bakughoust

[bakughoust]

knot happening (part two) — bnha, alpha!bakugou katsuki x f!reader, aged up characters, established relationship, a/b/o dynamics, use of "baby", "pipsqueak", "brat", "little shit" as pet names, dubious HR ethics, questionable sex toys, reader wears a skirt at the end, smut, creampies, oral sex, knotting, omegaverse!au for the spring fever collab run by @lorelune ! 10k words lmao

part one

your new company has some interesting policies for employee heat cycles, but your boyfriend and mate has no intention of letting you off easy

It starts with cravings.

All of Bakugou Katsuki's well intentioned efforts to keep you from dying of malnutrition or scurvy fly out the window as you enter your pre-heat. Your Pro Hero boyfriend and mate turns his nose up at the strawberry pocky you crunch on the couch, rolls his eyes at the cherry and dark chocolate chip ice cream you scoop after dinner, and pouts at the mango and sticky rice cups you devour after work.

"It all has fruit in it," you point out. "And besides, you always steal half my daifuku mochi before I can finish it. Complain about that, you thief!"

Katsuki, to his credit, retaliates by making your favorite veggie-laden meals for the cute bentos he puts together for your lunches. You pop open the container and you're greeted by stupidly cute penguins crafted from seaweed and rice, mushrooms and bell peppers nestled next to perfect rolled egg omelettes, carrots cut into little stars and cucumbers that look like clouds.

You take a photo of your lunch and send it to your boyfriend. He texts back "?????" and you frown at your phone.

Katsuki calls a moment later. "Don't tell me you're suddenly allergic to cucumbers."

His voice is rough and low — he must be in the office, if the distant chatter of his fellow heroes is anything to go by — but he's probably turned off into a side hallway because Eijiro's teasing has lately turned into casual remarks about marriage, and… yeah, of course Katsuki's gonna marry you, but he doesn't need his best friend to bring it up every time he's on the phone with you.

"I might be allergic to how cute these are," you say, but there's laughter in your voice and he scrunches his nose, so pleased he can feel the tips of his ears heat up. "How am I supposed to eat this?! This poor rice penguin has never done anything wrong in its life!"

Katsuki snorts quietly into his gloved hand. "D'you want me to make your food look ugly next time?"

You beam down at your bento and kick your feet beneath your desk. "Thanks for making me lunch, loverboy."

"Can't have you dyin' while I'm fuckin' you dumb," Katsuki's already low voice gets lower. The rough timbre of it so intimately in your ear sends a thread of desire straight to your core and you shift uncomfortably, glancing around your office. Luckily, it's empty — everyone's out for lunch because it's such a beautiful spring day, but you forgot to take your allergy medicine and you don't want to tempt disaster. "Leaving you in bed this morning was a crime."

"H-huh?" you set your feet on the ground and sit up a little straighter. "Babe, shut up. What if someone overhears you!"

"Then they'd be too damn close to you and I'll need to punch their lights out," Katsuki states matter of factly.

"So protective," you tease, settling back into your seat. He's trying to rile you up — he knows what his low tone does to you — but you're going to make it through your pre-heat without alerting your company even if it kills you. "I'll see you later, 'kay? Kick some ass, baby."

Your boyfriend mumbles something that sounds suspiciously cheesy before he hangs up, and you eat your lunch with gusto. It's day two of your pre-heat and so far it seems like nobody can tell. Your cravings are easy to pass off as a strong sweet tooth, and Katsuki's patrol schedule has kept him away from picking you up after work. You slapped a pheromone suppressor on your neck this morning and then styled up your business casual outfit with a loose silk scarf, so it should be… fine.

Your phone vibrates with a text and you swipe it open without thinking. The sound that leaves your mouth at the sight that greets you is unholy and you slam your phone facedown on your desk.

What the fuck.

"…You alright there, newbie?" Akane from Sales pauses in the act of draping her jacket over her chair. "Did you get a spam call?"

"Just peachy!" you croak out. You clear your throat as more of your coworkers file back in from their lunch break. "I thought I saw a bug, that's all!"

More like a closeup photo of your boyfriend's bulge in his hero suit, clearly stiff and straining hard against the heat resistant fabric, his easily recognizable gloved hand dangerously close to palming the thick outline —

Akane makes a funny face. "And you smashed it with your phone?"

"It was just instinct," you say sheepishly, "I'm fine with bugs where they belong, and they don't belong on my desk!"

Akane and your other coworkers nod at this and the conversation shifts, so you take advantage of everyone's inattention to pick your phone back up. You do it gingerly, as if there really is a bug squished underneath, but really you're just trying not to accidentally flash Pro Hero Dynamight's crotch shot to the world.

You can see the headlines now:

"Pro Hero Dynamight Ready to Blow!"

"Dynamight Explodes Up to the Top Ten Sexiest Pro Heroes with Infamous Shot!"

"Is the Great Explosion Murder God Packing the Heat?"

Katsuki's PR team would kill you. You quickly slide your phone beneath your desk and swipe away from your texts, breathing a sigh of relief when the (annoyingly tasteful) shot disappears from your screen.

Your phone vibrates with texts the rest of the day. No more photos (you can't tell if you should be grateful or mournful about this) but judging from the text previews you hastily swipe away on your screen, Katsuki's clearly out to get you. He seemed normal this morning — his lips brushed your cheek gently as you drew the blankets up to your chin — so what is his problem?

You finally get a chance to read his texts while waiting for your train at the station. Your eyes widen as you scroll through the messages — they're filled with his typical profanity, but he's practically written an instruction manual on all the ways he's imagined fucking you today. Your hand rises unwittingly to your pheromone suppressor patch. Maybe you should wear it at night, too, so he won't get so worked up? Though you kind of doubt it's working at all, since reading his texts is making you shift where you stand, heat pooling in your core.

The station is crowded with evening commuters — packs of students giggling and chattering among themselves, other tired office workers tapping away at their phones, little kids holding hands so they won't get separated — and nobody is paying you any mind. Maybe your suppressors are working after all? Wait — are they supposed to keep your pre-heat pheromones from leaking out or in?

Your ears perk as the pleasant tone signaling the arrival of your train jingles through the crowd. It's a quick ride three stops down to your apartment, which is one stop away from Katsuki's agency Ground Zero. When the two of you were looking for a place together, Katsuki insisted that it be just outside of his patrol range — close enough for him to get there quickly, but far enough that he would be able to actually relax at home. You can hear the familiar sound of a knife meeting a cutting board while you toe off your shoes in the genkan, lifting your nose to the air as the comforting smell of rice cooking wafts towards you.

"I'm home!" you call out, bypassing the kitchen to strip out of your work clothes. You sigh with relief as you toss your pants into the laundry basket, dragging one of Katsuki's well-worn hoodies over your head and tugging a pair of his workout shorts up your hips. They smell like him — smoky and rich and a little bit sweet — and you burrow into the comfort with a hum of pleasure.

The sizzle and crack of veggies and rice hitting the pan fill the air as you make your way into the kitchen. You follow your nose and ears happily, mouth already watering at the thought of eating more of Katsuki's cooking, but you stop dead at the entrance and make a funny strangled sound.

Asshole. Is he doing this on purpose? He's totally doing this on purpose.

"Welcome home," Katsuki says, rising from a crouch to his full, intimidating height and giving the pan another flick of his wrist. Sometimes you forget how broad your Pro Hero boyfriend is, but it's abundantly clear when he's standing in front of the stove shirtless like some kind of wet dream. He barely gives you a once over, just a casual glance of red that sends heat rushing to your cheeks before he turns his attention back to the stove.

You know — and you know he knows — that certain instincts flare up with your pre-heat. Everyone has different symptoms. The food cravings are one thing, for you, but they're manageable and easy to pass off as unrelated. Wanting to be covered in your mate's scent is another thing entirely, and while it's a relatively common symptom, it never fails to embarrass you, especially because you know how much Katsuki secretly likes it.

"What're you making?" you ask. Katsuki keeps his eyes on his pan, so you take the opportunity to ogle him freely, admiring the strong set of his shoulders and the firm lines of back muscle on full display. Stupid Katsuki with his stupid workouts making him look like a goddamn god. From your position at the kitchen entrance, you're close enough to see the pale scars crisscrossing his skin and the way the edge of his lips lift in a smug, self-satisfied smirk as he catches you checking him out. He's easily the hottest man you've ever seen in your life.

"Chicken fried rice," he says, snapping you out of your blatant stare. "It's almost done."

"You're telling me a chicken fried this rice?" you joke, grinning widely when Katsuki snorts and rolls his eyes at you. "Here, lemme set the table."

The two of you prepare for dinner companionably, though Katsuki definitely hovers more than usual. You can't help but lean back into his firm (and very naked) chest as he stands behind you while you reach up for plates, his hands heavy on your hips to help you balance. He also sets your plate piled high with fried rice next to his own at the table instead of across as usual, and when you make a questioning sound he just arches a brow expectantly.

"What? Sit and eat your fucking vegetables, pipsqueak."

"That's not my question," you giggle, accepting the seat he holds out for you. He spins it sideways easily, so that you're suddenly facing his own chair instead of the table, a casual show of strength that sends a shiver up your spine. Then he sits next to you with a grunt and immediately grabs your bare legs to drape them over his lap, forcing you to cling to his arm in surprise. "What the hell!"

"Shaddup," Katsuki mumbles, keeping a firm grip on your bare legs. "You can eat like this, right?"

You can, though you have to wiggle a bit and hold your plate in your lap. The changed angle gives you a perfect view of your boyfriend's profile, and you look at him for a moment, admiring the cut of his jawline and the slope of his nose.

"Quit starin'," he says. The pale scar along his cheek lifts when he shoots you a smug grin. "Your food's gonna get cold."

"You're the one who made me sit like this," you point out. You scratch at the side of your neck absently, but your nail catches on the suppressant patch and you pause. "Do you know if these patches are to keep the pheromones in or out?"

Katsuki takes a big bite of his fried rice and chews carefully. "Nothing's gonna stop your pre-heat from affectin' you," he says evenly. "And normally it'd keep 'em from leakin' out, but," he takes a deep breath and finally meets your eyes, "I'm your mate, so that shit doesn't work on me."

"Oh." Your voice is small even to your own ears. Katsuki's red hot gaze stays fixed on you for another long, torturous moment before he drags his attention to his food. "Is that why… you sent me a dick pic?"

Katsuki chokes on the spoonful of fried rice he just brought to his lips and his hand comes up to slap against the table. You crack a grin and pick up your own spoon. "That wasn't — wasn't a fuckin' dick pic, you perv."

"Sure looked like it to me," you say cheerfully. The fried rice is delicious and you nearly moan with satisfaction, wiggling in your seat as the flavors burst along your tongue. "It was a photo featuring the area of your body where your dick is at, so obviously, it was a dick pic!"

"Fuck off," he mumbles, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. "How was work? Anybody notice?"

"It was great," you say, "and nah, I don't think anyone noticed. I wore a scarf to hide the patch, y'know. Pretty good, huh?"

"You're a smart one," Katsuki says, and you preen under the praise. "You gonna wear a scarf the rest of the week, then?"

You shrug and wiggle your legs a little just to get Katsuki to clamp down on them with one strong arm. You flex your feet, feeling his thighs tense in turn, and eat another spoonful of dinner. "I don't think I can. It's supposed to get real hot this week and besides, I wanna… wear one of your shirts."

"Hah?" Katsuki nearly drops his spoon. "How're you gonna do that? It'll be too big for you, pipsqueak."

"I'll figure it out. I've done it before!" Your grin turns mischievous. "Want me to model for you after dinner?"

Katsuki shoots you a look. "You tryna get into my pants already, sweetheart? What happened to resisting pre-heat?"

"It's not like we'll be doing anything," you point out. "I have faith in you, babe."

Your boyfriend doesn't answer, but his hand tightens around your thigh, leaving indents in the soft give of your body. The two of you switch to safer topics, like the old ladies who ran into Katsuki on patrol (again) because they wanted to pass on their grandkids' sketches, and your new friends Akane and Shimizu who complimented your scarf. You do the dishes afterwards, but Katsuki stays glued to your back, thick arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

"I think you've got too much faith in me," Katsuki frowns, holding one of his button ups against your frame a bit later. You shed his hoodie and your shirt and bra, tossing them in the direction of the laundry basket and holding your arms out for him to dress you in his shirt. He eyes your chest openly, sending a spark of heat zipping down your spine, but slides the sleeves over your arms and helps you button it up without saying anything else.

His hands are careful as he slides the buttons home. You force yourself to breathe evenly as he crowds into your space, that smoky sweet scent filling your nose as he presses his lips to your temple and noses at your ear. His big hands with all their callouses and scars are gentle as he smooths the fabric over your shoulders, leaving a wave of warmth as he slides them around to your back to tug you closer into his embrace.

You hug him back, resting your palms against his shoulder blades and pressing into the skin there as he shifts. It's quiet as he breathes you in, his chest rising and falling against your own. Distantly you can hear trains rattling on the tracks, teenagers being rowdy in front of the nearby konbini, babies wailing for bedtime several doors down. You close your eyes and listen to Katsuki's heartbeat instead, though a furrow forms between your eyebrows as his heartbeat quickens.

"Are you… good?" you whisper.

"…'m fine."

"Okay… are you having a heart attack?"

"Don't be stupid," Katsuki snorts. "As if I'd get worked up over a lil' huggin'."

"Sure, sure," you grin up at him, smiling wider as his eyes soften at your expression. "It's not like I'm your mate or anything. It's fine if you get worked up, babe — I think you're pretty hot, too."

"Aren't you supposed to be figurin' out tomorrow's outfit?"

