs, but unwilling to wake. His breathing deepens, uneven now, heat blooming beneath his skin everywhere in a rather frustrating way.
Fuck me, Haitham, you plead in his mind, fuck me like it’s your first time fucking your wife. And he does. In the vivid little scene running in his sleep-hazed mind, he is pressing into your slick cunt and feeling your walls hug tightly around his aching cock. He is feeling you squeeze and flutter around him as he rolls his hips and chases that familiar friction from his length sliding along your warm walls.
And that apparently is what he is feeling in his reality, too, because his hand is mirroring that friction with movement that is in sync with every thrust in his imagination. It’s a much less satisfying version of things—his hand palming his cock through his underwear is hardly comparable to the pleasure-filled haven that is your cunt. But he is lucky enough to be unconscious to actually make the comparison.
And then he falls apart—both in his dream and his reality. One second, he’s kissing you deeply as you gasp his name and he groans yours, spilling his seed into that perfect little pussy that he gets to fuck all to himself…and then the next second, he’s twitching his hips to rut into his own hand as he soils his boxers with his release.
His eyes blink open, bleary and tired and incoherent as he tries to gather his surroundings. He looks down, takes a glance at his hand, stares at his own mess as he gathers his thoughts, and comes to the realization of what has taken place as soon as his sharp mind puts together all the scattered pieces.
Fuck.
He has to find a way to stop this nonsense. Dreaming of fucking you on your honeymoon has to be the most pathetic low he’s ever sunken to—a cowardly low, even. If he cannot bring himself to have this very important discussion with you about where he wants to take your relationship, then he does not earn himself the right to picture you in such intimate and explicit ways and then…get off to them.
He rubs his good hand over his face before he pauses, and his blood runs cold.
If that was a dream…and he’s very much awake in bed—a bed he shares with you—then…
His head snaps toward your side of the mattress. It’s empty.
His heart squeezes with relief and drops with panic all at once—he wasn’t aware that was even possible. By the end of this, he might have to see a cardiologist if he manages to survive this heart attack, and he’s suddenly most grateful for Sumeru’s free healthcare. The idea of you noticing that he’s had a salacious dream about you would certainly be one form of torture, but the idea of having you notice that he’s come in his underwear from a salacious dream about you would be downright cruel and unusual punishment, and he would really, really prefer it if you weren’t here to notice that.
Thankfully, by the grace of the Dendro Archon, you are not.
And that part confuses him greatly, because he doesn’t hear you in the kitchen making breakfast, nor in the living room, conversing with Kaveh. He tiredly sits up, blinking against the lingering haze of sleep, and scans the room before his eyes land on a piece of folded parchment resting neatly on his nightstand.
He reaches for it, and the handwriting is unmistakably yours as he unfolds it.
Ran to the market real quick! I didn’t want to wake you—you looked too cute and peaceful. I’ll be back soon. I just want to grab a couple of things to make you your favorite for breakfast.
Love you ♡
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as the tension eases out of him all at once.
Relief settles in his chest, followed almost immediately by something softer. Affection. Fondness. The heart-fluttering knowledge that you thought of him first thing in the morning, and that you’d gone out of your way just to do something nice. For him.
Alhaitham slumps back to sink into the mattress, staring at the note in his hand longer than necessary. He has never wanted to marry you so badly in his life—which is saying something because marrying you has been the only thing on his mind for weeks now.
Today, he thinks determined, he will have this conversation with you. He tries to ignore that heavy, sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach.
Alhaitham knows you love him. Some might even make the mistake of thinking that you love him more than he loves you (which he thinks is impossible—he has certainly fallen first, and harder) because you are so easily outward with your affections for him. You touch him so effortlessly, grabbing his hand and rubbing his arm and wrapping yourself around him like it’s second nature to mold into him. You lean up and press chaste but sweet kisses into his cheek and jaw, and make it seem like it’s nothing. You are not shy about loving him—careful to keep it professional and respectable under the public eye, yes, but never secretive.
It is common knowledge to anyone that you are head over heels for him, and to doubt it himself would be to discredit the carefully built love that you have nurtured in your heart and gifted him. He would never doubt your affections.
But he can certainly doubt himself.
