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lorelune · 2 months ago

Text

some quarry

|| mydeimos x reader || E/18+ || dark content || yan mydei & self destructive reader || wc: 12.5k || ao3 ||

You are very familiar with dancing and its many forms. It's unfortunate that Mydei has taken note of your fondness for flames and their consequences.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: helloooo!! this fic is a trade with beloved oz (@owlespresso)!! they asked for yan mydei and dears i delivered. mydeimos is a character i find narratively so fascinating and i hope that was injected at least a lil into this fic :3c thank you to mao (@yinyuedijun) for beta reading this piece as well!!! getting a second set of eyes on mydei and his character in this form was so vital truly

please mind the tags on this one!! this fic does include explicit noncon/dubcon near its end. in additional, yandere themes like stalking and mydei being QUITE overprotective. read if you'd like, don't if it's not your cup of tea!! that being said, enjoy! 🩷

CWs: dark content, yandere mydei, gender neutral reader with afab anatomy, noncon/dubcon, stalking, protective mydei that goes too far, self destructive reader, avoidant reader, almost bath sex, a single non-verbal threat of ankle breaking, fingering, piv sex (pronebone), reader is a dancer, a few references to phainon/mydeimos, author-brewed kremnoan lore

It is difficult to dance with flame when daylight lays eternal, endlessly. It’s hardly as fun, as enthralling and mystifying, to dance with light while it's so light.

The tradition of bibasis was created long before you were born, back when the Titans were sane and Castrum Kremnos had yet to fall to Strife driven mad. There used to be a dark sky then— night— where the scholars of the Grove say that balls of light, hearths hung in the heavens, dotted the sky, weaving fate.

You like to imagine what the Era Chrysea could have been like. What it would have been like to live forever and dance with your flames under a starry night sky. It feels romantic and nostalgic despite you never having experienced it before. Perhaps it’s a collective memory, etched into the soul in a way that the Grove has yet to understand. You know you’re not the only one who yearns for bygone days that you didn’t live.

You, thankfully, have enough of your wits about you to recognize that the only way is forward. There is no night sky for you to perform your bibasis. Only dark enclaves, carved in the stone cliffs below Okhema. They are no Castrum Kremnos, it’s a relatively polar living situation, but you have found you don’t mind it all that much.

Especially since you can dance your bibasis as your ancestor’s intended— as a shining light in the deep dark.

The cave is nearly perfect circle cut deep into the rock face. Along the sides of it, a Kremnoan crowd jeers. You can hear how impatient they are, hungry for a show and the camaraderie that will follow. The room is pitch black, the torches haven’t been extinguished, so you can slip into the center of the room unnoticed.

With a spark of flint, the bracelets around your wrists and ankles ignite.

The flames throw light across the room, casting shadows over the faces of your audience as you walk a wide, sweeping circle over the space. The aulos sound, trilling as your dance truly begins.

You know the steps by heart.

It’s as easy as breathing. You kick off the ground, jump, and kick your leg as far back as they’ll allow. The licking flames around your ankle streak through the dark, and a chorus of cheers follows. Your arms crest above your head, lowering down as you fall from your leap. You follow inertia. Falling low, throwing your legs out, and dragging the licking flame slowly over the ground.

The heat of the flame doesn’t burn you yet.

It only hastens you.

...

You dance like this until it hurts to breathe. Until your muscles ache and the flame threatens to brand you with its mark. It eats through the wound, slow-burning cloth enough that you feel it singeing hairs on your arms and legs.

It’s not until the end of the dance that you notice the crown prince idling near one of the crudely arched entryways.

Your breath catches when you notice him. You nearly stumble and fall on your ass, which would be very embarrassing considering you do this dance once a week and haven’t had any notable stumbles since the Kremnoans’ earliest days in Okhema. Most of your missteps simply get integrated into your routine, your leaps and low lunges. Losing your track record of improvisation and finesse over the crown prince would be understandable, but a blunder nonetheless.

You can’t help yourself; you spin on the tips of your toes over the crown prince. He’s easy to spot. Even among your people, he towers over them. His shoulders are broad, his chest ample. The shadow he strikes is mouthwatering.

You’re brazen in the way you stride up to him, a flourish in your steps. There are a few cheers from the drunkest members of your audience. Mydei looks unaffected, despite the way you stalk him like a large, predatory cat. You do see his gaze flick up and down your body. It’s brief, a hardly there glance. It would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

You’re a bit hurt he doesn’t ogle you or at least look at you a bit longer.

Half the fun of these things is twirling around the desire of your onlookers. Being ogled by near-strangers is another part of the dance you’ve become so familiar with. You would figure that Mydei, despite his title, would show a wisp of want at the very least. The crown prince is a man— he can’t be immune to your curves, steps, and dress. He comes to your dances often enough to actually indicate that he wants to be here.

But he never shows desire, really. No matter your provocations, no matter the way that you curve your spine and leap, streaking with flame, Mydei stays stone-faced.

It’s your own personal game to attempt to get some reaction from him. It’s too entertaining.

You sidle up to him, wearing a sly smile. His shoulders square. In time with the aulos, you spin closer, bracing on one foot, pivoting with a sweeping gesture. The flame licks your skin; your dance is almost over.

Your back presses to Mydei’s front.

He’s hotter than the flames on your extremities. He’s a furnace, a forge, smelting something far more dangerous than a sword or spear.

You tilt your head back, speaking with a curling tone and cat-like smile. “Crown prince.”

It’s a whorish greeting, but isn’t it meant to be? You hear him huff out a breath, you can’t tell if he sounds annoyed or amused. You don’t stay close enough or long enough to find out.

Rather, you push off Mydei, an immovable wall of muscle really, and leap back into the center of the room. In a swift motion, you undo the barely-there knots of the fabric on your wrists and ankles. It’s practiced, you’ve practiced this part, because it really would look clumsy if you did it wrong.

They’re all dropped into a smoldering heap in the fire basin in the middle of the room. From your waist, you swipe a small bottle tied there. You take it in one go, the burn of harsh liquor coating your mouth like its own layer of flame.

In a single motion, you spit into the fire pit.

A high plume of flame follows, lighting the residuals of your garb and the logs and kindling you laid out long before your dance.

As the flame explodes and you raise your hands above your head, the crowd roars.

And your crown prince remains silent.

...

After you dance, the Kremnoans of Okhema do one of two things. Party or bathe.

Today, you’ve chosen to party. Mainly because Mydeimos hasn’t ditched the gathering as he usually does. Which affords you the perfect opportunity to bother him.

It helps that you immediately have a few goblets of wine.

You’re handed one almost immediately as the torches are lit after your dance. It’s thrust into your palm with a slap on your mostly bare back from one of the spirited, older women who always attend your dances. Your biggest supporters, really.

The alcohol helps chase off some of your self-consciousness too.

What you wear during your dances is... revealing. Worse than revealing, it's really nothing at all. Your chest is partially bound in silks. The skirt tied around your waist billows where it falls over your upper thighs. The little shorts you wear underneath would be entirely indecent if you wore them alone.

(You suppose that even these garments, despite how scantily clad they make you feel, are somewhat generous covers, given that when the bibasis was performed on Castrum Kremnos, the dancer would be essentially naked.)

(And Okhemans are far too prudish for such dress despite their love of public bathing.)

You down the rest of your goblet, wiping over your lips with the back of your hand. A pleasant buzz settles in your blood and behind your eyes, it makes staring down Mydei all too easy.

Some of your aforementioned aunties are crowding him, talking his ear off, it looks like. His arms are crossed over his chest, which is really doing some insane things for his tits, and despite the fact that the aunties are definitely in their cups and talking relative nonsense, the crown prince listens diligently.