You detach yourself from him reluctantly, though he doesn't let you get very far, latching onto your wrist and padding along behind you as you go to peruse the closet. Katsuki pulls you into his chest again as you eye the various options. Despite favoring athletic, technical clothes — fabrics that are easy to move in at a moment's notice — he does own a wide range of clothing thanks to his various sponsorships.

"Does it ever bother you, wearing clothes with these brands associated with them?" you ask, rubbing a silky suit jacket sleeve and peering up at him.

"Nah," Katsuki shrugs. "My team's halfway decent 'bout choosin' who we partner with, so it's not a big deal."

"Should I be less sensitive about my company's branded sex toys?" Your voice is small. You turn back to the clothes so you don't have to look at him, but Katsuki presses a kiss to the back of your hair and huffs.

"If it bothers you, it bothers you," he says gruffly. "We're good, baby. You don't hafta tell your company squat. I'm still your mate no matter what."

You repeat Katsuki's words to yourself the next day, swathed in his button up shirt tucked into a pair of his trousers with the ankles rolled up, as Akane and Shimizu show you the storeroom where they keep the company branded sex toys. Everyone's email notifications had pinged this morning with the news that Kensuke in Accounting would be entering his heat soon, so your two new coworker besties had dragged you along on a mission to prepare his celebratory heat cycle package.

"Wow," you say blankly, "they really are branded."

Shimizu holds up a cock ring with your company's name emblazoned along the side. "When you're in the moment, you really don't notice the name, but I guess it is a little garish, huh?"

"It's just so… big," you say, pulling over another box. "Is the company worried we'll forget who we work for or something?"

"I think they just want to be supportive," Akane laughs, holding up a dildo that wobbles wildly in her hand. "We'll need to have our drinking party at the end of the week, I think. Kensuke-san said he'll bring his mate if it's late enough for her to make it. I guess her alpha senses get really sensitive when he's this close to heat."

"You'll come, won't you?" Shimizu asks you. She works in HR and it shows as she packs up a care basket with ease. "Most people don't bring their mates unless it's their own pre-heat party, but I'm sure everyone would love to meet yours!"

You wrinkle your nose before you can help it. The idea of alcohol and Katsuki and your coworkers sounds like a bad combination, especially when you're desperately trying to hide your own pre-heat symptoms from the company. "He doesn't really drink…"

"There'll be nonalcoholic drinks served too," Akane says. "My mate gets her panties all in a twist when I come home drunk."

"It's alright if you don't want to," Shimizu assures you. "We'll just meet him when it's time for your own pre-heat party!"

You freeze in the act of pulling out a package of anal beads where each bead seems to have one character of your company's name stamped on it, but luckily neither of them seem to notice. "Can you do me a favor, in the spirit of our new friendship?" you ask, "Could you guys please choose the toys with the least amount of branding?"

Akane and Shimizu laugh. "Aye, aye, boss!"

"We should just start prepping yours now," Akane says breezily. "That way we'll be ready when it hits you!"

"We can even give it to you early," Shimizu adds, "and I'll just mark it off in your file. You've got next week off, so maybe you can put it to good use ahead of time."

She winks and you laugh nervously, but thankfully they don't know you well enough yet to pick up on it. "That would be great, actually," you say, fidgeting with a packet of flavored lube. "I'm sure my boyfriend will love that."

There's a knock at the door as the three of you dig into boxes and sort misplaced toys into their proper shelves. Someone you vaguely recognize from the IT department pokes their head in and immediately zeroes in on you. "Ah, sorry to interrupt," they say sheepishly, glancing at the fuzzy handcuffs Shimizu is brandishing, "but it looks like your mate is here, and he says it's important."

You stare at them. "My��� mate…?"

"Uh. Yes," they say, "Mr. Dynamight?"

What?

You wave goodbye to Akane and Shimizu and thank the IT person for the notice before speed-walking towards the entrance lobby of your building. The elevators always take too long, so you head for the stairs, even though it'll take you out towards the back end of the building. There's no reason for Katsuki to show up at your workplace, especially not when he should still be on patrol. He hasn't messaged you much today, either, but that's not unusual. Did something happen? Is he hurt?

Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears that you nearly miss the gruff "whoa!" as a densely muscled arm suddenly swings out to snag you by the waist. You're lifted straight off your feet and shoved into a supply closet before you even have a chance to open your mouth and scream, but Katsuki is quick to slap a rough hand over your lips.

"Shh, it's just me, shit, sorry," he grunts, wincing as you bite his hand. "Fuck, your teeth are sharp."

"Katsuki!" You have the presence of mind to keep your voice low as you shout. He must have a reason for ambushing you in the back of your company building, so even if you don't know what's going on, you know better than to risk getting caught. "What are you doing here?"

The closet is dark, though light seeps through the bottom of the door he's shoved you against from the hallway he just caught you in. You can barely make out his deep red eyes with the lighting and his gauntlets and gloves resting on the shelf by his shoulder — everything else is cast in shadows. "I needed to see you."

"… huh?"

"I'm not losing, you got that? I'm just makin' up for yesterday."

"What're you talking ab— hey!" You back up into the door with a thunk as Katsuki leans forward, his thick arms caging you in on either side. "Bakugou Katsuki I swear on your All Might trading cards I'll knee you in the balls if you blow my cover here."

He snorts and ducks his head closer. You can feel the soft puffs of his laughter against your neck as you crane your face away, desperate to maintain the upper hand here even though his proximity is triggering something alarming between your thighs.

"Knew you'd look hot as fuck in my clothes," he mumbles, inhaling sharp along the soft skin of your neck. "You smell so fucking good, too."

"I used a strawberry lip balm today," you breathe, careful to stay pressed back against the door. Katsuki is close enough now that you can feel his chest rumble when he laughs.

He presses his lips to the hammering pulse beneath your jaw. "I'm not gonna blow your fuckin' cover," he says lowly. "I'm just gettin' a little taste."

And then he nips at your skin, mere centimeters away from your scent glands — and you moan.

Loudly.

Desperately.

Fuck him. You're sensitive this far into your pre-heat. Desire thrums through you like a plucked string and you lose your tenuous grasp on your self control. All you can think about is Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki as hormones flood your bloodstream and your subdued omega instincts rise to the surface, pheromone suppressor be damned. Your hands are in his hair before you've registered it, yanking him up to kiss you. It's a testament to Katsuki's iron will and his love for you that he lets you drag him into place, though he can't quite kiss you properly because he's smirking too hard. You bite at his lip in retaliation, but that only makes him groan low in his chest and the sound zips straight to your core.

You're so warm. Hot, even, flames of pleasure licking up your spine. You grab onto his shoulders and tremble as he shoves one hard, muscled thigh between your legs, flexing and pressing upwards until your weight rests firmly on top of him. "K-Katsuki…"

"What's the matter, baby?"

"This is so fucking unfair," you whine, tugging at him until he drags you forward by the hips. The friction is delicious and intense, even through your borrowed trousers and the thick fabric of his hero suit, and you can do nothing but hold on for your life as Katsuki guides you into riding his thigh. The easy way his biceps flex and his overwhelming strength turn your mind a little fuzzy. "Why'd you — why're you —"

"Couldn't stop thinkin' about you, brat," Katsuki grunts, pressing his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. You bare your neck for him instinctively, presenting for him, but he tilts his face up to nip at your ear instead. "Wearin' my clothes and smellin' like me —"

"You're my mate," you gasp out, fisting his hair. "Don't I always smell a little like you?"

Katsuki laughs and stops dragging you along his thigh, shoulders shaking harder when you whimper in protest. You can feel the sharp wave of your impending orgasm recede with every rough chuckle exhaled against your skin. "You want me to keep goin'?"

"You started this, you asshole —"

"Beg for it, then."

Oh. Wait. "Fuck you," you hiss, shoving at him to let you down. He obeys easily, keeping his large hands on your waist to steady you. Desire is still humming hot in your veins, but the cold logic of your brain is working overtime to bring you back down. He's just trying to get you to lose, huh? "Did you come here just to rile me up? What's your problem?"

"Your pre-heat is gettin' to me," Katsuki says, nosing at your temple. Your already flushed body spikes with embarrassment at the tender gesture. "I didn't wanna leave you this mornin', and you were so fuckin' hot yesterday. You sure we can't just kickstart it early?"

"I thought you said you could resist me," you mumble, "what happened to that?"

"I am resistin' you."

You pull away slightly to shoot a pointed look at his body caging you against the door. You get an eyeful of his firm chest and those strong arms you love so much, which doesn't exactly help your predicament, but Katsuki just grins, sharp and beautiful even in the dim light of the closet.

"Baby, if it were up to me, I'd be balls deep in you right now," Katsuki says. Your toes curl in your shoes as you bite back a whine. "But we're tryin' to keep it a secret, yeah?"

This was a mistake. You know — you know your boyfriend has a competitive streak a mile wide, and there's no way he's going to let you walk away from calling him weak for you. Never mind that he's been behaving himself so far — letting you try on his clothes in front of him, sending dirty texts but not acting on any of them — now it seems like he's ready to fight back. Making dinner shirtless last night was definitely a small test for your own self control, but now he's breaking out the big guns by ambushing you at work.

"You're terrible," you breathe, and Katsuki just grins.

"Better get back to work, or your coworkers'll come lookin' for you."

As if your coworkers read his mind, behind you come the distinct sound of clattering footsteps going down the hall. You hear someone beyond the thin barrier of the door you're still pressed against. "Do you think Dynamight will give me his autograph?"

Katsuki meets your glare in the dim light and his grin shifts into a smirk, though his red eyes are unmistakably fond as he regards you. "I'll let you know when the coast is clear."

"You suck. You're evil. They should take away your Pro Hero license."

Your boyfriend laughs quietly and leans forward to brush his lips along your cheek. You tilt your face up into the smoky sweetness of him and manage to kiss the edge of his jaw as he pulls back. He hums with pleasure, but his smirk is still sharp as he eyes you. "Yeah, yeah. You're the one who poked the big bad alpha, you little shit."

Katsuki gets the two of you out of the supply closet and disappears before anyone in your company can corner him for an autograph. You spend a few minutes splashing water on your face in the bathroom, hurriedly trying to cool down as the lingering aftereffects of nearly getting marked race through your bloodstream. Once you deem your reflection (and raging hormones) passable, you head back upstairs and get back to work.

Or at least, you try to get back to work. The stacks of reports are less enticing to you now that you know Katsuki is really trying to get you to beg for him. It all makes sense to you now. The dirty texts and shirtless cooking were testing the waters — his way of seeing how affected you are by him, as if you haven't been mated for years at this point — and now he's ready to leverage your omega biology against you any way that he can. There's no rule saying you can't fuck during your pre-heat, but neither of you have tried thanks to the unspoken agreement that it would make this silly competition less fun.

But you really, really want to fuck him.

"Is everything alright?" Shimizu's voice snaps you out of your vivid fantasies and you blink at your reflection in the dark screen of your monitor. "Your computer's been asleep for ten minutes now. Is your mate okay?"

"O-oh, he's fine," you flush with embarrassment at getting caught slacking. "He just needed to give me something I forgot at home."

"Oh, was that all? That's so nice of him," Shimizu says. "Make sure you ask if he wants to come to the pre-heat drinking party for Kensuke-san."

"Is that really okay?" you ask. "It won't set anything off for Kensuke-san and his mate?"

"Nah. They're bound to be all over each other, anyway. We're all used to it — the drinking party is always more for everyone else to send them off with well wishes," Shimizu explains. "The company picks up the tab, too. It started out as a one-off, and we didn't think the company would keep doing it, but we're all in agreement that if the company is going to pay, then we're going to go out and play."

That… makes sense. Even in a company as supportive as this one, of course it doesn't erase the fact that you're all working under them. "Is that… what happened with the sex toys?"

"Yeah," Shimizu slides into the seat next to yours as she picks up on your interest. "At first, everyone thought it was super cringe and weird, right? Why would we want company branded toys? But it's free stuff, and even if we've got great benefits and paid time off and work isn't unbearable, it's still free stuff. Nobody passes up on the free stuff. We all need to work, so we might as well take advantage of everything the company is willing to give us!"

"And you said you don't really notice the branding…"

"I mean, honestly, you've gone through heats before, haven't you? Are you paying attention to anything besides your mate?"

You snort in agreement. "Back when Katsuki and I were figuring out our mating bond, he triggered my heat on accident and I climbed onto his lap in the middle of an izakaya. He had to help me through it in one of his friends' apartments because it was the closest he could get to a private space nearby."

The two of you ended up buying Denki a whole new mattress and bedding set to replace everything you irreparably messed up that week. His friends were gentle in their good natured ribbing, but you'd unfailingly blush any time you passed by that izakaya, and Katsuki couldn't eat there after patrols anymore without popping a boner.

"That sounds typical," Shimizu says, grinning. "I don't care about mates, myself, but I love hearing about the crazy shenanigans the bond ends up putting you through."

"Is that why there's a company-wide announcement anytime someone is about to enter their heat?" you ask. It's a little risky, bringing it up, but Shimizu is nice and clearly eager to chat on company time. "Most places just mark it as time off."

Shimizu twirls her hair around her finger as she hums in thought. "That started before I joined the company, but I think it's more like… public image? I heard it's the vice president who fully supports heats and likes buying all sorts of new toys for everyone to try out. And if we're celebrating it all so publicly, the president can't protest without looking bad!"

"That's… good," you say. You don't know what else to say to this — but thankfully Shimizu hops out of her seat and waves goodbye cheerily as a chattering group of coworkers enters the room. You try to refocus on your work, but not even a packet of chocolate dipped dried mangoes is enough to help you through more than a few reports.