Alhaitham is not an easy man to love. He knows that. He knows he can be terribly stubborn on his beliefs and blunt with his words, and in the past, he knows he has not always been the easiest person to rely on as a friend. He can only imagine what having him as a partner is like. He can only imagine how much patience and grace you’ve afforded him, and wonders if he, of all people, is worth all that effort.
Perhaps right now, when you are two people who are living separate lives side by side under the same roof, entangled by proximity and affection, you will say he is worth it. You will say he is worth it now because you are not caged to his imperfections and forced to accept them, and you can realize later down the line that he was always an inevitable mistake. But perhaps…if he asks you to consider marrying him, and you truly ponder on the weight of that, you will decide something else.
If you marry him, your life will bleed into his.
He’ll add your name to his property, and this house will also be yours in the documents and not just in his heart. You’ll take his last name and become his family in the records. You’ll be able to make decisions on his behalf if he’s ever lying on a hospital bed due to heart failure from one of your ridiculous stunts (you’ve had many of those, and he feels it’s only a matter of time).
If you marry him, your life and his will no longer be two parallel lines that are as close to each other as possible without touching—instead, you’ll merge like a forked road that finally becomes one. And maybe you’ll realize that maybe you are caged, and maybe it’s all a greater deal of nonsense than it’s worth to put up with someone like him and all his imperfections.
And he would never blame you. The reality is, Alhaitham could never find it in himself to blame you for being so practical. If you told him today that you could never see yourself marrying him, then he would never blame you.
You’re being a jerk, his heart screams, she’s put up with you long enough, hasn’t she? She’d never stay this long if she didn’t think you were worth it. Have faith.
You’ve always been a jerk, his mind argues, and she’ll finally wake up and realize it when you hit her with something as serious as marriage. Be realistic.
Before he can dwell on it any longer, the front door opens, and your cheery little voice that lights up his whole world calls out, “Haitham, come quick! You’ll never believe it! Someone from Inazuma had a stall at the market today! You have to see all the things I got—they were such a steal!”
He snorts, smiling fondly to himself.
And just like that, his heart and mind stop arguing and come to one undeniable agreement: he is hopelessly in love with you…and your likely terrible sense of what constitutes a good deal.
Alhaitham knows he is acting strange, and worse—he knows he’s worrying you.
For starters, he kisses you long and hard in the doorway when you come home from the market. A lingering kiss from him isn’t entirely out of character, but typically, he defaults to at least scrutinizing your total mora spending before kissing your lips senseless against the doorframe. This time, he doesn’t even glance at the bags in your hands. He simply cups your face and kisses you like he needs to remind himself that you are real.
You’ve been worried about him lately—he knows you’re perceptive enough to have pieced it together by now that something has been on his mind. The vivid dreams have been leaving him disoriented some mornings, and he hasn’t done a particularly good job of hiding it. He drifts, stares off into nothing, goes quiet in a way that’s different from his usual contemplative silence. Ever since the akasha terminal was dismantled, Sumeru City has been collectively adjusting to the unfamiliar reality of dreaming—of remembering these dreams, and feeling them linger. He’d hoped that this shared discomfort would be enough to reassure you that he wasn’t an anomaly.
But after that kiss, he sees it plainly in your expression—the concern is only worsening. And that decides it. He will not delay this conversation any longer. Not if his silence is costing you peace of mind, and not if his cowardice is turning into something that hurts you.
“Sit with me,” he says quietly, setting your bags aside before you can protest.
You follow him as he pulls you to your bedroom, brows faintly knit together the entire walk there. When you both settle down, he sits close—close enough that your knees brush, and close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off him. He folds his hands together, and there’s a long pause.
Too long. He’s stalling—and Alhaitham never stalls a difficult conversation. He always prefers to have them done and out of the way.
“Haitham,” you murmur gently, “you’re scaring me a little.”
“You don’t have to worry,” he says immediately. “This isn’t a serious matter. Well—it’s a serious topic, of course, but the matter at hand isn’t an emergency, is what I mean.”
“That was not reassuring,” you deadpan.
His lips twitch despite himself, glancing at you fondly. “I’ve been thinking,” he begins, measured and careful, “about the long-term logistics of this relationship.”