He’s a good man. It’s too bad that you enjoy messing with him so intensely.

As you approach, you half-bow, spreading an arm out wide as you. “Crown prince. How rare of you to linger like this.”

The aunties giggle at your dramatics. Mydei looks unamused. Not blank-faced, not angry, but a third thing you can’t identify well in your state. Perhaps disapproving— that seems right. This feeling of his is entirely directed at you; the aunties have been spared from his ire.

More for you.

“He’s been waiting for you,” one of the aunties slurs. “‘Says he’s worried. Aren’t you lucky?”

“Cora—!” Another of them admonishes, slapping the other woman’s shoulder. “Don’t interfere!”

You smile at Mydei, burgeoning with an otherworldly amount of mischief.

“Waiting for me? I’m honored. Are you looking to share a drink? I’m sure I can find something—”

“I don’t drink.”

“Ah, yes. Your delicate sensibilities—how could I forget? Pomegranate juice, then?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Suit yourself.”

One of the aunties, Cora, hands you a half-full goblet, and you take a heavy gulp. It’s honey wine, rich on your palate and sticky in your throat. She takes it back from you, scuttling off with the rest of her group. They’re giggling like school girls as they do. You lick your teeth, sucking off the last sweet wine. “What did you need from me, Mydeimos?”

He stares at you with a scoff. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn’t seem like he wants them to remain that way. The crown prince isn’t the type to be tongue-tied, so you find it curious that he seems to be. You tilt your head and invade his space. Your palm falls over his chest, the thump of his heart like a drumbeat.

“Don’t—”

“Loosen up, my dear prince.” You gesture around you. “It’s a party. Even if you won’t imbibe with the rest of us, enjoy the festivities.”

“I have better things to do.”

“And yet, you’re here, waiting for me, apparently. And you still haven’t told me why, either.”

“Let us speak elsewhere.”

“Oh, something needs to be said in private? How brazen.”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t think of you as particularly prudish— why not just say it here? I’m sure you can keep your voice down.”

You tilt on the balls of your feet, leaning your weight into him. He bears it without flinching. When you sway, blood too slick and lush to not to. Mydei steadies you with a hand on your waist. His hold there is far too gentle. You could call it tender, though you’d blame such a description on the wine roiling in your veins.

You grin up at him, smitten. His face is flushed, red painted onto his cheeks, melding into his handsome features, both high and low. The staining flush fades into his hair and melds with the firelight.

“You’re drunk,” Mydei says. It’s simply a fact.

You hum and nod. “I would certainly hope so, by this point in the night.”

“I had hoped you’d be sober enough to be able to take this seriously for at least a moment, but I thought too highly of you, it seems.”

That makes something odd and painful twist in your chest. Mydei looks at you like you disappoint him— all the time. Not as though you’re a nuisance, but that you’re more trouble than you’re worth. It’s a look you’re used to, but the expression rarely matches his words. He’s terribly polite with his own people, and you are one of those, and so he is polite with you, even if his face looks like he’d rather be scolding you.

As he is now.

You push off of him with a scoff.

“Fuck off,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Find me in the morning. Perhaps I’ll be ‘serious’ enough for you then.”

He says your name as you spin around, ready to scamper off into the throng and forget that Mydeimos has a unique dislike for you.

He snatches your wrist— actually the middle of your forearm. You flinch with the contact, spinning without thinking, kicking into his stomach as a reflex. It’s a messy move, one born of muscle memory rather than technique. The liquor in you makes the motion sloppy.

Mydei catches you, holding you up with a wide hand under the back of your knee. Your breath catches.

“You burned yourself,” he says.

His gaze flits from your wrist, burnt— scalded. He’s being dramatic— to you, all disapproving again.

“I’ll find a healer later.” You attempt to break from his grip, but he holds you there.

His gaze is lit with fire of his own, lightning that cracks the sky and shatters the land. It pierces you, running through you. It’s immediately sobering.

There’s far more than disapproval in it.

You jerk, stumble, and fall on your ass. Your head— spins— fucking ow— and you accept someone’s hand— not Mydei’s— and rise on shaking legs. You feel like a fawn, cloven-hooved and clumsy as you walk backwards away from him. The mouth-drying wine won’t be enough to make you forget about— this.

He calls your name once more, but you’re already fleeing the scene.

...

You avoid Mydeimos the next morning. And after that too. You avoid him at all times, actually, with an expressed amount of effort that is legitimately difficult to keep up with.

It’s for the best— you tell yourself this often as you avoid his most frequented locations. You dodge the Chrysos Heirs when you see them out and about, worried Mydei will pop up just as easily as they seem to. The Kremnoans tend to prefer the hot baths, your crown prince is no exception, and despite your own partial nature to the steaming, almost bubbling baths, you don’t go near them. Instead, you resign your daily soaks to the more populous open bath and deal with its just-above-tepid temperature.

The aunties notice. The uncles, too. You’re a notable figure in the Kremnoan population— the dancer who flirts with flames and dares to show the world.

The type of dance you do is a dying art.

It’s why Mydei took note of you, you think. Your performances are spectacles. They have been ever since you were skilled enough to twirl on your own and not be afraid of the flame licks. These days, you spend your days teaching the young Kremnoans who want to learn. Or practicing yourself while the little ones watch. It’s less of a performance then and more of a demonstration.

Your… selfish interest in Mydei started when he began to show up at these informal lessons. You like to think that this is mainly because you were holding them at one of the training arenas that he frequently sparred with that snowy-haired Chrysos Heir at. He made a habit of watching you spin in the daylight— not with your usual fire, just the yellow-white glow of Kephele’s Burden. It’s only you and your steps, the taps of your bare feet on stone before you throw yourself in the air.

You really enjoyed his attention back then.

Because— you respect Mydeimos. How could you not? You’re not dumb, and even if you don’t keep up with all the political intricacies of the relations between Okhema and the displaced Kremnoans, you know Mydei is willing to do just about anything for the comfort and safety of his people. That includes you and your unseemly vulgarity and provocations.

You know that just beyond your range of conscious awareness, Mydei is protecting your dying dance.

As much as you respect him, you must torment him. A little. Because he is so damn stoic and impenetrable. He revels, yes, he’s battle-forged, revelry is vital, but there’s a part of him that holds back from the other side of the coin of carnality. There is violence and pleasure. You tempt him with the latter.

It’s really... really easy to. He’s built like a fucking brick-laid wall. He always uses scented oils after bathing. Seeing him after a hot bath is fucking lethal. Slick with oil, smelling of herbs, spice, and his own unique musk even after luxuriating in Okhema’s best baths. God forbid you stare at him and the gleam of his tattoos; you’ll be done for. He takes good care of his hair too. One of the aunties helps him trim it every few weeks; her wife rebraids it whenever she sees him out and about.

Mydei is also very... cute. You’d never say this outloud as some of the traditionalists around you would probably consider it treasonous. But thinking that the crown prince is cute is not a thought crime, and you can’t silence the little, cooing feeling you get around him sometimes.

Despite who he could be, Mydei remains so kind-hearted. One might not see it if they weren’t looking for it. But you do. The way he entertains the children of your people so easily. He will weave them explosive tales of battle and valor. He ‘spars’ with them too— which is really just him letting the kids beat him up until he throws them off him (lightly) with a battle cry, meant only for play and not bloodshed. He lets the Kremnoan grannies tease him and pinch his cheeks when he thinks no one is looking.

And he looks at you with pride.

Maybe— your desire is simply to please him more. And your cultivated sex appeal is an avenue to that. And it’s just... flirting. That’s all it’s meant to be! Your purpose when dancing is to be enticing and prideful; it’s what you embody. You don’t find it to be too out of bounds to impress yourself on Mydei for a bit of playful flirting.