Hearing about the company policies from a coworker's mouth and seeing everyone chatting excitedly about the end-of-the-week drinking party lifts your spirits. Like you told Katsuki originally, you know you'll get used to the idea of everyone knowing about your upcoming heat. It's just taken some time, and seeing how nobody treats Kensuke from Accounting any differently helps.

Now that you're feeling marginally more comfortable about the whole thing with your company, you feel like you can turn to the real task at hand: teasing your mate and winning this silly game of who can make the other beg for it first.

You skip your stop on the train ride home and hop off at the station closest to Ground Zero. Eijiro was delighted to conspire with you in sending Katsuki back to the agency a little early on his shift and the front desk receptionist lets you into the upper floors with a wide smile. If Katsuki can ambush you at work, it stands to reason that you should return the favor.

You slip into his private office and silently thank Mina for insisting on having strong frosted glass for the windows separating their offices from the cubicles of the sidekicks outside. Katsuki's office is plain overall — there's a large wooden desk with a cushy chair behind it, but otherwise it looks like a normal office space at first glance. As you walk around in it, however, you spot a few All Might collectibles, and there's an omamori hanging off of his desk lamp that you picked up for him at your first shrine visit of the year. He also has a polaroid photo of the two of you — his arm slung around your shoulders as you laughed, his free hand flipping off the camera — washi taped to the bottom of his monitor.

"The fuck're you doin' in here," Katsuki demands, striding into the room and shutting the door behind him with a slam. You jerk up in surprise. He got back a lot sooner than you expected.

"How'd you know I was here?" you ask curiously. Katsuki rolls his eyes as he begins dismantling his hero outfit, the loud clanking and clicking of his gauntlets filling the room as you walk over to help him.

"Smelled you from the station," he says. "As if I'd miss you tryin' to sneak in here."

You grin to yourself, somehow pleased that he sensed you even though he's ruined your chances of surprising him. "I just wanted to help you out," you say, trailing your hands up his arms. Katsuki raises one ash blonde eyebrow, clearly sensing your aim, but he lets you shove his hero mask up into his hair, exposing his forehead.

"Oh yeah?" His gauntlets hit the floor with a thunk and he rips off his gloves, tossing them aside as well. "Help me with what, brat?"

"Just, y'know," you bat your eyelashes up at him just to make him crack a sharp grin, "returning the favor from earlier today."

You kiss him first, a deep, melting kiss that makes your knees go a little weak even though you're the one initiating it. Katsuki's eyes narrow as you sink to your knees, but he doesn't stop you as you palm at his already hard erection through the fabric of his hero suit. "Oi, don't start something if you're not gonna finish it."

"I just want a little taste," you say, grinning as he glares down at you for throwing his words from earlier back at him. You hurry to unbutton and unzip his pants, dragging it down his hips and catching on his thick thighs as his cock springs free. He's leaking at the tip, pearly white and oozing, and he groans when you lick your lips at the sight.

"Fuckin'… don't stare at it."

You tsk. "So impatient." Katsuki threads his fingers through your hair gently as you lean forward to press your tongue against the slit, sliding his cock into your mouth with a wet suck. His hips jerk forward as he grunts, but his hand is endlessly gentle in your hair.

"Motherfu— oh, that's good," he pants, tipping his head back and exposing the strong lines of his throat as he groans. You hollow your cheeks and suck his cock down, settling into a familiar rhythm of bobbing on his dick, sliding your tongue along the underside and teasing at the slit as much as you can. You keep one hand on his thigh for balance and use the other to grab the rest of his length, squeezing in tandem with your bobbing. Wet, slick sounds fill the air as you choke and drool around his cock, and the way he throbs in the heat of your mouth sends a shiver down your spine.

"Sh-shit baby, yeah, just like t-that, fuck," Katsuki moans, his husky voice cracking a little on the words. He tips his head forward to watch the way his cock disappears down your throat, thumbing at your cheek and the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. "You little — you little shit, you're gonna make me fuckin' come —"

You let go of his cock to cup at his balls, hanging heavy at the base of him, fondling them as you suck him deeper into your mouth. The strain on your throat makes you choke around him and he grunts, all of his muscles straining as he struggles not to blow his load. You choke on his cock a few more times, your omega senses singing in your veins with the thrill of pleasuring your mate, but as soon as you feel the telltale signs of his impending orgasm, you pull yourself off of him.

Katsuki nearly knocks you over. "You little — I'm gonna eat you alive you — fuck —"

You suckle at the tip of his cock, smiling up at him as he throbs concerningly in your loose grip. He huffs with the crash of his ruined orgasm and stares down at you in aggravated silence. "You want me to keep going?" you ask innocently, close enough that your lips get smeared with precum and saliva as you talk. Your voice is hoarse. "Just say the magic words, baby."

Your boyfriend seems to realize what you want a few seconds after you speak, as if it takes him a moment for his brain to comprehend full sentences. You peer up at him, blinking slowly, his cock mere centimeters from your lips as his face goes through approximately three different stages of grief.

"You're the worst," Katsuki grumbles, shoving you away and folding himself into a squat. You swipe at your face with the back of your hand, grimacing at the spit as you clean yourself up. He notices, because of course he does, and you watch with interest as Katsuki shoves himself upright to wobble to his desk. He tosses you a few tissues and pulls up his pants and boxers before crouching beside you to help you wipe your face. "The second your heat hits, I'm gonna fuck you so hard you won't be able to feel your legs, you brat."

You suppress a shiver at his words and scratch at your suppressant patch, hidden beneath the high collar of your borrowed shirt. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Katsuki laughs, a short bark that makes you grin. "I hope you're ready, loser," he says, eyeing your lips. "C'mere and give me a kiss."

You wrinkle your nose. "I have dick breath."

"Like I give a shit, pipsqueak." Katsuki nips at your lip as you smile into the kiss, holding onto his shoulders for balance and sneakily smoothing your hands over the dense muscle there. "What're you smilin' about?"

"Just feeling you up."

"Hah?" He's so pretty when he blushes, pink rising high on his cheekbones and staining the tips of his ears red. You nuzzle into his strong neck, inhaling his comforting smoky sweet scent with a sigh of relief. You can feel your omega instincts settling as his scent envelops you properly. Katsuki seems to feel it, too, nudging into your hair and wrapping strong arms around you to keep you close.

After a moment, your legs start to cramp up from the awkward position, so the two of you clamber back up to your feet. Katsuki keeps a firm grip around your arm as you wiggle the feeling back into your toes, and you take advantage of his support to lean heavily against him. "Hey, Katsuki," you say, peering up at him sideways, "when did you steal my fruit themed washi tape?"

"I didn't steal it," he says. You arch an eyebrow. "I just borrowed it." You blink up at him. "Quit fuckin' starin'. It reminds me of you."

Oh. Your heart does a funny little flutter in your chest, which is a little ridiculous considering how long you've been together and the fact that he's literally your mate, but you let the feeling wash over you anyway and beam up at him. "I love you, too."

Katsuki's expression promptly freezes before he rolls his eyes, but his smile is soft. "Let's go already. It's gettin' late."

He holds your hand on the walk to the train station and acts as your wall against the crush of evening commuters. You're clingy — tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie, slipping your fingers through the belt loops of his pants — but Katsuki indulges you, clearly feeling the effects of your pre-heat just as much as you are.

Dinner is a comfortable, teasing affair. You bury your nose into the strong lines of his back as he cooks, pinching the skin of his stomach whenever he makes a snarky remark. He asks about your day and makes you laugh while recounting one of the old ladies on his patrol route who's taken to giving him pointers about how to make cuter bentos.

"You could learn a thing or two from her," you giggle, breathing in deeply.

"Watch it, brat, or I'm puttin' those rice penguins in jail."

The two of you refrain from riling each other up the rest of the night, sinking into the other aspects of your pre-heat instead. He watches with a wrinkled nose as you down a strawberry sando picked up from the konbini after dinner, but he lets you pat your night cream onto his skin and nuzzles your neck while you're tending to your own nightly skincare routine. Katsuki keeps a heavy arm around your shoulders as you tuck yourself into his side, throwing a leg over his thighs as he settles into bed with you.

This is your favorite part of the day — listening to the steady thump of his heart with his scent all around you, teasing him and feeling the low rumble of his voice as he snarks back, running the pads of your fingers over the scars crossing his chest idly and basking in the safety and security of Bakugou Katsuki being in your arms. It's always nice when you can fall asleep with him, when he isn't holed up in his office poring over mission reports or out on the streets taking down villains. You know he'll never say it out loud, but he always kisses you before leaving for patrol in the early mornings, always tucks the blankets back up to your chin to keep out the pre-dawn chill. He has spans of time where he's out more often than not working on taking down big missions, but he always comes back to you.

And with your heat approaching quickly, he starts pawning off his later patrols in order to pick you up from work. This is something like torture for you, personally, because he always smells so fucking good and looks so hot all rumpled and cozy in his post-work clothes. Katsuki makes a funny sound in the back of his throat when you greet him with a hug, slipping his hands a little lower than normal to squeeze your ass and smirking when you squeak and rip yourself away from him.

Luckily he's agreed to meet you a few blocks away from your company building, so you can escape before any of your coworkers notice the two of you. Katsuki gets handsy the closer you get to your heat, but he doesn't push it any further than blatant groping when you pass by him at home, so you retaliate by feeling him up whenever possible. You have no idea if blue balling him at work earlier in the week put the two of you in a stalemate, but you keep your guard up anyway and play by his unspoken rules to keep it to touching only.

It sucks, though.

Every touch makes you shiver; every graze of his lips makes you warm. You can feel the deep, intrinsic ache of your heat simmering just below the surface, the wellspring of desire thrumming through your veins. You're tense — Akane and Shimizu cajole you into fancy beverage breaks because they think you're stressing out too much about work — but your omega senses quiver like a roiling sea being brought to boil, only partially satiated by Katsuki's frequent touches and attention.

It all comes to a head at Kensuke's pre-heat party. Honestly, you should've begged off, but you didn't want to draw suspicion and everyone kept saying how they wanted to meet your mate. Kensuke himself brings along a Dynamight t-shirt in the hopes of a signature, which is just so cute you can't bring yourself to ditch the party.

"Congrats and good luck with your heat," you beam, toasting with Kensuke and his mate, a very pretty brunette who keeps her hand firmly around Kensuke's arm. She gives you a grin and a wink.

"Thanks," she says, "though we shouldn't need it. Ken-chan and I are old hats at this now."

"Your mate's scent is pretty strong, huh?" Kensuke says, tilting his nose up in spite of the grilled skewers being handed around. "It's almost like you're the one in pre-heat with how overpowering his scent is over yours."

"Haha," you swipe a skewer and pretend to be intensely interested in the slightly charred yakiniku. "You're probably just confusing my scent since you're in pre-heat, Kensuke-san!"

"Hm, I guess so," he says easily. His expression suddenly perks up, but you don't need to turn to see why. Every hair on your body raises as that comforting, overwhelming, smoky sweet scent washes over you. "Oh look! It's really Dynamight!"

Fuck.

You feel his red hot stare burrowing into you, and you know without a doubt that he's caught the way you've tensed up. You can feel your nipples perk against the silk fabric of your shirt, straining through your bra, and your panties get undeniably damp as his gaze drags along your form. You feel warm, warmer than you should be in this partially outdoor izakaya, and the air suddenly feels stifling, like you're swimming in smoke.

Katsuki's hand is heavy on your shoulder. You feel his touch like a brand, searing straight through your meager defenses, a spark that flickers as it drifts down to the well of your desire. You know — you know that once it catches, once it alights — you're both screwed.

"Hey, babe," you chirp, leaning into his arm as if your entire body isn't thrumming with want. "This is Kensuke-san and his mate! He brought one of your shirts — would you pretty please sign it?"

Katsuki's red eyes flash as he nods. To everyone else at the party, he probably looks normal. Just a regular Pro Hero alpha, strong and exuding power, all dense muscle and grace and skill, little sparks flying from his hands as he adds a tiny explosion smudge to the end of his signature on Kensuke's merch shirt. The guest of honor and his mate thank Katsuki profusely, and you take advantage of their distraction to slide away towards the bathrooms inside the izakaya proper.

This isn't good. You need to figure out how to get out without anyone noticing that Katsuki's been eye-fucking you since he got here, and then you need to bolt home so you can collapse into your heat in peace. One more touch from your mate and you'll probably drop right into it, but there's no way Katsuki will be able to keep his hands off you tonight.

You press yourself flat against the concrete wall in the hallway for the bathrooms, heart hammering in your chest. Forget worrying about your company's pre-heat shenanigans — you have a new fear unlocked: going into heat at a party full of coworkers.

"Whoa, hey!" Akane's a little louder than usual, a little wobblier on her feet. "The bathrooms are here, yeah?"

You manage to laugh, though there's a pitch of desperation in it that she thankfully doesn't notice. "Yup, they're right here! I just needed a breather. Hey, what happened to sticking to the nonalcoholic stuff?"

"Aw, yeah, I'm having those next," Akane flaps her hand at you breezily. "I'll sober up before I get home! Don't worry your pretty little head 'bout me! Hey, have I ever told you how nice your skin looks? Like, whoaaa."

This makes you giggle. "Do you need help in the bathroom?"

"Nope!" She shoots you a thumbs up. "See ya soon!"

You watch with amusement as she stumbles into the bathroom, but she doesn't hit anything on her way inside, so you lean back against the wall again and take a deep breath. You're aching — a deep, insistent pulse throbbing between your legs as a rich smoky caramel scent tickles at your instincts. Oh, shit.

You barely manage step away from the wall when suddenly Katsuki's there, looming big and broad and setting off every alarm bell ringing in your head. He eyes you with a flinty glare that's more black than red for a moment before he huffs and grabs your hand.