You blink. And then your face drops. “...Oh.”
And then he wants to kick himself—what in Teyvat was he thinking? That sounds like an opening to a breakup for anyone who has ears, and you clearly have ears.
“It’s not what you think it is,” he says quickly, “I promise.
You stare at him, a little crestfallen. “Is…is everything okay?”
“No.”
“Oh,” your voice comes out even smaller than before—if that’s even possible, “I…I see.”
He shoots you a look of pure alarm, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m trying to say this correctly, and it’s not coming out that way at all.”
You chew your lip, shifting closer. “Okay. Then don’t say it correctly. Just say it how it is.”
He’s silent for a long moment—it’s a tense silence, and it eats away at both of you. Finally, you both break the silence at the same time.
He says: I want to marry you, at the same time that you ask: Do you want to break up?
You pause. He recoils.
And then, he asks you in an incredulous tone, “Why would I ever want to break up with you?”
You ignore him as you breathe, “You want to…get married?
He swallows thickly as he stares down at his hands. “Yes.”
“Like,” you clarify with furrowed brows, “eventual marriage? Or right this instant marriage?”
He snorts quietly. “We can’t plan a wedding right this instant; that would be rather impractical.”
You smile despite yourself. All the earlier worries seem to fade, and there’s a light broken over your face that wasn’t there before. “Okay, that at least makes a little more sense.”
He opens his mouth—then closes it. His jaw tightens, and for the first time since this conversation started, his composure visibly wavers. Your face and tone suggest that you are happy—but…Alhaitham’s mind is a complex thing. It works and works and works things from angles that even he doesn’t always realize he can create.
You seem to sense his unease.
“It’s not that this topic makes no sense,” you explain softly. “But it feels sudden. Not that it’s a bad thing. Just…like I said, it’s sudden, that’s all.”
He swallows. “That’s because I didn’t intend to bring it up yet,” he admits. “But continuing to delay it has started to feel miserable.”
“And why is that?”
“Because…because I’ve realized that I would like to marry you sooner rather than later, unlike I had originally planned, and…that realization has been…persistent.”
You search his face, hand reaching to gently grab his and brush a thumb over his knuckles as you ask, “Persistent how?”
He hesitates, and you can almost just see the moment he caves and decides to stop holding back.
“I have very vivid dreams about you,” he starts. He pauses as soon as he does—that was not a very promising start to this conversation.
You look at him in confusion, blinking as you process the words. “Oh…” you trail off, fighting back a small, amused grin. “That’s…interesting.”
“Not weird ones!” Alhaitham adds quickly. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. Gods, if only it would. Burying him alive might actually be preferable to surviving this moment. “Just…intimate.”
Oh. And somehow, he’s made the situation even worse.
“Ah,” you nod, biting your lip to stifle a giggle, “I see.”
“That’s not what I meant!” he insists quickly.
“Oh, really? Then define intimate,” you raise a brow, giving him a knowing look.
“Intimate as in…not vulgar, okay?” he grumbles.
You snort, and he gives you a rather miserable look as you do. “Haitham, it’s okay if you do—it’s not really something to be ashamed of this late into our relationship,” you say, trying to be reassuring.
It does not feel very reassuring.
He wonders, briefly, if Dendro is powerful enough to split the ground beneath him and open a hole just deep enough to disappear into. He’s very competent at wielding his vision—surely he could make it work if he tried.
Clearing his throat, he exhales shakily. Then, with as steady a voice as he can manage (which is not very steady at all, given that his throat is still hoarse from where this conversation nearly derailed earlier), he speaks up.
“They are not vulgar,” he huffs. He refrains from adding, most of the time, like his mind instantly thinks. “The first one I had…I came home, and you were napping on the couch. I brought zaytun peaches because they’re your favorite. You cut them into slices, and we shared them.”
“Oh. Well, that’s very cute—”
“Just let me finish, please,” he turns to you, a little desperate. You shut your mouth and lift your free hand in surrender. He takes another breath before continuing. “The second one, you were…” He flushes deeply, heat creeping up his neck, “...wearing a ring.”
Your breath stills.
“My mother’s ring was on your finger,” he continues quietly. “And the third, we were signing documents. I’m sure you are intelligent enough to gather the context of this particular dream.”