It had been playful, anyway.

...

You’re hiding in a private bath, late in the evening. Scrutinizing the burn scars on your wrists, slick with rivulets of water, dripping lazily back into the steaming pool below.

You burn yourself all the time— at the very least scald. You don’t understand why Mydei made such... a fuss about it. About you. It irks you.

This isn’t how you’re supposed to play together, Nikador slain.

Mydei— he fucked up the rhythm. You’re supposed to antagonize him, and he’s supposed to take it like a good, stoic crown prince despite your behavior probably annoying him a great deal. You’re supposed to not care, dance into the crowd, and make ‘fuck me stupid’ eyes at him, and neither of you are supposed to do anything about it. You don’t fucking want to do anything about it.

Mydei has apparently decided that he’s done playing, you think.

A bathhouse worker announces herself before ducking inside of your room. She carries a goblet and a plate of cut fruits. Blush fans out over her rounded cheeks.

“U-Um,” she stutters, sandals slapping the wet tile of the floor. “Mydeimos requested these be sent to you. And that he’ll be waiting outside the bath to speak to you. He said it’s urgent.”

You grimace and roll your skull. The back of your head bumps the tile behind you, not hard enough to ache, but hard enough to thump.

“Please tell him to leave me be,” you sigh. “And you can take the fruit.”

“I— Um.” This poor girl. You rise from the bath, the light, thin cotton of your bathing dress clings to the curves and edges of your body. Stretching, you paw at your nearby waist bag. You have a handful of balance coins you can give her for the inevitable trouble you’re causing her.

You extend your arm as far as it will go, and your bag is still a little too far out of reach. The bath is simply too luxurious to get out of fully at this moment, and you huff before throwing one leg up and over the side of the tub.

You arch your back, stretching low, and just barely snatch the leather belt of your bag.

And, fates aligned, Mydei enters the room. His presence emanates over the steam-filled. Your poor bath attendant looks like she could pass out. And clearly— clearly— Mydei was not expecting to see you tummy-down, ass-up, arched on the bath tiles while nearly naked.

He flushes crimson, matching the reddest parts of his hair. You don’t fare much better— your cheeks heat, and you immediately slip back into the water.

“Mydeimos—” You sound shaken; you are. “How brazen. I’d kindly ask you to leave.”

He— stutters, already shuffling back. “I— will be waiting outside. Have the decency to speak to me yourself.”

You snap back at him, “And you have the decency to respect my modesty.”

Mydeimos stares at you. His pupils slitted. They cut into you like a blade. It makes you feel too exposed.

Your modesty has never mattered to you before this moment. He knows this. So do you.

He turns, leaving you with the click of metal boots on tile. “Find me later then.”

You won’t be, actually. You’re going to be avoiding him twice as hard because clearly he wants something from you and you have zero intention of giving it to him. Even knowing what exactly he wants, actually.

The poor attendant looks like she has forgotten how to breathe. You crawl back to your bag and hand her a lump of coins with an apologetic look on your face. You imagine it’s quite pathetic. You must be quite pathetic. Turning down the crown prince, slick and indecent in your thin robes, and heavily tipping an attendant to both apologize and encourage her to stay quiet.

She seems to get the idea and scampers off, leaving you alone with the tray of juicy, ripe fruit and a goblet of what is undoubtedly pomegranate juice to taunt you.

...

Mydei is at your dance that same evening.

You see him before the torches are snuffed. He sees you too, you think, but you force yourself to ignore him in favor of your performance.

It only half works.

The cloth around your wrists is bound such that the outer layers burn slowly and an inner layer is soaked with a viscous, fire-retardant liquid. It keeps you mostly... mostly unburnt. In the old days, in Castrum Kremnos, dancers like yourself wore the extremity burns that came with your art with pride. They were indicative of prowess. You’ve found that Okhema is less accepting and prideful when you walk around the streets with fresh wounds. So, you’ve become very diligent in wrapping your wrists and ankles to prevent actual, lasting injuries. A few flame bites don’t scare you.

However, this evening, you’re unnerved by Mydei’s unwanted presence. His gaze feels like a brand, hot iron tucked into gemstone embers, a silent threat that you’ll be burned by something other than your own controlled fire.

Frustratingly, you know that if you asked him to leave, he would. He’d probably just be waiting around a corner for the remainder of the night, ready to stalk you down like a big cat.

Mydeimos remains, and you attempt to dance as usual. But the whistling of the aulos and the drumbeats feel a little wrong, and you’re embarrassingly off-beat. You stumble more than once but disguise the blunders with a well-timed lunge or leap. The fourth-ish time you misstep, you turn on your heel wrong, and pain shoots up from your foot to your leg. It hurts badly enough that you snap your jaw shut, teeth clattering against each other. Your leg gives out, and your knee crashes into the stone floor.

The most sober of the crowd seem to still— this isn’t part of your usual routine. You rise and try to make it seem natural, but your next step— fucking hurts— and you crash to the ground. The wrapped cloth around your limbs begins to slip off, you fully put your hand onto the burning strip of fabric that has been shed with your stumbling.

“Fuck—” You curse under your breath and flinch away from it.

You don’t even realize Mydei is there until there are large, hot hands under your arms, hauling you back and away. You— fuck him— fight against him, elbow and kick at him, but he is the indomitable crown prince, and he is not moved by what are essentially the swats of an angry kitten (you are the angry kitten).

With a dizzying amount of dexterity, especially given the low lowlight, he tugs the remaining flame-ridden cloth from you. He snuffs it just as easily. It all happens so quickly that you can’t protest properly, can’t curse him out either. The torches are relit just as Mydeimos stands, dragging you up with him, still hoisting you under the arms like you’re nothing more than a doll. Or corpse.

“This performance is over.” His words won’t be questioned even as you begin to snarl at him under your breath. “Take part in your regular merriment all you wish.”

‘Regular merriment’ is the two barrels of wine that have already been popped open and dipped into.

The crowd still manages to cheer (traitors, all of them), the aulos and drums resume, and despite your protest, Mydeimos drags you from your stage, your theater, and you have a sinking feeling that your one-sided game has come to an end.

...

It becomes immediately clear that you cannot run from Mydei now. He has corralled you, cornered you so efficiently. Your egress has been smashed, no alcohol to blame or drunkards to weave your way into.

You cannot hide from him as he drags you away.

Well— not drag. Carries. Over his shoulder, specifically.

You protest— because how could you not? All of your kicking and snarling doesn’t do anything more than get Mydeimos to throw you over your shoulder like you’re nothing more than a sack of grain that he’s helping a passerby move from one place to another. Except you’re not a sack of grain, you're a vaguely tipsy dancer who would much rather be enjoying the afterparty.

Mydeimos only sets you down once you’ve sufficiently punched his spine and lower back. It doesn’t affect him, and he carries you all the way to the hot bath without issue.

He sets you down on one of the massage tables; he treats you more gently than a sack of grain then. His touch isn't unkind and he makes sure you settle, unwobbling, on your backside, legs dangling off the edge of the table. One of them is already swollen around the joint of your ankle.

Mydei frowns— he notices too. He drops to his knees to inspect it.

With an uncomfortable amount of reverence, he scrutinizes the injury.

“Mydeimos.” You hope to interrupt his... overt concern. “Stop that. Stop this. It’s unbecoming.”

Mydei, with one hand cradling the underside of your knee, lifting your foot closer to his face, and the other cradling the sicklish instep of your foot, flicks his gaze to you. It moves back down to the injury, to the burns that marr the skin there. There’s a ring of thickened, textured skin from your fire dancing. You never saw them as— a bad thing. Battle scars, you thought of them as.