"Uh —"

"Zip it or I'll fuck you right here," Katsuki grits out. Oh, god. Your panties are sticking to your folds, tacky and damp, and you bite back a whimper as he pulls you along. His hand is warm around yours, and even though he's tugging you towards the back entrance of the izakaya, he never moves too quickly for you to keep up.

The two of you burst out into the back alleyway and Katsuki spares a quick glance around before he's on you.

He keeps a hand on the back of your head as he slams you into the dirty brick wall, shielding you even as he wrenches your waist towards him to grind his incriminatingly hard length against you. He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive, wiping out all coherent thought in your brain as your senses strain towards him. "You're gonna kill me," he grunts. You whimper into the kiss and clutch at his shoulders for dear life as he licks into your mouth, filthy and wet, swallowing down your pitched moans as he rocks his clothed cock against your center.

"What d'you want? Fingers or mouth?"

Your eyelashes flutter open in confusion. Your mind feels hazy, lost in the smoky sweetness of your mate, your focus entirely zeroed in on the throbbing of your pussy as Katsuki swears low beneath the clattering of the izakaya door opening.

"Wh— whoops!" the voice sounds familiar, but you can't quite place it. You blearily try to turn your head towards the sound, but Katsuki anchors you closer to him, covering you with his broad shoulders. "I was just — oh! You two should head home! I'll let everyone know you had an emergency!"

The roar of the crowds inside the izakaya rises in volume again before the door clangs shut. Katsuki picks you up before you can figure out what's happening, a strong hand tucking beneath your thighs as you cling to his neck. "Hold on tight."

"What're you— Katsuki, what the fuck!?" The loud, snapping, popping sound of explosions echo in the night before you're suddenly shooting straight into the sky, air rushing past you like you're flying. You tuck your face into his neck and swallow down an aborted scream, because, well — you are flying, propelled through the city skyline by Katsuki's explosive power.

Your boyfriend laughs. The shaking of his chest is familiar, at least, and you concentrate on that and the strong, sweet scent of his scent gland right beneath your lips. It would be downright disastrous for you to bite him now, while you're soaring through the city leaving fireworks in your wake, but you can't help kissing and sucking at the skin of his neck and shoulder as your body shivers with want.

There's a thud as he lands heavily and then a muttered curse before the tinkle of glass meeting concrete filters into your ears. You take a peek and catch sight of your apartment's balcony curtains fluttering in the wind, but the perspective is all wrong — why're you looking in as if you're —

"Katsuki," you pinch one of his strong shoulders, "did you just break into our apartment?"

"I'll get the glass replaced next week," Katsuki says, stepping inside and kicking off his boots. You're shivering, hot, feverish. He's warm, too — as usual — but sweat beads across his brow and you know you're close. "Bed, now. Or all our neighbors'll hear you screamin' my name."

Katsuki doesn't put you down. He carries you in a princess hold, the hand supporting your back smelling like smoke and soot, and he kicks the bedroom door shut with one socked foot. "Katsuki, Katsuki," he mocks, and suddenly you realize you've been chanting his name, fingers clenching tight to the hairs on the back of his head. "What d'you want, baby? Fingers or mouth?"

"I want you —"

His laugh is rough, a tortured sound spilling from his lips as he drops you on the bed and immediately kneels between your legs. Your breath catches in your throat as he slides your shoes off and tosses them aside. You lean up on your elbows to watch, wide eyed and breathless, as he trails his lips along the bare skin of your calf, hiking your skirt up with every beat of your heart. "I want you, too," he mutters, pupils blown wide with lust, his smirk pressing into your thigh. "But answer the question."

Your body thrums with anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your core like a siren song. "Katsuki, please —"

Katsuki snaps. A loud riiip tears through the air as he tosses aside the ruined fabric of your panties and then he's on you, his tongue licking dirty and insistent through your folds. You choke on a moan, hips canting into the air as pleasure sparks in your synapses, chasing the feeling as he eats you out like a man starved.

"Katsuki, Ka— nghh, Katsuki, please —"

Your boyfriend swirls his tongue around your clit and you nearly sob as you clench around nothing, your inner walls spasming with your near orgasm. Your thighs are tense, locked tight around his head. Katsuki doesn't seem to mind, lapping at your slick and groaning into your warmth, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to hold you down.

Distantly you hear yourself whimpering and whining, but Katsuki continues to torture you, bringing you to the brink and pulling back as soon as you start to spasm. Somewhere in the depths of your mind you know there's a way to get him to — to fuck you properly —

You release the blanket you've been twisting in a death grip and scrabble for the pheromone patch on your neck. It takes a few tries as you pant helplessly, your fingers sliding off your sweaty skin, but as soon as your nail digs under the edge you rip it off and drown.

"Haah, fuck you —"

Katsuki rips himself away from your fluttering pussy with a groan and shoves his pants down awkwardly, the thick fabric catching on his thighs but low enough that his cock springs free. You whine at the sight, reaching for him, and he huffs out a laugh as he clambers over you. "You asked for it," he warns, but his voice cracks as the tip of his cock nudges against your wet folds.

"Oh, god, please please please. In," you grab at his arms and tilt your hips up, "Please get inside me."

"Fucking — hell —" Katsuki groans as he pushes inside, but his self control is at an all time low. He doesn't want to hurt you, but you're so wet and warm and your velvety walls are practically squeezing him in a vice grip.

He shoves every hard inch of his cock into you with a grunt, kissing you hard as you fall off the edge into bliss.

White. Sparks. It takes you a moment to come back to your senses, a moan punching through your chest as Katsuki pants into your neck. "Fuck."

"Yeah?" He rolls his hips and you whine at the sensation of being stuffed full of his cock, wiggling as best as you can beneath him. His skin is sweaty and sticky against yours, and you realize pulled his own shirt off. He's shoved your borrowed shirt up and off so that you're nearly naked, and out of the corner of your eye you spot your bra dangling from the doorknob where he tossed it away.

"Katsuki, c'mon, move," you plead. He digs his elbows into the mattress on either side of your head and rolls his hips again, dragging every rock solid inch of him against your insides. You clench around him, sparks skittering up your veins as he bullies his way back in, and then he's gone.

Katsuki fucks you into the mattress. You can barely string together a sentence, holding onto his arms as he shoves himself deep with every thrust. The overpowering scent of him fills the air along with the smell of sex and sweat and your choked off moans. You cling to him as best as you can, tilting your neck up as an offering as his thrusts get deeper and harder, crying out when he reaches to rest your legs on his shoulders, ankles dangling by his head as the changed angle lets his cock kiss a spot inside you that makes you sob.

"Oh, oh, Katsuki, fuck please I need you I want you please please please —"

"I — I got you," he grunts, "just fucking — hah you've gotta —"

"Oh I'm gonna cum, I'm — Katsuki I'm gonna cum!"

Katsuki growls as you leap off the edge again, pressing a strangely sweet kiss to your lips before leaning down further and licking along the side of your neck. You barely have a moment to register what he's doing before his body locks up and he bites you, marking you as his cock spurts and kicks inside you.

"Oh, fuck —"

The heady rush of pheromones sends you spinning dizzily higher, a pleasure so intense lighting up your nerves you nearly black out. Distantly you can still feel Katsuki cumming, thick ropes of white painting your insides as he rocks his hips in tiny, incessant motions against you. He lets go of your neck with a grunt. And then you feel it.

"Ah. Ah." The swell of his knot is thick and alarming, but you force yourself not to tense as he locks up with you. The overwhelming feeling sends your nerves buzzing and you tilt your head to kiss him, languid and sweet.

"How's it?" he asks, breaking the kiss just to press his sweaty forehead against yours. You meet his deep red eyes and brush a kiss along the pink swell of his cheekbones. "I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm fine," you sigh. Your heart is still thumping like a drum in your chest, but Katsuki is warm and solid and unyielding around and inside you. You're so full. You nuzzle into the neck of your mate. "You're lucky I'm so damn bendy."

The first knot is always the most lucid, the relief of sliding into heat lending clarity to both of your senses before dissolving into a messy, incoherent sex fest. By the end of the cycle you'll have lost track of how many times and how many ways Katsuki takes you — though you know he's fond of the shower and he used to like propping you up against the balcony doors…

"Did you really break the balcony door?" you ask suddenly, disrupting Katsuki's careful kiss to your jaw. Your boyfriend snorts, slowly sliding your legs off his shoulders and wincing lightly as his knot jostles inside you.

"If I had to go through the apartment I would've taken you in the goddamn elevator."

"Oh." You wince as his knot slips slightly. Another thought leaps unbidden to the front of your mind. "Who was that at the izakaya?"

Katsuki shrugs. "Some chick. The one you were helpin' to the bathroom."

Your brain still feels fuzzy with endorphins and the afterglow of white hot pleasure, so it takes you a moment longer to figure out who he's talking about. You groan. "Oh, no… not Akane…"

"She said she'd take care of it," Katsuki assures you, nosing along your neck. "And 'sides, that's not what you should be worried 'bout."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's that?"

The grin Katsuki shoots you is shit-eating and terribly, annoyingly endearing.

"You begged for it first."

A few days later, while Katsuki heats up some premade food so neither of you die of malnutrition, you finally remember to turn on your phone. It pings! with notifications, but one flagged as "important" catches your eye.

Shimizu: Hey friend, hope your heat's going well! I've sent along your company care package to be delivered to your apartment, and once you get back we'll have a post heat drinking party for you! I also sent out your pre-heat company-wide congratulations email a few days ago, but don't worry, I'll send it out earlier next time so we can celebrate you properly!

Katsuki pokes his head into the bedroom at your loud groan, two plates piled high with food balancing on his strong forearms.

"What's the matter, pipsqueak?"

"Did we get a delivery?" you ask. Katsuki sets the plates down on the bed beside you and disappears for a moment, but then you hear a loud bark of laughter and he reappears with a large box. "Oh, no. Don't tell me…"

Katsuki reaches in and whips out a dildo with your company's name stamped along the base. "They found out?"

"I'm gonna die," you say. "I can never face any of them ever again."

"So dramatic," Katsuki snorts, setting the box down. He braces his hands on either side of your thighs as he leans down to kiss you. "Wanna see which one makes you beg hardest?"

"We are not using those toys, Katsuki!"

"We'll see how you feel when I've got you beggin' for me again."

[bakughoust]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 15k

synopsis: pacrim!au. how did it get longer. it was supposed to be one part but it got too long and now i have to split it into two. truly the hydra of fanfics...

chapters: one | two | three | four | five | six

III. FISSION

Phainon snores.

It’s a fact — or a memory — that you haven’t had to recall for a long time. You thought you’d buried all of them years ago, under the blackened sand of a beach razed to ash, together with the decaying remains of your childhood. But now you’re lying in a bed, too aware of the fact that Phainon is fast asleep in the bunk just above yours. Separated by nothing but metal frames and a mattress that’s not quite thick enough for your liking.

It’s been years since you’ve last shared a space with someone like this, and the proximity sets something in you on the edge. It’s almost too intimate. But it’s Phainon. 

Things could be worse, you suppose.

Just like yesterday night. It’d been… a lot, to put things lightly. Your admission of fear (ugh), the tears that had escaped your eyes somehow (straight up embarrassing). But you don’t think anything had quite unraveled you as much as the gentleness in Phainon’s hands, when he’d wiped the tears from your eyes. 

You don’t remember how long the two of you had simply sat there, until the exhaustion had won out. He’d climbed back into his bunk after a while, you think, though not before pulling the covers over you first as you'd desperately pretended to be asleep. Yet something else that you’re not emotionally prepared to unpack at the moment, you think.

And now, at exactly seven o’clock, the Shatterdome’s claxon blares through the ranger wing. You groan and bury your face in the pillow, as though that can somehow drown out the banshee wailing over the speakers.

Above you, you can hear Phainon rousing slowly, the bunk creaking as he stretches in his bed. It’s followed by the soft thud of his feet hitting the floor, then the rustle of fabric — digging through the closet, maybe. Then there’s a pause, long enough that you peek over the edge of your blanket.

Only to find his face hovering inches away from yours.

The two of you lock eyes, and you spot it — his white hair is hopelessly mussed from sleep, sticking up at the back like the tail of a disgruntled duckling. Looks like that hasn’t changed, at least. But when you would have teased him and attempted to help him flatten it down years ago, now you’re not sure how to react. Do you say good morning? Ask him if he slept well? Ignore him, maybe? Even after all the words that had been said yesterday night, you can still feel a strange tension lingering in the air between the two of you.

Or maybe that’s just you?

Your spiralling is interrupted, thankfully, when Phainon suddenly yawns. “Morning,” he rasps, voice an octave lower than usual and rough with sleep. And then he just turns around and heads off into the shower like nothing’s happened.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you stare at it for a few seconds before flopping onto your mattress hopelessly again. Gods. It’s too much, too fast, too ordinary after all those years of silence and distance. You suppose you should try to act normal? What even is considered normal between the two of you, now?

You’re about a third of the way through your second existential crisis of the morning when the bathroom door opens again. Phainon leans out, sweatpants riding low on his hips and a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. And he’s shirtless.

“Wh’f ‘re you ‘oin?” he mumbles around the toothbrush, eyelids still drooping with sleep. Oh, and did you mention that he’s shirtless?

You sit up so fast you nearly crack your head open on the upper bunk. “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

Phainon blinks and pulls the toothbrush from his mouth with a wet pop. “Oh, right. I forgot to tell you yesterday.” He gestures vaguely at the handle of the bathroom door. “The lock on this thing is broken.” He pauses, glances at you again. “Just in case you wanted to know.”

“You couldn’t wait until after your shower to tell me that?”

He shrugs, hip balanced against the doorframe. Why is he not going back inside? “Was afraid I’d forget.”