You don’t say anything. Silence settles between you, heavy enough that it carves a pit into the bottom of his stomach.
“I keep having dreams like that,” he sighs, finally meeting your eyes. “Domestic, mundane ones. A future that is peaceful and easy. And you are always part of that future for me.” He exhales, shoulders tense. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything you’re not ready for. I just—now that we can dream again, this is what my mind keeps returning to.”
You stare at him for a moment—and then you smile, and it’s soft, and fond, and suddenly your hands are cupping his cheeks.
“You know, silly,” you murmur gently, “you don’t have to tell me all your personal dreams just to say you’d like to talk about marriage.”
“So,” he says cautiously, “I take it this subject is not an uncomfortable one for you.”
“Why would it be?”
He shrugs. “Maybe you wouldn’t be ready.”
“Then I could just say so and ask you to give me some more time,” you counter.
“Or you’d realize marriage with me is not plausible,” he mumbles quietly.
“And why is that?” You ask, bewildered. He stays silent. For a long, long time, it’s silent until you gently nudge him and repeat, “Why is that, Haitham?”
“Because I am not the easiest person to…” he trails off before deciding on, “getting along with.”
“You are to me,” you smile softly, cupping his cheeks as you turn his face to meet yours. His eyes stare into yours pleadingly—begging you to tell him something that isn’t going to haunt him as a nightmare now that he has the wretched ability to dream. And you do. “Haitham, you’re easy for me, okay? I’m here, and I have been for so long because it’s easy when it’s you. And sure, sometimes things can get hard—but when do they not for anything? That doesn’t mean you’re not easy to be with. You’re the easiest thing I do.”
“That last part has multiple connotations,” he says quietly, giving you a pointed look.
“And now it’s getting hard,” you sigh.
He cracks a slightly smug grin at that. “Another double entendre,” he says, and he dodges the shove you aim for his shoulder before chuckling as he adds, earnestly this time, “but…I do feel better—really. So thank you. And I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you lean your head against his arm. “So can I see the ring?”
“Hm. That depends. Do you promise to say yes if I ask you to marry me in the future?”
You laugh quietly, reaching over to brush a thumb over his cheek as your hand cups his face. “You’re really asking me if I’d say yes?”
“Correct.”
“Haitham, I’d say yes if you asked me right now.”
“There is no need for that,” he says, giving you a flat, unimpressed look. “Please reserve that response for when I’ve planned a proper proposal.”
You giggle and lean in, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay, okay. I’ll be patient. But show me the ring.”
“It’s usually meant to be a surprise—”
“Please,” you whine. “Please, please, please? I’ll die if you don’t let me see it.”
“Unlikely,” he says dryly. But he’s already caving, you can see it as clear as day. He hesitates only a second longer before sighing and slipping his hand into his pocket, drawing out a small box and flipping it open. You choose not to comment on the fact that he carries it around like that so readily, instead focusing on admiring it. It’s a beautiful ring—your breath hitches just from looking at it. He places it in your palm carefully, letting you get a better look.
“Oh,” you say, and it feels like your heart is in your throat.
“I don’t want an answer,” he says quietly. “Not right now, at least—I’ll give you a proper moment to answer. I only wanted you to know that when I think about the future, whether it’s when I am asleep or awake, you’re always there.”
You sniffle, laughing a watery, shaky little laugh as you murmur, “You know something funny? It sounds like we’ve been dreaming about the same future all this time.”
His eyes widen for a moment before they soften. He chuckles and takes your face in his large, warm hands, cradling your cheeks carefully as he swipes away at the tears in the corner of your eyes. “Always so emotional,” he hums.
“Always so above emotions,” you counter, “who knew you could be so romantic?”
“You did,” he snorts, “aren’t I always romantic with you?”
“Yes,” you breathe—and your fingers tighten around the ring that is carefully kept in your grasp a little. “That, you certainly are.”
so my idea for this fic was like what if alhaitham started dreaming about marriage with his partner after the akasha terminal was banned and he slowly went insane thinking about it from yearning so hard and his partner was just nonchalantly having the same dreams and happily going about their day like yay! what a nice dream!
janainaart
dailybridgerton
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
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baratheonpilled