With the way Mydei is eyeing them, like they’ve personally offended him, you can’t help but feel an edge of... guilt for allowing yourself to be injured like this. You usually don’t care. Scars are nothing to be ashamed of— your mother taught you that when she was stabbed in the gut by a Furiae tideling. She still wore the revealing tops she adored, the ones cut to show her stomach and the molted, gnarled skin there.

Your little burns are nothing against that. Yet, Mydei looks at them, looks at you, like you’ve been grievously injured.

“I should forbid you from your dance,” he says, voice clear and irrefutable. “This is unacceptable.”

“Fuck you.” You kick him with your other leg, not hard but enough to startle. “No. That’s— stupid.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“Nikador slain, Mydeimos. It’s a few minor burns, once a week, in exchange for the joy and excitement of our people— your people— I say it’s a fair trade, don’t you think so?”

“No. It’s not.” He drops your ankle, futzes around under the massage table, and pulls out a long bandage. The kind that stretches and holds pressure. He wraps it gingerly around your swelling foot. From the stash that you didn’t even know was there, he grabs a salve. Gauze and bandages too.

You frown. With a lurching tilt, you attempt to snatch the supplies from him. “I can do this— my fucking— self—”

Mydei rights you with a single hand against your sternum. The metal of his gauntlet is slick with condensation from the bathhouse air but still a bit chilled against your skin.

He stares at you. That sharp gaze of his leaves you defenseless, uncomfortable in your skin.

“You cannot be trusted with your own well-being.“

There’s… something in the way that he says it. A finality to his words, a statement of absolutely unflappable fact, he provides you. It makes you feel… small. And foolish and weak.

“Yes, I can be.” You sound defensive, it makes you cringe inside yourself. “I’m perfectly capable of handling my ‘well-being,’ thank you very much, Mydeimos.”

His jaw locks, tightens. You see the strain of it in the tendons of his neck. He— he still hasn’t let go of the fragile skin and bone of your ankle. As you sober up, increasingly quickly given the conversation you’re having, you’re aware of the ache in your limbs. The sting of burns that you… may have ignored. But it’s your choice to ignore them!

In a rush of motion, Mydei stands, still holding your leg. The flow of the action pushes you back, flattening you to the massage table so that you’re forced to lie on it. When you try to at least get on your elbows, keep your tender belly somewhat less flat and exposed before you lose your composure any further—

Mydei stops you. A hand laid over your sternum pushes you back down. The sharp points of his gauntlet tease into your skin. A threat that you’re sure many others have felt before under his hand.

You didn’t think you’d ever be one of them, not like this.

“You are not a fool, nor are you stupid,” he says. “And I would think that you have enough sense to put aside your childish ego when it comes to something as paramount as your own health.”

“It’s not— it’s not a childish ego—“ You feel like you’re being flayed open under the heat of his gaze and touch. “It matters to me— and to others—“

“There are far safer ways to indulge your dancing.” Mydei fingers drum over the bones of your ankle. “Your performing peers have almost entirely put aside dancing with live flame.”

“Cowards.” You spit, voice trembling.

“No, they’re just more honest than you.” Mydei leans forward. He eclipses the haze of steam and low, warm light of the room. “They don’t want to experience such pain in order to provide joy. You disregard that pain in favor of… what?”

“Fuck you, Mydei.” You really push up against him now, but it’s unmoveable. “Let me up—“

“Attention?” Mydeimos stares at you, grips your ankle harder. “Is that what you crave so badly?”

“I ‘crave’ my ability to move and exist as I wish—“

“Clearly not,” gently, but firm all the same, Mydei squeezes your twisted ankle. A half-formed sound escapes you as pain rockets up from the appendage. “How would you expect to move, let alone walk, when you’re injuring yourself so carelessly?”

“Let me up—“

Mydei’s grip on your ankle tightens. It— hurts, actually. More than a little. An involuntary noise, a squeak, a fucking whimper bursts up from your throat.

“You have a liar’s tongue.” Mydei tells you.

His gaze flicks to your ankle. Then back to your face. Then back to your ankle. He squeezes— harder. He’s still not putting anything close to his full strength into it, but you have the bones of a dancer, the body of a mover, not a fighter.

He’s… not going to—

“Mydei—“ you feel paralyzed, frozen. So unsure in your belly and behind your eyes.

He’s not going to break you, is he?

Mydei pushed your ankle the wrong way. You can’t help but squirm, attempting to tug yourself away. He is unyielding. Your words of protest are stuck in your throat.

“What you really want,” he says, “is just a game, isn’t it? The feelings of others. A drunken sport for you, is it?”

“That’s not—“

“Don’t lie.” It’s a threat, you realize. Mydei's hulking form moves closer, pinning you fully. Your legs are forced around his body, bent at the knee. It would be an intimate position under other contexts.

Not this one.

“A-And so what if it is?” You manage to crack a smile, nervously looking between Mydei and your ankle that— he wouldn’t, would he? “Flirting a little— it’s within my right, isn’t it? I’m not hurting anyone.”

Mydei frowns at that.

“How callous of you.”

It clicks then. It’s like you’ve been dunked in the cold bath, not the hot one that you’re flattened so close to now. Immediately, you’re sober, you’re so alert it feels like your heart is going to tear out of your chest.

The swirl of emotions in your chest is overwhelming— shame— fucking shame— fear, hot on your tongue too. Sadness at your misunderstanding; you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

“O-Oh.” Is all you can manage to squeeze out.

Mydei inspects you. He has you where he wants you, you think. You’re immobile, forced to reckon with whatever he presents you. You can’t do anything but take what he says— and it’s Mydei, so of course you believe him. Something awful grows in the pit of your stomach, like a fungus that crawls along the lining of your guts. The backs of your eyes sting.

“Do you understand?” He asks.

You’re certain that he’s going to break your ankle. Shatter it right then and there.

“S-Sure.”

Mydei stares at you, then lets down your ankle and releases it. Free of pressure, the promise of something far worse than being pinned is not quite gone, but it’s... somewhat diffused.

Mydei opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the laughter. The floating, high kind, fueled by wine and merriment. A gaggle of girls stumble into the baths, you recognize them as some of your regular attendees. They hang off each other, bracing themselves on the railing down to the bottom platform, to the bath and the massage tables.

You freeze, Mydei looks unphased.

The girls notice you and— gasp. Audibly. The fucking dramatics.

“Oh my gods,” one covers her mouth, the strap of her dress slipping down her arm. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not—” you rush to say, pushing against Mydei’s hand.

It’s a jolting movement, one Mydei doesn’t fully expect, and, perhaps by reflex or perhaps with some repressed intention, the claws of his gauntlet dig into your chest and he pushes you back into the damp wood of the table.

Blood pinpricks where the gauntlet digs in.

Mydei notices, scowls, and then an unreadable look takes over his features. He lets you go without another word and departs wordlessly but swiftly. He looks back at you just before exiting.

His gaze pierces you. It’s a promise, it’s a threat, it’s a death knell that every fiber of your being tells you that you must avoid.

...

You do see a healer the next day. Or, rather, you contact your usual girlie, requesting a house call. You did manage to drag yourself to your little home the night before, but walking on the sprain was a pointedly bad idea.

She fixes you up with a splint and gives you a bit of ointment to put on the small wounds on your chest. The cuts spread out from between your collarbones, all the way down to your sternum. Your healer, a doe-eyed blonde, tells you that they’ll scar in the shape of a star (“How pretty will that be?”)

You have to make sure it doesn’t scar.

Your encounter with Mydei... unnerves you.