You stare back at him — or somewhere between his ear and the bathroom wall behind him. Definitely not anywhere beneath his chin. “Well, I won’t peek.” And when he still doesn’t react, you add, slowly, “Scout’s honour…?”

Phainon simply looks at you for a few more seconds, before his lips suddenly twitch. 

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t be anything you haven’t seen before,” he says with a shrug, before disappearing back into the bathroom. You’re left gaping at the closed door for a beat, bemused. Why’s he making you out to be some kind of pervert? Then a long forgotten memory of rubber ducks and a red-faced, sniffling Phainon surfaces from the recesses of your mind and your mouth drops open.

How does he even still remember that!?

You reach for a pillow — your only pillow, thank you very much — and hurl it at the bathroom door. “That wasn’t on purpose!” You yell back before you can help yourself, indignant. “And you were in diapers!”

His laughter echoes off the tile walls, muffled by the door separating the two of you. You shake your head, running a hand through your hair in exasperation. Insufferable bastard…

The shower turns on a moment later. Against your better judgment, you find your gaze drifting back to the door. The brief glimpse that you’d gotten of him lingers stubbornly in your mind — the sharp definition of his shoulders, the lean taper of his waist. 

His teasing comment hadn’t been entirely accurate, either: neither the thin golden line circling his chest nor the sun tattoo at the side of his neck had been there the last time you’d seen him topless. Gods, that had been six years ago. Back when he was still made out of scrawny limbs, when your mother would heap another helping onto his plate and tell him to eat more before the sea breeze carried him off. But he’s not a boy anymore — hasn’t been for a long time, you suppose. But it’s not something that you’ve had to confront before.

Not like this, at least.

You press your palms to your eyelids and inhale deeply. Maybe it’s not something you actually need to confront! Objectively, he’s fit and has muscles! That doesn’t have to mean anything.

By the time Phainon steps out of the shower, you’ve successfully regained your composure somewhat and dart into the bathroom as soon as he exits, brushing your teeth with mechanical efficiency. You keep your eyes fixed on the sink. If you glance up, you might just catch his reflection in the mirror. You’ve had quite enough of him for one morning.

When you emerge, however, Phainon is still there. Leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed, dressed in camo pants and a military sweatshirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There’s still a faint flush clinging to his skin from the heat of the shower.

You shift your weight onto one foot then the other, suddenly awkward. Phainon must feel the same, because his head dips slightly, gaze skirting away as one hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, before he glances back at you.

“Breakfast?” he asks. You can hear the tentative hope in those words, like he’s extending a truce.

It’s a simple question, but it feels loaded. Breakfast means sitting together in the mess hall, where people will undoubtedly stare. Where they’ll whisper, question your identity, your origins, how you’re worthy to stand next to the saviour of Amphoreus. It will mean navigating whatever this is between you now — this fragile, awkward thing that’s neither friendship nor hatred nor whatever you used to be.

You hesitate. Phainon’s expression flickers, a quiet tension in his shoulders, like he’s bracing himself to be rejected again.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Okay.”

His eyes light up, and for a moment it’s like seeing the sun rise over the horizon of Aedes Elysiae again. He lets out a quiet breath, almost like a sigh of relief, and you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, pushing off the wall, and you follow.

The news must have spread overnight. Like a wildfire in the dry season, apparently, because you can feel the eyes of every single person you pass by on you the second you step out of the ranger wing. Catch the whispers, of those who aren’t quite quiet enough, of which there are many — the legendary Deliverer finally has a co-pilot again.

They follow you through the mess hall, all the way down to the chow line. Their gazes are sticky, like sweat clinging uncomfortably to the back of your neck. Your fingers tighten on the metal of your tray. Should have known this would be a bad idea. But before you can tell Phainon that you’ve maybe, perhaps, just so happened to have lost your appetite, you feel a warm hand at the small of your back, ushering you in front of him.

“Don’t worry about them,” Phainon murmurs, leaning down so only you can hear. You don’t miss the way he subtly positions himself to shield you from the stares. “They’re just jealous that you get to share a bunk with me.”

You elbow him lightly in the ribs, but he only laughs — that bright, effortless sound that turns head — and redirects his charm towards the serving staff, flashing them a megawatt grin. Within moments, he’s got the cafeteria ladies smiling, and one even slips an extra piece of chicken pie onto your tray with the same indulgent fondness the beach vendors back in Aedes Elysiae used to show him.

And it’s not just them. It’s dizzying to watch, this confident ease with which Phainon moves. A table of junior cadets straighten in their seats when he walks by. Some older J-Techs call out a brief greeting, clasping him on the shoulder — how does he know all of them by name? Even a stern faced officer gives him a slight nod as he passes by. This is a man who’s never known what it means to be invisible — a sun around which the entire Shatterdome orbits.

You try to sidle towards one of the quieter corners, but Phainon steers you by the shoulders towards a table, where familiar faces look up in greeting. For a moment, you see surprise flicker across some of their expressions — they must have heard about your outburst, yesterday — but then Stelle just grins, and kicks out an empty chair with her boot. For you. 

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” she drawls, grinning at you. 

Dan Heng offers you a silent nod across the table, where he’s using a knife to methodically dismantle his breakfast. Next to him, March practically vibrates in her seat with what must be enough energy to power a Jaeger. “Ohmygosh, congratulations!” She claps her hands, eyes wide with glee. “Official welcome to the cool kids’ table! Do we do hazing? I’ve always wanted to try hazing!”

Caelus salutes you with his fork. There’s an entire… baked potato speared on its end, wobbling precariously. “Took you guys long enough. We were about to start betting whether Phainon’s snoring had made you take off into the night.”

“He was so loud we thought an earthquake had hit Okhema,” March whisper-shouts across the table, almost conspiratorially.

A flush creeps up Phainon’s neck as he slides into the cramped space next to you. The table’s a little too small, and his thigh presses warm against yours under the steel surface. “That was one time,” he grumbles, insistent. “And I’d spent four hours sparring with Mydei after taking down a Cat 3 in Styxia. Cut me some slack.”

“Uh huh,” Caelus says, around a mouthful of potato. “Whatever you say, Eggman.”

March giggles into her hands while Dan Heng’s lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. Phainon exhales through his nose, looking like a man who’s endured this particular brand of torment for far too long, and reaches for his coffee like it’s the only thing standing between him and homicide.

“Anyways,” he turns to you with an exasperated shake of the head, “you’ve met these clowns already.” There’s warmth flickering in his eyes that betrays his amusement as he gestures vaguely at the table, before nodding to the two rangers sitting opposite you. “And this is Mydei and Castorice. They’re pilots of Nikador.”

You glance at them. Mydei sits in his chair with the casual confidence of a giant predatory cat, all broad shoulders and languid muscle. The sleeveless military tank top exposes the red tattoos crawling over his arms, strange yet oddly beautiful. There’s a jagged scar running from his collarbone to his right bicep, too — the kind of injury that would have ended any normal man’s career.

Next to him, Castorice offers you a polite smile. Her purple eyes flicker with some sort of recognition. “We’ve met before.” Her soft voice belies the firm grip she has when she shakes your hand. “I didn’t know that you were Phainon’s new co-pilot.”

Her lilac braid drapes over the shoulder of a white lab coat. The little tag above her pocket reads: Neuroscience Division.

“So, you’re the unlucky soul who tested drift compatible with this disaster, huh?” Mydei’s eyes, sharp and gold, look you up and down with a sort of… intense curiosity. It’s like making eye contact with a panther. “So what’s the secret? Blackmail? Hypnosis? Ancient blood ritual?”

“Don’t be too discouraged if your NeuroSync scores with him aren’t that great,” March chimes in, vibrating in her seat like a hummingbird on espresso. Her rapid blinking suggests whatever’s in her coffee shouldn’t be legally classified as caffeine. “Half the Shatterdome’s tried and failed, so it’s already a miracle that you managed to sync with him! Drift compatibility can grow over time, like a friendship garden. With enough neural watering and tender loving care—”

“This is breakfast, not an interrogation session,” Phainon cuts in with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, although the upward twitch of his lips gives his amusement away. He nudges your tray closer to you, a silent reminder to eat. “But for the record, I think eighty-six is a good enough number for now.”

The clatter of cutlery at the table ceases. Even Dan Heng’s knife freezes mid-incision, his egg yolk bleeding slowly across the tray.

Mydei’s fork clatters to the table with a metallic ping. “Eighty-six?” He looks between the two of you as though you’ve just announced you’ve gotten Phainon pregnant or something. “You’re joking. With this guy?”

Phainon straightens up in his seat so fast it squeaks. “Hey. Hey.” He waves a hand at Mydei’s shell-shocked face. “What does that mean, huh? What’s wrong with me?”

Stelle raises a hand, grinning. “You want the list ordered by category? Or in alphabetical order—”

“Ooh, ooh!” March claps excitedly. “Let’s do—”

“March,” Phainon groans, rubbing at his temples. “Not helping.”

“That’s higher than what Mydei and Castorice scored the last time they synced, if I remember correctly,” Caelus remarks with the tone of someone who most definitely remembers. There’s a little gleam in his eyes, like a pyromaniac dumping kerosene onto a fire.

“Which was last year,” Mydei grinds out, his jaw tightening as he folds his arms across his chest. The red tattoos on his biceps almost look like they’re pulsing with annoyance. “We haven’t needed testing since.”

Castorice sips at her early grey, completely unbothered. “Eighty-two was perfectly adequate,” she comments, mildly.

“Maybe it’s the childhood friends trope!” March gasps dramatically. She clasps her hands together, pink-blue eyes sparkling with either excitement or insanity as she looks between you and Phainon. “Like in those romance dramas, where the lead couple always ends up—”

Phainon inhales his coffee wrong and you reach over to slap his back as he chokes. Dan Heng, bless his heart, leans over and shoves a bread roll into March’s mouth before she can continue.

“W’t? Mght be st'tclly sgnfcn't!" she protests indignantly, spraying crumbs across the table. "Sh'rd h'story an’ all t’at—"

“Eat,” Dan Heng deadpans, before returning his attention to his half-dissected eggs.

The chaos and noise is almost a little too overwhelming, but there’s a sort of warmth that you don’t quite… hate. You find yourself glancing at Phainon, only to see him already looking at you, cheek propped up on his palm. He meets your gaze with a defeated shrug, the corner of his mouth curling up in a lopsided grin as though to say you see what I have to put up with?

“You should eat too,” he hums, nudging your tray closer. “Before it gets cold. Or March starts diagramming neural pathways with the ketchup.”

A question burns in the back of your throat: just how much do they know about us? And then, how much do they know about me? How many stories has Phainon told over late-night drinks or sparring sessions, and how did he speak of you in them? 

You push your fork through the flaky crust of your pie, lost in your thoughts, before you become suddenly hyperaware of Mydei’s golden eyes tracking the motion like a predator assessing prey. The competitive tension radiates off him in waves, like heat from a burning brazier.

“Eighty-six,” he mutters again, shaking his head like the universe has personally offended him. 

Castorice pats his arm. “It’s not a competition. Don’t be bothered by it.”

“I’m not bothered by it,” he grumbles, and stabs at his omelettes with an unnecessary amount of force. Stelle just snickers.

“Could have fooled me.”

Phainon leans back in his chair, the picture of smug confidence. “You could always retest. See if you’ve gotten less insufferably stubborn.”

“You’re one to talk,” he snipes back, but his gaze snaps to Castorice. She doesn’t even look up from her tea. 

“No, Mydeimos.”

As the table erupts into laughter, you feel Phainon's shoulder press against yours — warm and solid. Around you, the conversation flows effortlessly. Stelle is arguing with March about the superior drama trope, while Caelus picks out all the cucumbers in his sandwich and slides them onto Dan Heng’s plate. Castorice explains to Mydei that no, another NeuroSync is unnecessary, we already function perfectly fine without it and—

And for the first time since arriving at the Shatterdome, you don’t feel like an outsider looking in.

Phainon takes you to the Kwoon combat room after breakfast.

You grimace the second you see the familiar set of doors, already guessing what’s lying in wait. No more idle time or Shatterdome tours with Tribbie anymore, because this is the damn military and you’ve become part of this circus whether you like it or not. Guess this is your life, now. Until Phainon tests drift compatible with someone else, at least.

“No candles or roses, unfortunately,” Phainon announces, as he holds the door open for you with an exaggerated flourish. “But I can promise bruises and existential dread.”

“Well, you definitely know how to make a girl swoon,” you mutter, but step inside regardless, the sharp tang of antiseptic and stale sweat hitting your nose. The training mats look a little damp under the fluorescent lights, presumably from some poor recruits’ training sessions before dawn. Along the far wall, a row of practice dummies stand at attention, their padded bodies bearing the scars of countless beatings. You run a hand along one’s stitching, feel where the material has worn thin.

“Hey, why does the combat room only have—” you turn around to ask, and immediately freeze.

Phainon is in the middle of peeling off his sweatshirt, the fabric dragging up over his torso before he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. Underneath, a fitted black tank clings to the lean planes of his torso, sleeves cutting off just where the curve of his shoulders meets his arms. Your throat tightens.

Look away.

You do — too late, probably — pretending desperately to focus on whatever’s closest to you. A loose thread on your sleeve. But not before spotting the way the light catches on the golden ink curling over his collarbone.

“See something interesting?” he teases, tossing the sweatshirt onto a nearby bench. Fuck. 

“Just wondering how much you paid for that tacky tattoo,” you shoot back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. What is going on with you today? Phainon presses a dramatic hand to his chest. 

“You wound me,” he says, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement. “The artist who did this guaranteed it'd increase my drift effectiveness by at least… four percent.”

“Four percent? Should have cashed out for the ten percent model instead.”