It’s not like you haven’t seen the crown prince intense before. You’ve spied on him and that Deliverer Chrysos Heir more than once during their spars. Mydei strikes with blows that would maim an opponent with any less strength and finesse than the other. He fights with intention, and he speaks the same way. Mydeimos bears a heavy crown and an even heavier burden, and he’s constantly vying for control and sway between the elder Kremnoans and the seats of Okhema. He does not do this with pretty words; he does so cuttingly. He is kind to those he wishes to be kind to and lethal to those he wishes to be lethal to.

You’re not sure which side you land on anymore.

It’s a bad idea, continuing to attempt to ignore him. But this time, it feels more... paramount. Less childish and more like you’re trying to save yourself from something bigger than the fallout of your brazen flirtations.

You lock the door and hide in your little apartment for four days.

It’s coward behavior, but truthfully, you don’t know what the fuck to do.

You don’t want to face Mydei. You don’t know what will happen if you do face him. You’ve already canceled your dance for this week, citing your injury while thinking of Mydei’s disapproval of you performing at all.

You shouldn’t care so much about his opinion.

You haven’t before— it’s not like you weren’t somewhat aware of his disapproval. Or, his perceived disapproval. In your mind, the reason why he always left your performances before their end, before the carousing and revelry, was because he was too disgusted by the overtly… enticing nature of your dance and flagrant disregard for your safety to stay.

You have always disregarded his… disdain? Lack of interest? That’s half the reason he was so fun to tease, or attempt to tease. Getting a rise out of the crown prince was one of your pleasures for a while.

Now? You’re… perhaps a little scared to get a rise out of him. Your ankle still throbs, bruises have bloomed under your skin where he gripped so fiercely. You’d, actually, like to avoid attracting his attention at all for the time being. You don’t want the crown prince to have any opinion of you. The ideal situation would be for you to rot in your apartment for as long as it takes for Mydei to forget about... whatever all that was, and you can go back to your dancing in peace.

However, you cannot rot in your apartment forever. One must eat, and your stash of bread and olive oil runs out very quickly. Not to mention that you’re... perhaps— going through some very big, complex emotions, and nothing soothes like a carb smothered in high-quality olive oil. You’ve been indulging and your empty pantry is the consequence.

You venture out of your apartment on the fifth day, wearing a cloak to cover your face (rather dramatically) and heading to Marmoreal Market during its least busy hours. It earns you some odd looks, but you don’t particularly care. You’re in your hermit era. Your ascetic era, actually, because you’re going to make the cask of olive oil and two loaves of bread you purchase last for at least a month.

... Okay, maybe not complete asceticism, because one of your favorite vendors has a fresh batch of sesamous rolls out, and you’re just a mortal, human person, and you cannot resist the supernatural call of a flakey, nutty pastry when all you’ve eaten for a week pantry basics.

So, you procure six. Which is excessive, but you make decent money as a dancer, and you’re kind of going through something.

With your wares secured, you start to head back to your home. Your safe haven where you can pretend the crown prince didn’t consider breaking your ankle. Or bedding you. Or some unholy combination of the two. You can’t be sure and truthfully, you don’t really want to be sure.

(It’s unfortunate that the lionesque crown prince has been on the prowl for you.)

His voice, low and rough, bounces off the marble of Okhema’s inner hallways. You freeze when you hear it, panic lancing through you. He’s not far and it seems he’s rounding a corner, talking to— fuck— Cora, damn woman.

You scamper back up the hallway, looking desperately for a place to hide. A pillar to duck behind, a cart to hide under— fuck, you’d slip into a pond if it would allow you to escape this impending interaction.

Mydei, however, is a warrior and far faster than you in every regard. The hallway is relatively empty, and the best cover you can find is behind a not-so-large pot and vining, flowering plant that curls through one of the open air windows. It’s— not really cover. But if Mydei wasn’t looking for you, he wouldn’t see you.

Except, Mydei is very clearly looking for… something. Probably you. Scanning left and right, up and down as he walks. Cora chatters by his side, her arm looped through his. Traitor, you think. You thought Cora was on YOUR side. But, apparently not.

(It’s easier to blame her for things she doesn’t even know then acknowledge any of the unpleasant feelings that have been creeping up your throat the past few days.)

You flatten yourself to the wall, praying Mydei doesn’t see you.

It’s foolish, really, because one look in your direction and his eyes lock onto you. Regardless of your cloak and shadow-covered face, he recognizes you. You curse under your breath and kick off the wall. Running off is paramount. You can (probably) lose him in the markets and their growing crowds.

You’ve never been known for your speed or stealth, however. Only the grace of your steps. It doesn’t help that your splinted ankle is already aching from all of your walking.

Before you’re two steps from your hiding spot, there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, tugging you backwards. You choke, grasping at the cloak’s tie around your neck. It only takes a single motion to loosen it, and it drops to the ground. You whirl around to curse at Mydei, who is still staring at you along with a very mischievous-looking Cora.

“Oh, dear,” she says, hiding a smile behind her palm. “I fear I may be about to intrude on something.”

“You’re not.” You straighten yourself up and overdramatically (or perfectly dramatically) brush dust from your robes. “This is actually harassment. Cora, could you escort me home, please?”

You give her a pleading look, probably looking like a sad, wet puppy, but she does not waver. Instead she looks even more pleased, giggling to herself as her frizzy, silver-grey curls bounce around her jaw.

“If this is harassment, I ought to get into the business of being harassed.”

“Don’t joke, please.” Mydei frowns. “And what would Sara think of such pursuits?”

“She’d attempt to join in, Mydeimos!”

You turn, ready to leave this weird, flirting-but-not-flirting exchange. Mydei seems engrossed enough, but he still shoots out a hand to grab your shoulder. You curse, ready to snap at you, but he’s at your back. A furnace-like presence that eclipses everything else in your line of sight.

“I’ll escort you.” Mydei says it in a way that brokers no argument.

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“It’s not an offer.” He tells you, stooping so just you can hear. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s unignorable and sharp enough to pierce. You shudder. The phantom pain from the healing bruises on your ankle makes itself known.

You sigh, looping your arms with Mydei, reluctantly, like it’s the worst fate in the world. Cora howls as you do. Mydei looks rather unimpressed. Your theatrics don’t seem to phase him, not actually— rather, whatever he is seeing underneath your performance is what’s bothering him.

You wish you were drunk. Maybe you should’ve bought wine along with your sundries.

It’s too late to regret now as Mydei steers you away from Cora and the vining, budding plant that could not hide you from the eyes of your undying crown prince.

...

Mydeimos does not, actually, take you back to your apartment, much to your chagrin. He leads you into the baths through a back entrance. There’s no chatter between the two of you as you walk. You have no interest in attempting conversation when you are being dragged through the bathhouse somewhat against your will.

It’s only when you think of the blessed loaf of bread and fresh baked goods that you start dragging your feet.

“Mydeimos,” you huff. “The steam in here will ruin my groceries. Unless this is some shortcut back to my apartment that I’m unaware of, take me home.”

“I will.” Mydei continues to walk because you, tugging on his arm, really does next to nothing to stop him. “After we talk.”

You sigh. It’s not really worth it to fight him on it at this point. Maybe, after you talk or whatever, you’ll be free of his oppressive presence and can go back to dancing (and maybe even forget about his stunt at the hot bath. Maybe.)

Mydei drags you far into the bathhouse, down hallways you don’t recognize. The marble molts from white and grey to black and silver. It’s almost warm beneath your feet. Part of you thinks to ask for more details of where you’re being led, but you think better of it. It gets quieter and quieter. The air feels thicker.

Eventually, you find yourself a private bath. Far larger than the ones available for rent in the main bathhouse. The basin seems deeper, wider, with a current curling in the water from somewhere you can’t identify.