He laughs as he stretches, both arms overhead. The movement pulls the fabric taut across his shoulders. Is this guy doing this on purpose? And when he turns to set his phone at the edge of the mat, you catch more of the tattoo trailing down the exposed line of his spine. It’s more elaborate that you’d first thought, fine lines shimmering like sunbeams across his tan skin.

Bad, you scold yourself like a dog that’s just been caught nibbling at chocolate. Stop looking.

“So,” you say, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to distract yourself, “what fresh torture are you ready to serve up this fine morning? Waterboarding? Bed of nails? Or are we jumping straight into medieval rack stretching?”

“I heard that does wonders for flexibility.” Phainon grins. An infuriating, lopsided smile that always meant trouble when you were kids. “But sadly, no. Ever heard of judo?” he asks, far too innocently.

“If I say no, can I leave?”

“Nice try.” He tosses you a towel from the supply shelf. “But unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to teleport out of the Shatterdome, you’re stuck here with me. The General asked me to…”

He pauses mid-sentence, rubs at the back of his neck. “I think Aglaea might have a soft spot for you, actually.”

“What?” The admission catches you off guard enough that you nearly drop the towel. “She looks at me like I’m a stain on her favourite uniform.”

Phainon snorts out a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. “She usually doesn’t involve herself in such personal matters.” That’s because of you, idiot… “Maybe you remind her of Cifera.” 

The name is unfamiliar to you. “Cifera?”

He rotates his wrist in a slow, deliberate circle as he warms up, and you mirror him without thinking. Phainon’s fingers are dotted with old callouses and new bruises, the hands of a man who hasn’t stopped fighting for a long, long time. “Another stray I heard Aglaea took in years ago, even before I became a ranger. Had a…  complicated background, too.” He hesitates a little, glances over at you. “She disappeared, a while after. No one’s heard from her since.”

You’re about to press further when he claps his hands together. “Anyway! Basic hand-to-hand is non-negotiable. Let’s start with some—”

“Right,” you grip the hem of your shirt. “I wanted to ask why no one here seems to use a gun, huh? Surely you don’t beat the kaiju up with big sticks?”

Phainon shrugs. “I mean, Stelle and Caelus did almost knock a kaiju out with a cargo ship when they were stationed in Belobog.” Intergalactic Baseballer, alright. “But no, we don’t. The staff training is just a means of building up reflexes in close combat and increasing overall physical fitness.”

“Aren’t I going to be in a big metal monster?” you ask, frowning. “Why do I need to increase my overall physical fitness?”

Phainon’s lips twitch. “Someone’s not too enthusiastic,” he teases lightly, which is an… understatement, to say the least. “The reason is that we’ll be in suits.”

“Not the Hugo Boss kind, I’m assuming?”

A laugh bursts from his mouth at that. “Unfortunately. When you’re piloting, they’ll put you in a suit with neural relay gel, so that the Jaeger can pick up on your thoughts and movements in real time. It’s like being stuffed into a sausage casing, but half as appetising and three times as sweaty.” He makes a face at the thought and then sighs. “Moving in those things is exhausting. Trust me, you’ll need the endurance.”

“Yay…” you respond, staring mournfully at the mats. Don’t really have a choice now, do you…

Phainon runs you through what must be a step-by-step military mandated torture routine. Warm up starts with basic push ups, if an infinite number of push ups could be considered basic. And Phainon, unfairly, knocks them out with military precision that makes you question his humanity, form perfect even as the muscles in his arms and back strain against that goddamn tank top. 

You’re no slouch yourself, but by the thirtieth rep, your arms are already trembling. Gods, what circle of hell did you sign your soul away to?

“Elbows in,” Phainon reminds you, reaching up to poke at your arm — is he planking with one arm, now? It has the opposite effect, however, because you just collapse face first onto the mat, breath escaping your lungs just like your will to live. After a few seconds, you feel the gentle nudge of his foot against your ribs.

“These were supposed to be push ups.” He sounds like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Not naptime.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

He laughs at that. “I hope it’s for the next exercise.”

The sit ups are somehow worse. You barely make it through half the set before flopping back onto the mat, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. You’re gasping like a fish out of water. You’re feeling muscles in your abdomen that you didn’t even know existed. 

As you attempt to catch your breath, Phainon drops down cross-legged next to you. His hair, slightly damp from the workout, is pushed back, a few white strands sticking to his forehead. The slight sheen of sweat makes the gold of his tattoos stand out even more. Annoying, smug, attractive bastard…

He smacks your shoulder lightly. “You know sit-ups consist of actually sitting up, right? Not just lying down indefinitely.”

“Ha ha, you’re so funny” you deadpan in response, too tired to even process what is leaving your mouth. “Hilarious, even. Have you ever considered stand-up comedy instead of Jaeger piloting?”

He ignores your sarcasm. “How many do you have left?” 

“Six,” you lie through your teeth, blatantly.

“Good try,” Phainon raises an eyebrow at you, almost amused. “You have another sixteen to go.”

“You were counting? Gods, some people would call you obsessed.” You throw an arm over your eyes in despair. “How about you just tell me to lie down on some train tracks and sing the Funeral March instead?”

He blinks, looking surprised. “It’s a vocal piece?”

It’s not. “You’re missing the point here,” you grumble, staring up at the ceiling, the flickering overhead lights. Every part of your body aches. “The point is, if I die, you have no more partner to get into a Jaeger with. Think of all the drift testing you’ll have to do.”

“I already have to. The General’s got me scheduled with another batch of recruits in a couple of days.” He gives you that infuriatingly amused look — the one that says he's enjoying this far too much. "Alright," he relents, after a bit. “You do eight, and I’ll do the other eight.”

Eight is pushing it, but you groan and force yourself up again. The burn in your abs is vicious. "One..."

Phainon, the overachiever, finishes all eight in the time it takes you to struggle through three. When you finally collapse back into the embrace of gravity, you see Phainon grinning down at you. You don’t know whether it’s sweat or tears stinging your eyes. “Think I’ll become fitter after we drift in a Jaeger?”

A snort escapes him at that. “Drifting isn’t magic, unfortunately.”

“Damn it…” You roll onto your side, studying Phainon for a moment. “Then, do you think I’ll understand why you want to be in a Jaeger so badly?”

Phainon’s expression shifts, surprise flickering across his features like sunlight fracturing through leaves. “Didn’t you ask this before? Like I said, everyone has a responsibility—” 

That word again. Everyone. You tilt your head, studying his expression, the way a few strands of his white hair falls into his eyes. "I know why Aglaea wants you in a Jaeger and why the PPDC needs their precious Deliverer. But that's not what I asked."

They say the drift isn’t just about syncing movements in the Jaeger. It’s a melding of thoughts, memories, impulses. A neural bridge where two minds blur into one. 

Hyacine had told you that the NeuroSync had been a pale imitation of what actual Drifting would be like. You wonder if his dreams will bleed into yours, if you’ll wake up knowing how it feels to have sunlight course through your veins. Maybe you’ll see the war through his eyes, feel the heat of the fire that drives him headfirst towards this insanity. 

Will you be less afraid, once he’s in your head? Or will the drift just make the terror twice as loud?

Phainon looks away, throat working as he swallows. The golden tattoo at the side catches the light as he turns. Will you find out why he got that, too? “I’m not that great,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, tinged with something more rueful, melancholic. “Just some guy that got lucky. And this Deliverer nonsense…” He shakes his head, a deprecating, bitter twist to his lips. “I’m not who they think I am. But people put their hopes in me. And I can’t just… walk away from that.” He exhales. “So I have no choice but to live up to it.”

You can feel the pressure on his shoulders as he speaks, almost as if it’s pressing onto yours as well. You wonder what it must feel like, to bear the weight of the world on your back. 

But that’s still not the question you wanted to ask.

“Let me rephrase,” you sit up, leaning closer. “Why did you want to become a Ranger in the first place? Before the titles and expectations.” You gesture around the training room. “You could’ve been LOCCENT. J-Tech. Even a janitor. Anything else.”

Phainon blinks, thrown off by the question. His fingers flex absently at his sides. "I don't have the brains for J-Tech," he jokes, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment, he looks almost lost, as if he's never truly considered the question himself. “Guess it’s because I.. remember.”

You frown. “Remember?”

He nods, absently. His eyes are faraway now, as though looking at something that only he can see. “I remember what it feels like to be helpless in front of a kaiju.” His hand tightens on his knee, fingers curling in the fabric of his pants. “That moment, when the world goes dark under its shadow, and you realise there’s nothing — nothing — you can do to stop it.”

The air between the two of you grows heavy with his admission. Somewhere beyond the training room walls, the Shatterdome hums with its usual activity, but time here seems to slow.

“And I was angry,” he admits, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Nothing quite beats being able to look the thing you hate in the eye and punch it back.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips, but there's no joy in it. "Childish, maybe."

It’s not. “Even if it meant dying?”

“Even then.”

You study him — the tension in his jaw, the way he unconsciously rubs at the tattoo on his neck. The pieces click together suddenly, sharply. This isn't just about duty or responsibility. For him, this is something far more personal.

Before you can respond, Phainon shakes his head. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back into that familiar, easy confidence. “Besides,” he adds, forcing lightness into his tone, “have you seen the LOCCENT uniforms? The colour would look terrible on me.”

The deflection is obvious, but you let it pass. “So… vanity and spite,” you summarise for him, raising a brow.

“Yup,” Phainon pops the ‘p’ as he hauls you to your feet. His fingers linger on yours for a brief moment before releasing you, callouses catching against your skin. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Had to slay both the kaiju and the runway. Multitalented, really.”

You make a sound of disgust in the back of your throat, like a gag. “I don’t want to hear that from someone who once wore a mustard-yellow button up shirt and purple dromas pants and genuinely thought that he was at the peak of fashion.”

Phainon reels back as though you’ve struck him. “It was avant-garde,” he hisses defensively in response, though the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. “How do you still even remember that? It was like a decade ago!”

“Trauma leaves permanent psychological scars,” you deadpan, delighting in the way his scowl deepens. He’s not the only one who can remember things from years ago, is he?

With a grumble, Phainon snatches up a practice staff and chucks another at you with just enough force to make you scramble. He sinks into a low stance, muscles coiling beneath that sweat-damp tank top. “Enough reminiscing,” he demands, spinning his staff with unnecessary flourish. “I want to beat your ass again.”

“Oooh, kinky—” The staff smacks into your calf. “Ow!”

The confrontation sneaks up on you like a bad hangover.

It’s about sometime early in the morning, and Phainon has another round of drift tests to get to. You, on the other hand, are enroute to your first neural relay suit fitting when you pass by a group of recruits who look vaguely familiar. Might be the same group that you’d seen that day speaking to Phainon at the maintenance ledge, you think absently as you continue to walk. But before you can leave the corridor, you hear a voice call out from behind you.

“Hey, newbie. Got a second?”

You turn to see four recruits leaning against the bulkhead. One of them — a wiry girl with short dark hair — pushes off the wall with deliberate slowness. You recognise her, the one who’d sworn to match up to Cyrene. And you recognise the air hanging about her, too, one that screams confrontational and looking for trouble all over it. 

Which you aren’t. “I have somewhere else to be,” you say. Before you can start walking again, however, a tall, broad-shouldered guy steps into your path. 

"Aw, come on," he says. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "We're just trying to welcome you properly. Show you how things work around here."

It smells like a whole crockpot of bullshit. But you don’t want to cause a scene, so you have little choice but to let them herd you toward a dim maintenance corridor, their bodies forming an unsubtle barrier. Inside, the lights flicker intermittently, casting jagged shadows across their faces.

The lead girl crosses her arms. “So. Where’d you come from, anyway? No one’s seen you before the compatibility testing.”

Straight to the point, you see. You shrug, slipping your hands into your pockets. “Around.”

The girl’s expression twists into something ugly. “‘Around,’” she mimics. It’s amusing, how she doesn’t even bother hiding the hostility on her face. The guy next to her — lanky, thin and with a permanent scar sneer — snorts. 

“Real specific,” he says, taking a step closer. You can smell his breakfast on his breath. Ugh. “Why so secretive, huh? You part of the black ops program or something?”

If only they knew how wildly off mark they are, here. “Or something,” you respond, tilting your head to look at them. “Wow, guys. With all these questions, I’d almost say that you were unnecessarily interested in me or something.” You shake your head mildly and move to step past him. “Unfortunately, I’m not really looking for a foursome right now—”

The girl’s expression darkens. “Enough of this bullshit.” She snaps, slamming her hand against the supply closet behind you. The metal clangs loudly, and you have to force yourself to remain expressionless. “See, here’s the thing. We’ve been grinding like crazy for months just to get into the Jaeger program… and then you show up out of nowhere.” She leans in closer. “And suddenly, you’re compatible with the lieutenant?”

She’s talking about Phainon. The thought almost makes you laugh. You’d braced for many things, when Aglaea had first brought you to the Okhema Shatterdome, but for some reason, petty hazing from jealous recruits just hadn’t crossed your mind. But this is a good sign, you think to yourself. They still don’t know who you are — which means the world doesn’t yet know that the Deliverer’s childhood friend turned petty criminal has tested drift compatible with him. That secret still remains safely hidden, by Aglaea, no doubt.

The lanky one leans in, very deliberately invading your personal space. "What, cat got your tongue now? Or you just playing dumb?"

“Maybe,” you say slowly, “I just don't see the point in this conversation.” Your voice stays deliberately flat, devoid of the anger they're trying to provoke. They don’t seem to like that.

The broad guy's chuckle is low and unpleasant. “Oh, there's a point.” He crowds into your space, the scent of cheap aftershave sharp in your nose. “See, we think there's something funny about how you got here.”

The girl's smile turns razor-thin. "Yeah. Funny how someone with no record, no training..." Her eyes rake over you. “Just happens to be the only person who’s good enough to be compatible with the Deliverer.”

You scoff. For gods’ sakes, they’re really treating drift compatibility like some sort of dating service. It’s ridiculous, really.

“Maybe she's just too good for the likes of us.” The broad recruit’s hand lands heavy on your shoulder, fingers digging in just shy of painful. "What's your secret, huh? Special favors from command? Or..." He leans in. “... are you just real good at networking, hmm?”

The implication hangs like a live wire between the two of you. Your eyes narrow. 

“Why,” you ask coolly. “Did you?”

The recruit’s face turns red, like a ripening tomato. Then his meaty hand shoves you backward with enough force to make the supply closet doors rattle behind you. One shoulder blade impacts with it and pain blooms across the area. Definitely going to have a bruise there, you think.

The beginnings of panic curl in your throat, but you force it down like a bad tasting whiskey — with gritted teeth and years of practice. Four against one. You’re sorely missing your gun, now, but you've faced worse odds before and made it out alive. Maybe not in one piece, but still...

Your fingers curl around the handle of the mop behind you when the guy steps forward, eyes burning. “Now listen here, you little fuck—”

The door at the end of the hallway swings open with no warning.

A familiar face — Mydei — strides inside, arms crossed over his chest. Each footfall rings out with the certainty of a gunshot. He glances at you, over the recruits surrounding you, to the fist one of them has raised. 

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you here.

“Well, well, well,” Mydei says, voice dripping with false cheer. “Isn’t this cozy.”

The recruits all freeze like prey animals. The grip on your jacket slackens considerably. Mydei takes a single step forward, the harsh fluorescent lights catching on his tattoos, the scar at his collarbone. “Someone want to explain why my morning walk includes finding you lot playing grab-ass in a maintenance corridor?”

The broad recruit swallows hard enough that you can see his Adam's apple bob. “I was, uh-” His voice cracks. “Just helping get... something off her shirt, sir.”

It’s the worst excuse ever. A ten year old would have been more creative. You try, you really do, but the snort escapes you anyway, and the guy’s face twists uncomfortably in response. 

Mydei’s golden eyes flicker up to you. “Is that so.” His voice is so dry it could turn an ocean into a desert overnight. But then his voice drops. “Look. Normally I’d let you idiots sort out your own pissing contests. But if the General finds out that you’re messing with the Deliverer’s only viable co-pilot—”

Something strange turns in your chest at the designation.

“—I assure you that you’ll be begging to be court martialed.” He bares his teeth in something that isn't quite a smile. “Am I understood?”

The chorus of "Yes sir!" would be comical if not for the genuine fear in their eyes. They scatter like leaves in a hurricane, one recruit nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.

The moment the door shuts behind them, you barely dissolve into fits of laughter. “Did you see his face?” you wheeze, leaning against some pipes for support. “I thought he was gonna piss himself when you materialised out of nowhere. These are the people you want to put into Jaegers?”

Mydei crosses his arms over his chest with a low sigh. “Most soldiers are egomaniacal little freaks. Comes with the testosterone.” He pauses, makes a face. “Well, most of them, at least.” His golden eyes track your movement as you try to rotate your shoulder. “You’re injured.”

You wave him off. “Just a love tap from the supply closet.” But when you tug your collar aside to check, Mydei’s expression darkens — there’s the beginnings of a bruise, an exact imprint of the metal grating, now tattooed across your shoulder blade in a shade of angry, inflamed pink.

“Medical.” Mydei says flatly, in a voice that brookes no argument. “Now.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a withering look. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Wow,” you mutter, pushing off the wall. “Remind me never to vote for you in any 'Most Approachable Ranger' competitions.”

He scoffs, holds the door open for you. “I’m not the Deliverer,” he deadpans, as if that explains everything.

You pass through the doorway, throwing one last glance at the dented supply closet. “Remind me to thank it later. The imprint’s almost artistic.”

Mydei sighs and follows you down the corridor like a particularly disgruntled shadow. After a few paces, something occurs to you.

“Oh, yeah.” You glance at him as the two of you walk through the Shatterdome. “How’d you know I was in there? It’s not actually on route for your morning walk, is it?”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot. “Of course not. I just happened to be heading to the combat room and saw you getting in there with those four.” His eyes narrow. “When you didn’t come out after a while, I got suspicious.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s… nice, to know that he was looking out for you. You’re not even his co-pilot. “Good thing you came when you did. Things were about to get messy.”

Mydei eyes you from the side. “Why didn’t you shout for help?” The question hangs between the two of you, heavier than he probably intended. You frown. You suppose that, from his point of view, that would be the most logical course of action to take. It’s simply just that from the back alley scraps to the warehouse shootouts, there’s never been a person to call for help. Shouting would have drawn more trouble. And if you didn’t make it, well… there wouldn’t be anyone to call, either.

“It… didn’t cross my mind,” you admit, somewhat lamely. Mydei raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowing. 

He looks like he wants to respond, but eventually refrains from doing so. “Well, next time, make sure it does.” He shakes his head with a sign. “Phainon would go absolutely crazy if something happened to you.”

You snort, amused by how seriously he’s taking this. “That exaggeration is nuts.”

Mydei stops to look at you. His expression is flat. “You’re the one who’s nuts,” he says bluntly, pressing his palm against a biometric scanner, and doesn’t elaborate. You frown. Before you can ask what he means by that, the doors swing open and Mydei steps through, leaving you to jog after him to catch up.

The familiar smell of formaldehyde and entrails hits your nose. This… isn’t any sort of medbay. You squint at the chunk of Terravox’s secondary brain floating in its suspension, before glancing at Mydei. The K-Science biolab again? Why did he bring you here—

“(Name)!” The pink hair biologist rushes out, sea green eyes darting between the two of you curiously. “And hello to you too, Mydei.” She turns to blink at him, gloved hands stained with suspiciously blue liquid. “What brings the two of you here this fine morning? Is your shoulder acting up again?”

“I’m fine. No need to worry about me, Doctor.” You don’t miss the way his voice drops to something more polite, shoulders relaxing — his entire demeanour shifts, actually. Ho? He gestures at you. “This one got herself injured. Could you take a look at her back?”

“Oh!” Hyacine’s brows furrow as she glances over at you, gloved fingers fluttering. “Of course. Take a seat, please.” You follow the doctor’s orders, seating yourself between two bubbling tanks — one containing some cultured skin tissue and the other something distinctly less identifiable. As Hyacine bustles off in search of supplies, you turn to level Mydei with the most insufferable grin you can muster.

He looks like he’s suddenly found the stack of papers on a nearby desk very interesting.

“So…” you let your voice drip with implication. “You and her, huh? No wonder why you were so insistent on… looking after my well-being.”

Mydei shoots you a glare, but even that seems somewhat half-hearted. “There is nothing going on between the doctor and I. She’s just the one who patched up my shoulder when I injured it during a mission.” He shrugs and crosses his arm, leaning against the table. “Trust her more than any surgeon in the whole Shatterdome.”

You open your mouth to respond when Hyacine returns with fresh gloves and a first aid kid. “Now, let’s see this masterpiece of yours,” she chirps, peeling back your collar with a gentle precision. You lean forward so that she can manoeuvre more easily.

Mydei pointedly examines the ceiling vent as she works, but you notice the way his eyes dart over to her every so often. You file that information away for future blackmail purposes.

Hyacine winces when she pulls down your collar. “Oh. Oh dear. That…”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to twist your neck to see. Unsuccessfully, by the way. “That bad?”

“On a scale from ‘oof’ to ‘oh my god’? This is a solid yikes. Let me know what you feel when I touch it.” Her fingers press over your bare skin, and then harder and you suck in a breath through your teeth. “Any kind of sharp pain?”

“Nope, just kind of an ache…  ow! Maybe don’t poke the center so hard.”

The doctor breathes out a sigh of relief. “Looks like it’s not a fracture, at least. We should take care of the swelling first.” She rummages through the kit, producing an instant cold pack that crackles as she activates it. “Mydei, would you help me hold it to her shoulder?” Mydei slides next to you, pressing it against the bruised area. “Thank you. How did this happen?”

You laugh, scratch at your head. “Tripped over my own feet at the gear locker. I’m just clumsy like that,” you lie, easily. Mydei glances at you, eyes narrowing, but lets it go.

“Hmm.” Hyacine studies the bruise for a few more seconds before she hums. “I’ll get you some ointment you can apply after the bruise turns dark. I’ll need to dig for it though…”

“Why did you lie?” Mydei asks, after Hyacine moves over to look through the supply shelves at the back of the lab. His tone isn’t accusatory, but there’s an unfamiliar weight to it.

You shrug and immediately regret it when pain throbs through your shoulder. Ouch… “Easier to just avoid unnecessary conversation. Explaining what happened would just be troublesome.”

“Stop fidgeting.” Mydei clicks his tongue as the ice pack slips. “Look, the only ones who’ll get into trouble are those guys, not you. And it might happen again.”

“I can handle it.”

 He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing. He seems… irritated? But not angry. “You should tell Phainon, at least.”

You blink up at him, confused. “Why? It’s just a bruise. Not the first or last or worst I’ll get.”

“Why?” Mydei repeats after you, looks like he wants to say something more. He shakes his head. “He might cry if he finds out you’re hiding something like this from him.”

You almost snort at that mental image. “I’m not deliberately hiding it. I just find it unnecessary to tell him.”

“And maybe that’s the problem.” Mydei shifts to stare you straight in the eye, golden gaze gleaming with a heavy intensity that makes you feel as though you’re pinned to your chair. “You seem to think that pain is something that you’re just supposed to swallow. And help is something that needs to be earned.” And once again, you wonder: why does Mydei care so much about this, anyway? It’s not like you’re his co-pilot. When you continue to stare up at him, not quite understanding, Mydei just… sort of sighs, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple as though you’re giving him a headache. “Just… just tell him, okay?”

If he asks, you want to reply, but Hyacine returns then, holding a small tube of ointment in her hands and looking very pleased with herself.

“Thank god for all the labelling I did when I first came to this lab… here!” She hands you the tube, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering between the two of you. “Apply this twice daily and try not to use that arm too much. Oh, and no more wrestling any more gear lockers, alright?”

You take it, the medication cool in your palm. “Of course, Doctor.” You slip it into your pocket and get to your feet, flash both Mydei and Hyacine a smile. “Then, I’ll be going first. Still got that fitting to get to.”

Hyacine smiles and gives you a wave as you walk away. But Mydei…

You can still feel his eyes on you, even after the doors to the K-Science lab have swung closed behind you. 

The neural suit fitting doesn’t take your mind off things.

You leave the tech lab with your skin buzzing from phantom sensors, the feeling of latex and rubber still clinging to your skin. As you walk the corridors back to your room, Mydei’s words echo in your head again.

“He might cry if he finds out you’re hiding this from him.”

Briefly, you wonder how Phainon’s drift tests with that new batch of recruits is going, if he’s found someone better yet, and then, whether you should tell him. You probably won’t be here long, anyway, and the Deliverer has bigger things to worry about than some childish attempt at bullying from jealous recruits. 

The concept of reporting pain still feels foreign. On the streets, vulnerability was a currency for predators that you’d quickly learned not to give away. Here, Mydei regards it like a language that you’ve never known but should learn to speak.

Aglaea’s gambit haunts you, uncomfortably. You wonder just how much dirt she has on you, and if so, how much she’s told Phainon. If he and the rest of the rangers knew the extent of the things you have done — the bodies you’ve left dead under Lygus’ orders, the kind of people you’ve made unthinkable deals with… would they still treat you like someone deserving of kindness? 

You grasp at the ointment tube in your pocket, letting the edges dig into your skin. It’s like you’re living on borrowed time, a stay of execution before the truth comes to light sooner or later and renders you untouchable again.

You hope Phainon tests compatible with someone else soon. Because this fragile truce between the two of you feels like holding your breath underwater, and you’d rather let go first than to watch him realise that he should have never reached for you at all.

You’re still lost in your thoughts when someone bumps into you.

For a second, you’re almost worried that you might be experiencing deja vu from this morning’s incident, but when you look up, you’re relieved to see it’s just a janitor, their mop on the ground.

“Shit, sorry.” You bend down to pick up the mop, hand it back to her. “Wasn’t looking at where I was going—”

The janitor’s fingers curl around yours on the mop, keeping you in place. Your head jerks up in alarm.

“And I wasn’t expecting to find you here, of all places.” A familiar voice purrs, amused. You blink, scarcely able to believe your eyes. Cipher is standing in front of you, dressed in a janitor’s uniform and that familiar alley-cat grin. You don’t have any friends in the city’s underbelly — the streets have taught you know better than that — but she would be the closest thing you have to one. “The boss sent me looking for you, after you missed that drop in Marmoreal.”

Lygus. That strange, familiar fear settles in the pit of your belly. “I practically got abducted. The General wanted me for… reasons.”

“Aww, you poor thing.” Cipher’s blue eyes flash with amusement. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Time’s a little short now, but I’ll be back to getcha out of here in a jiffy.” She flashes you a wink. “Cat-ch you later.”

One moment she’s there, and the next — nothing but an empty corridor stretching before you. You’d almost think you’d hallucinated that whole conversation if not for the faint scent of industrial cleaner and the water from the mop still on the floor.

When it comes to the art of disappearing, Cipher is the best of the best. The two of you have worked together before, and you’ve seen her slip through security grids tighter than this, vanish from maximum security vaults, disappear right under enforcers’ noses. If there’s someone who could extract you from under Aglaea’s all seeing eyes, it’s her.

The corridor stretches endlessly in both directions, and you realize, with a quiet sort of horror, that you're not sure which way you want to go.