You eye the round bath and its blueish, perfect-looking, steaming water, then look up to Mydei with a scowl.

“We’re in private.” You extract yourself from the loop of his arm and cross your own over your chest. “What did you wish to talk about?”

Mydei looks at you, deadpan. You revel in the reaction. “Do you enjoy being daft on purpose?”

“No, actually. Though, I would very much enjoy forgetting about the... events that followed my dance.”

Mydei frowns at you and clicks his tongue. It’s then that he decides shedding his already objectively indecent outer (and inner) robes is the best course of action. You scoff and turn away from him. You do not need to see this man naked. He already wanders around half-naked and you have enough mental images of his likeness stored in such a state to not need to see him entirely undressed.

There’s a slight splash behind you, and it’s only then that you turn around. The churning water that comes up to just below his tits protects some of his modesty. Bare minimum decency, really.

You frown so hard that you think you might get a headache.

“Get in.” Mydei nods to the bathwater, steam already making his hair frizzy.

“Absolutely not.” You frown. “For a litany of reasons, I will stay on dry land while we ‘talk’, Mydeimos. Allow me this much.”

Mydei stares at you. He looks at you with the same precision and violence that a lance piercing a fragile chest would have. It makes you freeze in place.

It’s only then that you become aware of how close you are already to the bath’s luxuriously large basin. How Mydei, far stronger and swifter than yourself, is not all that far away from your tender, healing ankles.

Your gaze snaps from your feet back to him. It’s already too late.

In single deft motion, he has you by the calf and pulls you into the bath. One of his arms shoots out as you crash down, you feel it on your back, up your spine, to guard your head and neck despite plunging you into the uncomfortably deep bath. You yelp as you hit the water, half-drowning as your head slips under the water. Mydei hauls you up a moment later and drags you next to him.

You must look like a wet cat. You feel like a wet cat— a pouting one as you stare at him incredulously. Your light clothes are soaked and— indecent. Fucking indecent and half-floating in the water with the current and heat of it.

“What the fuck—”

“I wouldn’t have had to do that,” Mydei interrupts, stern in a way that makes your stomach flip, “if you didn’t keep running away.”

“I’m not running away.” (You are.) “You just cannot let this fucking— thing go. This a you problem.”

Mydei looks sick based on his expression. You lean away from him in the bath, crossing your arms, horribly aware of your own exposure.

You feel like a cornered animal.

“You’re so—” Mydei sighs. His composure is fracturing. Part of you is deeply enchanted by watching this occur and the other is horrified by it. You’re so close to him, so bare to him. It makes your skin itch. He breathes out through his teeth then stares at you. You feel his gaze down to your marrow. “Your obstinance is infuriating. But, you’re aware of this, aren’t you? Are you taking pleasure in the trouble you cause?”

“No—?”

“I don’t believe you,” Mydei’s tone is scaring you. “You revel in this. The affections you give and how you dash from the consequence of your kindness, whether it be bad or good to you. You run from the recompense. You cause reactions only to turn the other way when they actually occur. To yourself, even to your own body. It’s been difficult to watch. Unbearable, even. You look away from your own discomfort with such dexterity.”

“Choke,” you say reflexively.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Mydei’s jaw locks.

“Must I give you a taste of your consequences in order for you to understand their severity?”

“I think—” You drift away from him in the bath. To the otherside of the pool, hopefully creating enough distance that you can slip away. “That you should go spar with that snow-haired one who clearly wants to fuck you. How about you blow off some steam that way, yeah? I’m sorry for flirting with you and not sticking around for anything else. Just kinda my thing, you know?”

“It’s—” Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose with his uncovered, ungaunleted hand. “Is that all you think this is about?”

Seeing the bare skin of his muscular forearms pre-massage table incident would’ve probably had you salivating and causing problems. Now, like this, exposed and all too aware of how your clothes are sticking to your skin under the water, the sight brings you nothing but distress. He’s strong beneath the little armor he does wear.

“Look,” you interrupt him, kicking away from him (with your bad foot— ow—) to a distance that feels safer, “Even if I was flirting with you— I don’t owe you anything beyond that. It’s just... light-hearted, yeah? Besides, you’d know if I wanted you in bed Mydei.”

This— strikes him. You can see in the way his expression darkens. It’s a good distraction. Mydei may be a brutal fighter, but there’s a tender heart there. You admired it, prior to him tossing it aside to pin you down and nearly break one of your limbs.

“Would I?” Mydei asks, his body coiled tight.

You heft yourself up out of the bath and sit on the lip of it. The air is much cooler than the hot, hot water. Steam curls off of your skin.

“I would’ve just asked if you wanted to fuck.” You shrug, attempting nonchalance. You have no idea if it's landing.

You’re mostly lying. You haven’t had anyone in your bed in months. Physical pleasures that drift so far, so seriously, haven’t interested you in quite some time. You get enough contact from the revelrous dancing following your performances and the dirty, frantic kisses you share with strangers on the way home. This carnality never follows you past your apartment door.

Back when you were fucking, more regularly, it was long-term partnerships. This whole flirting with no strings attached thing scratched an itch in the back of your brain entirely polar from that.

You don’t bother explaining any of this to Mydei. It— it feels too late for that.

“Do you only know how to lie?” He asks.

You look away from him to the condensation-slick stone and dark tile of the floors. They seem far more interesting than affording this guy any amount of further eye contact.

“Depends on who you ask, I guess.” You shake your head, tracing a vein of marble with your eyes. “For what it’s worth— I’m sorry for playing with your feelings. I didn’t realize you’d take all this so seriously. That’s my folly, and I’m sorry for the trouble it’s caused you.”

Silence follows.

Your words crest over the light gurgle of the ever-filling bath. The syllables lay heavy in the air. You don’t know how you really expect Mydei to respond. All you hope is that he lays this stupid heart-to-heart, intervention nightmare to rest and you can go back to wallowing in your apartment until your ankles and wrists heal enough for you to resume dancing (with flame still, by the way.)

In the seething silence, you stand with a sigh. You decide, actually, that this encounter is done. Hopefully Mydei got his scolding out of his system and whatever hurt feelings linger in him can be resolved by that so-called ‘Deliverer’ blowing his back out in a few hours.

You get two steps from the bath before you realize you are terribly, horribly wrong.

Mydei grabs your ankle. The sprained one, the one that is swollen and wrapped because you stopped wearing your splint early because it was annoying. Pain shoots from the limb and as he yanks, you drop. There’s no cushion to the fall other than how you catch yourself on your hands. The sting is immediate and you nearly crack your skull on the tile.

You turn to give Mydei a piece of your mind, because what the fuck— but he’s already rising from the water. Naked, half-hard, and so much bigger and stronger than you are.

It all hits you then.

The situation at hand, really. How much you’ve pissed this guy off, how far you’ve pushed him— the fact he brought you to the depths of the bathhouse to a private room to have this conversation. ‘Conversation’, you realize too, is generous.

This is a duel, one you were destined to lose.

“No—” You push up from the tile, scrambling on the slick surface, but in a single move, Mydei has you pinned on your tummy. A hand splays out between your shoulder blades and he climbs to straddle your hips. Just over your ass. The garment you’re wearing is so thin and the panties you’re wearing are just simple cotton. They’re soaked through.

“Mydeimos— wait—” You need to stop this. It’s vital, it’s vital— you need to run.

“I’ve given you an opportunity to listen. I’ve explained how you ended up in this state.” He applies pressure to your back. It squeezes the air from your lungs with exhales against your will. “And yet, you can’t even do that much. What you do hear— is devoid of the actual intent that I know you understand.”

“Let me up, Mydei!” You shove at the ground. Mydei gathers your wrists in one large, scalding hand and pins them to your lower back. His grip burns more than your flame ever did.

He leans down over your body, flattening you.

“You have no idea how to take care of yourself.” His voice is hushed, sticky in your ears and you whine. He’s— he’s stupid and dumb and you’re scared— “Mind and body, you’re so reckless with yourself and care not for the harm you inflict on yourself. And on others.”

“Mydei, p-please—” You’ve been reduced to begging this quickly. Your pulse rabbits under your skin.

“You were given many chances.” Mydei hand drifts down your back, following the slope of your spine, the curve and bow of it. “You were presented many opportunities to acknowledge your behavior, really acknowledge it, and you still didn’t. I know you’re not truly ignorant to your own patterns. You wouldn’t be so adept at turning away from them if you were ignorant.”

You try to kick your legs up. Your feet hit Mydei’s back with no effect.

“As a result,” his words are rough and silken all at once. “You’ve forced my hand. You must be shown the consequence of your actions.”

You squeak out his name, turning your head under the pressure of him. When you finally meet his gaze, it’s impenetrable. Your— stupidity, foolhardiness— idiocy and indifference have brought out a side of the kind-hearted crown prince that you never expected to be on the receiving end of.

Dread pools in your gut and you claw against the floor.

...

You know it’s not just about flirting.

It’s about the wounds. It’s about the way you care not for how many mornings you wake up hungover with the taste of someone else’s spite and berry wine still clinging to your teeth. It’s the way you don’t mind the burns you get, that you ignore the sting and aches you get from your art. You don’t eat sometimes, entranced in learning new steps to a new melody. It’s how you cozy your way up to anyone who suits your fancy and will give you the time of day. It’s about how, despite how legitimate their affections may be, you twirl from the potentiality of closeness and back into your flames.

If you didn’t know these things before, you know them now, on the tiled floor of the private bath.

You tremble, grasping at the slippery ground for any type of purchase as Mydei pushes a third finger into your cunt.

It’s too much, too big, too fast. Mydei’s hands are a warrior’s, strong and rough from years of training, and you feel the texture of them as they work their way, with some difficulty, into the clutch of your cunt. Each callous drags against your opening and you drop your head on to the tile, barely restraining a pitching cry from the back of your throat.

Mydei, for his part, fucks you with his fingers slowly. You’re not all that wet for him, despite how he’s alternating between slipping his other hand under you to rub your clit and petting over your hip as if to calm a startled animal.

You are a startled animal, really.

“I y-yield—” you choke out, again. You don’t know how many times you’ve said it at this point. Your throat feels dry despite the damp air. “I yield—!”

Yielding won’t stop whatever Mydei is doing— you know this, but you have to at least try and resist.

He hushes you in a way that isn’t tender, but isn’t cruel either. His thumb strokes over your side and you barely keep yourself from crying. You bury your face in your arms.

For how much you don’t want this, Mydei isn’t being cruel with his touch.

There’s force behind how he is pinning you down. How his legs are braced over the backs of yours, how one of his hands presses into the center of your spine to keep you belly-down. He bears down on you unrelentingly.

But it’s not cruel. It’s not harsh— just— unignorable

His fingers drag on your insides, pressing against your sweet spot with an infuriating amount of tenderness given your predicament. He’s drawing desire out of you, coaxing you into a state you have so diligently avoided.

The delirium of carnal pleasure. Fucker.

A noise lodges itself in your throat. You can’t tell if it’s one of discomfort or desire.

He continues like this, fingers curling in you with enough gentleness that you could, under different circumstances, fool yourself into thinking it was the touch of a proper lover. The pump of his fingers in and out of your cunt gets easier, wetter, much to your dismay. You don’t want to admit that there are little, pleasurable sparks beginning to curl from your toes up to your spine.

You hope that what’s making you slicker is blood and not your own arousal.

Mydei strokes your back as his pace increases, each thrust into your insides begins to punch. Each stroke and curl is directly over your sweet spot. He’s learned your body so well, so quickly.

“Fuck you—” You spit at him, breathless, unfortunately. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

He sighs behind you, squeezing your hip in a way that you’re sure will leave a bruise. “Even like this, you deny yourself?”

“Especially like this!” You shout, your voice bouncing off the tiles. “You c-could’ve, like, I-I don’t know— asked me to dinner or something first.”

Mydei stills behind you. His fingers are deep in your cunt as he does, too warm and keeping you too full. He shifts forward, you can feel it, feel the looming shadow he casts over you. His hand tangles in your hair, dragging you from where you’ve been hiding in your arms. Pain nips at your scalp and you gasp with it.

Mydei is nose-to-nose with you, his gaze hot and piercing and uniquely infuriated.

“If I had, you would have said no.” His lips press to your cheek. “Even if you had wanted it.”

He’s the fucking worst— he really is.

Mydei doesn’t drop your head as you squirm beneath him. His fingers move again, harder, faster, pumping in and out of your hole with sick, twisted squelching sounds. You’re slick, you’re wet, and you are undeniably... enjoying this. On some level. Somewhere. And Mydei’s right, isn’t he? That, had Mydei propositioned you traditionally, you would’ve turned him down. You might’ve even laughed in his face. He probably has known that reality longer than you’ve been aware of it yourself.

You have no retort; you can only glare at him.

It’s hard to maintain your disposition like this— as pleasure rolls over itself in your belly and as Mydei is slowly undoing all of your carefully kept defenses. Maintaining— nonchalance has, more or less, gone out the window.

Mydei wants that, you understand. He wants to break you down, and it’s working.

You lose yourself in the feel of it, in the unrelenting weight and presence of Mydei at your back and his fingers in your cunt. It’s hard to think beyond that and the glowing sparks of pleasure that make you drip. It’s— a little hard to breathe with all the steam. And maybe you’re breathing a little too frantically from the shock of being penetrated and not really wanted it. Maybe your own helplessness has made you more a prey animal than a dancer.

You feel the heat in your gut coil tighter, hotter— burning— as he curls his fingers just right, rolls the pearl of your clit with a haunting amount of dexterity.

“I h-hate you—” you sob, giving one last, valiant attempt at bucking him off of you. “— Mydeimos—”

Mydei growls. Something angry and more animal than you’re used to. A swoop of something akin to terror shudders through you. Mydei doubles his efforts at taking you apart with nothing but his hands.

You come around his fingers. Your cunt flutters around his digits and the sickening wet sound of flesh and slick goes static in your ears. A sound is ripped from your throat, one that you can hardly hear as pleasure overtakes you.

Before you can really come down, Mydei flips you, so you’re on your back with your legs spread. He kneels between them. Still naked. Fully hard. The tip of his cock is a raging purple, wet with pre.

“You still cannot let go of your liar’s tongue?” He grabs your jaw in one hand. The gesture is firm, but tender, in a way that’s so him.

You whine— you can’t make yourself form words. Your so-called ‘liar’s tongue’ is too thick and heavy in your mouth.

He looks at you then— examines you, assesses you. Your chest heaves as he does, shivering in the sticky air.

“One more opportunity,” Mydei says. “Listen well, flame kin.”

You nod with a rolling, loose neck.

Mydei strokes over your cheek. “Admit that you revel in your own suffering.”

You whine, trying to close your thighs. Push him away— please, Nikador slain—

He continues, “Admit that you seek your own suffering and push away pleasures. If you can, which I know you can, this ends.”

“That’s basically just admitting that y-you’re hurting me, you know.”

“I’m giving you what you want, apparently—” Mydei’s hand finds its way to your throat. It doesn’t squeeze, but the threat of pressure looms. “Pain. Even if we both know that that’s not really what you want, is it?”

Something weird knots in your insides. You want to push Mydei away, but you know it won’t work. You want to run from this bath, but you know that won’t work. Mydei has you in his grasp, under his predator-like gaze and you cannot escape it.

Your attempts have been feeble. Your sharp tongue hasn’t done you any favors either.

“What do you think I want?” You ask him, voice shaking and breathless all at one.

“Pleasure,” Mydei says, so matter-of-factly. “You’re just too rabbit-hearted to allow it.”

You want to lambast Mydei, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. But you abstain. You’re too tired, too worn down by... everything.

“Fine,” you say, far too softly. “I—I would prefer to hurt than feel good, most of the time. I know it’s not great. Are you happy?”

Mydei sighs.

He looks vaguely disappointed and for a very terrifying moment, you think that that’s not enough. That he’ll find some other way to wring more of your very fragile truth out of you. You’re not sure you could take it, truly. You feel close to shattered— the heart of you fears how else Mydei would push you.

He rubs below your eyes and pulls his thumb back wet. You didn’t even realize you had been crying.

“I’ll accept your answer.” Mydei says. “But know that I am watching— and expect a change in your behavior.”

“S-So no flames?” You swallow. “And w-what, no revelry?”

“No flames.” He reiterated. “I’m certain the Grove can create some alternative that is safer. And you may still revel, but if you wish to entangle yourself with the physical, you will find me.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll find ourselves back here.” He nods to the bath. All of its cruel tile and stone. Your ruined bag of groceries, tossed into a corner. There’s a massage table in the corner you hadn’t even noticed. “And you will receive the carnal from me, regardless.”

The part of you that is used to twirling and spitting is quiet. Dead, maybe, if not dormant. You rub your eyes and think about your bed. About the pastries that are soggy and inedible at this point. Your isolation and the fearfulness you’ve carried over simply being seen.

(How running and hurting has worn you down and how unfair it is that Mydei saw it so easily. And, in retrospect, maybe he was quite patient with you.)

“Okay.” You sniffle. “I-I agree.”

Mydei sighs again. This time, it’s pure relief. A knot comes loose within him so visibly. His slick shoulders sag and he sinks on his knees just a fraction. You, for your part, collapse into the tile. Boneless, wrung out, and slick still dripping out of your core.

...

It’s after one of your dances, sometime later. Normalcy has taken a new shape and you have allowed it too.

(Though, you hardly had much of a choice. You’ve been leashed.)

Your body is... mostly healed. Your ankle still aches sometimes. On your worst days, you need a cane. A perfectly crafted piece from a Kremnoan artisan, commissioned by Mydei when he noticed the way your limp persisted.

(When you saw that the healer Chrysos Heir about this persistent injury, she had been quite perplexed. The wound was entirely healed, a sprain shouldn’t linger like yours has. ‘It must be psychosomatic,’ she had said.)

You still dance. You still revel. Even without flame licking your skin, you still lunge and leap. Your revelry is, perhaps, more subdued. You do not sidle up to potential prospects so brazenly. Truthfully, you don’t entertain any suitors at all these days. Either because you don’t look for heated gazes the way you used to or those gazes aren’t turned to you as often anymore.

(You suppose that even if your new leash isn’t visible, it’s still noticeable.)

You do not antagonize the crown prince in the way that you used to. You would say that your roles have flipped, but that isn’t entirely true.

You used to tease— Mydei does not tease. But he does take.

You often find yourself as you are now— laying, stomach down, with Mydei overtop of you. He cages your skull in with his forearms braced on either side of your head. His breath is hot and loud in your ear as he presses his cock into your dripping cunt.

You groan in unison, your sounds far more pitchy and desperate.

Mydei isn’t too rough with you these days. He fucks you well when you need pleasure. You’ve gotten better about going to him for it rather than him having to track you down and fuck you stupid in a shadowy corner. These days, you end up in a bed. Surrounded by his scent usually, being stretched and opened with his fingers and tongue. Pleasure is given to you in heaps, and you have found it is much easier to accept it than attempt to run.

(Not when the lion-souled crown prince has made you his quarry.)

When Mydei grabs your hips, bare-handed, you keen. You sink into the bed, arching your back into a slope that angles his cock just right inside of you. Your toes curled as he fucks you hard and deep. He might be praising you for your good behavior. Words are being panted in your ear, but you feel a little too out of your body to tell what they are.

You feel even further from your flesh when Mydei’s rhythm begins to stutter. You feel like a different person, experiencing this connection from a thin, spidery tether, when he spills inside you. The gush of sticky warmth, followed by the feeling of being— full— keeps you far away.

You’re brought back when he presses a kiss to your nape. Then another to the side of your throat. He turns you easily, gently, easing onto your back.

You feel so exposed like this. Belly-bared, chest heavy and dewy with sweat. Between your legs feels, somehow, sticky and numb all at once. Your lips are parted with each heaving breath, a little too fast, a little too prey-like.

Mydei looks at you with a fiery reverence that scares you a little more each day.

“Beautiful,” He breathes, his braid half-undone and bangs sticking to his forehead.

You don’t get to digest the comment before he’s nestled between your legs, thighs up on his shoulders, eating his cum out of your cunt like it’s his last meal. He’s slow with it, but firm. Always firm, always unyielding in what he decides is true and right. Before all of this, you admired him for that resolve.

Now? You’re not sure if you scorn it or love it.It hardly matters, anyway.

You come on his tongue while he sucks your clit. Your voice cracks and shatters, made raw so easily. Your vision crosses and you tug on his hair with enough force that it must hurt, you think.You think about apologizing for it, but you choose not to. Or maybe you’re simply too wrung out.

Mydei pulls up and away from your core. His lips are slick with your slick, wet with his own spent. He grabs your jaw and kisses you, filthy and slow. The mingling taste of you keeps you just tethered enough to writhe and keep your legs spread for him, in case there is more to be had.

He breaks from you, panting, and pulls your head into the crook of his neck. It’s a gesture that feels like it should come from a lover, not whatever Mydei has become to you. Your keeper, your jailer— maybe a lover, too. Someone with such a cruel title wouldn’t treat you as gently as Mydei does.

(It’s easier to think this way.)

The smell of him invades you. Gone is the light scent of incense and fragrant oils that permeate the room, and all that remains is unique, familiar musk of Mydei. Sweat, polished metal, and bur

You lean into the hollow of his throat. It’s better to embrace, rather than to resist.

(Your ankle throbs.)

For some time, you stay like that. Eyes shut and world slow, you shiver as the high of ‘pleasure’ wears off and leaves you off-kilter. What tethers you to your reality, your relatively new, somewhat uncomfortable reality, is Mydei. It’s always Mydei. The heat of his touch, the piercing nature of his attention, and the specific flavor of uncomfortable tenderness he reserves for only you.

It’s not so bad. It’s less painful in some ways. There’s no more flames licking your ankles and wrists— the only embers that are allowed near you are the ones within Mydei’s own gaze.

(Maybe— it’s just a different type of pain. One was yours to wield and torch yourself with, and the other is a scalding reminder that leaves no visible mark.)

Mydei must notice you’re too deeply in thought. His hand cups the nape of your neck, his thumb rubs little circles around your spine. He’s warm like a hearth, kind like one when he wants to be, too. You knew that before, and you know it even better now.

It’s better, you remind yourself, to work with your conditions the best that you are able to. It’s better, it’s better, it’s better.

You lean into Mydei’s warmth and go slack. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief as you do.

#lore writes #mydei x reader #mydei x you #mydeimos x reader #tw dark content #ENJOY!!#reader in this piece is very fun. flirting and kinda snarky #trust reader puts mydei through the wringer LOL #enjoy enjoy ENJOY!!

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