You’ve developed a new habit of checking shadows.

It’s almost like you’ve been transported back into the alleys of Marmoreal’s undercity, back when your hands were cleaner and less calloused and guilt still gnaws at the cavity of your chest. Your nerves hum like live wires, every shadow in the corridors stretching too long. Every unfamiliar footstep could be Cipher, materialising out of nowhere with that feline grin and an outstretched hand.

I’ll getcha out of here. Her promise coils in your gut, both a lifeline and a guillotine hanging over your neck.

Part of you knows you should be relieved. The rules of the underworld are brutal, but simpler: survive, profit, run and don’t look back. You’ve already spent your whole life running: from the law, your own morals, from Phainon and Cyrene. What’s one more little escape added to it? It makes sense: you don’t want to step into a Jaeger, to walk out there to an almost certain death, don’t want to die crushed between metal and drowning beneath those cold waves. Body bloated and picked at by crabs at the bottom of the seabed. You don’t want—

(Phantom disappointment curls in your chest.)

You swallow, clench your hands so tight that your fingernails dig into your palms, stare out at the sun rising over the sea as though you’ll find your answers on the horizon. You would never have thought that the drift fallout would be so damn inconvenient — the lingering whisper of Phainon’s emotions still curling beneath your skin. It would be so easy to miss, blinded by the brightness of his smile and that easy laugh. The silent way he bites into his own cheek rather than bring up all the ways you’ve hurt him in the past. The terrible, baseless, hopeless trust he still has in you.

Gods, you can’t break that again.

The waves crash against the Shatterdome’s foundational pillars, seawater swirling up a storm beneath your feet just like the emotions in your chest. You’re sure that Phainon has noticed how more on edge you’ve been the last few days, the way his gaze lingers on how your fingers tap restlessly against the tabletops, how you startle at the sudden footsteps in the corridor.

He must notice, yet he says nothing. Waiting for you to come to him first, wanting you to give him that trust. Your trust. 

You’re just not sure if you remember how.

You’re contemplating your decisions — so many decisions, so few options — when suddenly, you hear a familiar voice from above your head. “Hey.”

You jerk forward and Phainon yelps in horror, reaching out to grab you by the arm. It’s like deja vu all over again. “You know,” you mutter, as he hauls you back to safety, “if I had a nickel for every time you’ve surprised me while sitting dangerously close to a body of water, I would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s strange that it’s happened twice.” You don’t even bother asking how he found you here.

The joys of drift fallout, you suppose…

“How about not sitting dangerously close to the body of water in the first place?” Phainon huffs, eyes the way one of your legs are still dangling over the ledge and then glares at the railing. “I should really talk to Aglaea about getting these rusty things fixed. And the door locked behind a keycard.”

“I’ll jump,” you threaten, pointing down at the water below.

The grip he has on your arm tightens. “If you die, I’ll kill you myself,” Phainon grumbles, shakes his head. He still looks nervous, glancing down at the water beneath you, and so you shuffle away from the edge until you’re safely behind the railing and his shoulders lose some of their tension. 

“So? Why did Okhema’s hotshot ranger come searching for little old me?”

“Oh!” Phainon’s expression brightens at that, like a kid’s who’s just been promised candy. “Right. Let’s go out into the city.”

You blink at him. A hundred questions crowd your tongue — why now? How much have you noticed? Do you know just how close I am to running? Instead, you settle with the safest: “The Saviour of Humanity gets something as ordinary as leave?”

“He does, and he’s just spent one day on you. Come on.” He grasps your hand to pull you to his feet, palm warm against yours. “Already cleared it with the General.”

“She thinks it’s a good idea to have me wandering around unsupervised?”

“There’s me.” Phainon shrugs, when you open your mouth to argue. “Besides, I can be very convincing when I want to be. The more time spent together, the better we bond, the higher our neural compatibility, the better we punch kaiju in the Jaeger.” He spreads his arms out with a flourish. “Brilliant argument, no?”

You can barely hide your snort behind your hand. “So this is, what? Bonding for the sake of the world? Should we hold hands to improve drift compatibility, too?”

“Well, if you’re suggesting…” Your eyes widen when he really does grab your hand, fingers slipping between yours with practiced ease as if your time apart had never happened. “Maybe we’ll even have time to get some matching friendship bracelets, too. Sound good to you?”

You should pull away. But his grip is firm and his smile is brighter than the sun and how much longer do you have with him like this?

“As long as you’re paying,” you say, and let Phainon tug you along towards the Shatterdome. “So, where do you have in mind?”

The place that Phainon has in mind turns out to be a small city, not more than an hour’s drive from base. It’s not too crowded, but still has that lively hustle and bustle, people chattering and walking around at a leisurely pace. Different from the endless, marching heartbeat of the Shatterdome. And the town unfolds around you like a postcard come to life — the sea salt on the air, the brightly coloured storefronts. You wonder if this place has ever been touched by a kaiju before. 

Phainon navigates the winding cobblestone streets with an easy familiarity, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He’s dressed in his civvies, jeans and black leather jacket over a white shirt. It’s simple, but he looks good, you think to yourself sourly. So much for clothes maketh man… this man maketh the clothes.

Once again, just an objective observation. And you know it’s objective this time, because he’s getting stared at. A group of girls seated at a cafe whisper and point at him, then giggle behind their hands. Your mouth twitches.

“So, anything you want to do first?” Phainon asks, looking completely oblivious to all the appreciative looks that he’s getting. And as if on cue, your stomach rumbles and Phainon laughs.

“Got it. Food first.” Before you can protest, he takes your wrist and pulls you down the bustling street. He takes a few turns — left, left, right and then right again, until the two of you emerge in what appears to be a little square of some sort, filled with food vendors. The market sprawls outwards like a living organism, steam rising from the dumpling baskets, grills sizzling as vendors call out deals in singsong voices. People wander among them, holding skewers or little disposable cups as they peruse the stalls.

“Anything catch your fancy?” Phainon leans in to ask over the chatter, his breath warm on your cheek. You glance around, letting your eyes drift until you suddenly catch sight of a sign, swinging above a particularly busy stall.

KAJU BALLS! TRY OUR SPECIALTY TODAY!

You elbow Phainon sharply. “Please tell me that’s a typo.”

Phainon’s eyes follow the direction of your gaze before he squints, and then his face cycles through a mixture of horror, disbelief and reluctant curiosity. “How about we don’t find out?” he suggests, the hand on your shoulder tentatively steering you towards a fried rice stall. “I’m like, ninety eight percent sure it isn’t actually kaiju meat. But I still don’t like the odds.”

You snort. “And here you are betting your chances in a Jaeger on an eighty six, so it can’t be all that bad. I thought they might be selling kaiju testicles, actually.” You drag him forward by his jacket sleeve, and he stumbles after you. The crowd presses close, bodies jostling as you weave through. “They’re considered aphrodisiacs in other cuisines. Don’t smack it till you’ve tried it.”

Phainon makes a sound like a dying engine behind you. “What horrors have you seen during all those years we spent apart?”

“The dark side had questionable street meat. But I was starving and beggars can’t be choosers,” you shrug, and flag down the vendor. He’s a burly man in a disposable plastic apron, the tattoo of a Jaeger — is that Georios? — on his bicep. “One stick with extra sauce, please.”

Behind you, Phainon mutters something about hazard pay but slides a note over the counter regardless. The ‘kaju balls’ arrive a few minutes later, piping hot and golden-brown and glistening, drizzled with a radioactive green sauce. You press the skewer into Phainon’s hand with a flourish.

His nose wrinkles as he eyes it suspiciously. “Thought you believed in ‘don’t knock it till you try it’?”

“I have tried something like this before,” you tell him sweetly, before pushing the food toward his face. “And that’s exactly why I’m knocking it. Now eat up, hero, while it’s still hot.”

With the resignation of a man walking the plank, Phainon lowers his head and takes a tentative bite. You watch his expression carefully. After a few bites, it morphs from dread to surprise and then to relief. “It’s just really good takoyaki.” He holds out the skewer to your lips, the remaining balls glistening innocently. “Your turn.”

The first bite is good. Crispy outside, still warm inside, the savory sweet octopus flavour bursting across your tongue. Then the wasabi hits like a Cat V to your sinuses, and your eyes water instantly, a cough escaping you as ice cold fire rockets up your nasal passages.

Phainon’s laughter rings out across the market as you desperately try not to sneeze. “That’s for being a bully,” he grins, already flagging down a drinks vendor. You swat at his shoulder and he presses an ice cold lemonade into your hands. “Here, drink up.”

And just like in the Shatterdome, the people here seem to recognise him, too. An old lady running a fruit stall presses two peeled tangerines into his hands for free, because how could I let someone who’s saved all our lives pay for something as cheap as fruit? Phainon stops and chats with a bearded backpacking tourist about kaiju, pretends to chase after a couple of kids with his hands out in claws and teeth bared in a fake growl as their parents laugh in delight. You stand at the side and wonder what it must feel like to be so loved.

But then you remember what he’d said, back then in the combat room. I have no choice but to live up to it. You wonder if he ever feels weary, being under the constant scrutiny of it all. Having to bear everyone’s hopes and dreams like this.

The afternoon melts away in a haze of finger foods and greasy fingers. Phainon insists on buying you seafood pancakes from a stall that smells of chili oil and nostalgia — “almost as good as the ones we used to make,” he teases, and you remind him how he’d almost given you sodium poisoning with the amount of salt he’d put into some of them. 

The arcade’s blinking lights find you next, where you spend all of your loose change and then some more attempting to win a plush of the kaiju Cerces. He laughs when you fail to free it from its plastic prison after what must be a hundred attempts, and then proceeds to fail himself. “This game is rigged,” Phainon grumbles, shaking the joystick as he leaves. “Fighting actual kaijus is easier.”

As the sun dips towards the horizon, the two of you follow its path. You end up at the beach, the city noise fading to distant static behind you, replaced by the hush of rolling waves. It’s more deserted than you’d expect, especially with how beautiful the view is, the sun painting the waves in strokes of molten gold. Phainon steps onto the sand first, kicking off his shoes so that his bare feet can sink into the sand.

“Come on,” he gestures with a hand, grinning up at where you’re standing on the boardwalk. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little sand, now.”

You roll your eyes but tug off your own shoes before joining him. The fine grains slip between your toes, sand still holding the day’s warmth. For a moment, you simply stand there, watching the sun sink towards the waves, a gigantic ball of orange fire turning the sky red.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” When you glance at Phainon, he’s staring out at the waves. The golden light slants over him, softening his edges. It makes him look younger, more like the boy you once knew.

You barely have a second to appreciate this moment, however, because Phainon suddenly snatches your shoes without warning — huh? — and proceeds to take off down the shoreline like his life depends on it.

“What the—”  He turns around mid job, with an expression on his face that can only be described as gleeful, before he sticks his tongue out as he waves your hostage shoes about. You gape at this overgrown manchild, before you launch yourself after him. “Phainon, get back here, you little bastard—”

The chase is ridiculous and delightfully absurd. The PPDC’s best pilot splashing through the shallows with your shoes held aloft like trophies as you run after him, his laughter trailer behind him like the ribbons of the kites you used to fly together. It’s clear he isn’t taking this too seriously either, pausing a few times to let you catch up and holding the shoes high over his head — which with his height advantage, is a seriously unfair move. 

His comeuppance, however, arrives with poetic timing. Just as he turns around to gloat, a retreating wave undermines his footing, and he goes under with a spectacular splash just as the incoming wave crashes over him. You arrive in time just to see him sit up, white hair plastered to his forehead and a disgruntled sand crab clinging to his jacket.

You try not to laugh and fail at once. “Gods, what are you doing?” You shake your head, leaning down to offer him a hand. “Looks like the ocean has some sense of justice, at least.”

Phainon blinks up at you, water droplets clinging to his pale lashes like liquid diamonds in the sunset light. His fingers close around yours, warm despite the cool water, and you’re about to pull him up when his grin suddenly turns wicked.

The world tilts on its axis, and then you’re hitting the water with a shout of surprise. The cold shock of the ocean steals your breath even as Phainon’s laughter — bright and unguarded — wraps around you, warmer than the fading sunlight.  You're still sputtering salty curses when he points to the crab now making a break for freedom across your shoulder.

Dripping and exhausted, you collapse onto the dry sand as the sky bleeds orange and pink. Phainon stretches out beside you, close enough that his damp sleeve brushes your arm.

“Cyrene loved coming to this spot, when we were still trainees,” he says softly, all of a sudden. The fading light softens his eyes, as he stares up at the sky with a wistful look on his face. “Said the tide pools were the closest to those back home.” His fingers trace idle patterns in the sand. “I think she’d be glad to know that you’re here.”

There’s a… fondness, in his voice, whenever he speaks about her, worn smooth by time and grief. For a second, you’re almost envious at how much closer they must have grown without you. Three children in the world had become two, and then two had become… this. Phainon keeping her memory alive in the spaces between words. Of course they would have had to rely on each other.

The silence between the two of you stretches like the fading light across the water. You pull your knees up to your chest, and silently remember all the things you’d said to Phainon in Aglaea’s office. Hesitantly, you speak up. “I’m sorry. About what I said about Cyrene.”

Phainon glances at you for a moment, as though he’s carefully weighing your words, before he turns to look at the sky once more. “Is alright,” he says at last, turning back to the darkening sky. “She wouldn’t have gotten upset at you.”

You make a quiet noise, a humourless laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything. Cyrene never got upset, not even after you lost those divination cards her parents got her for the New Year’s.” You shake your head, remember scouring the beach for those pink plastic cards. “Did that change, after the…” You let your words trail off, but Phainon seems to catch your drift.

“No,” he laughs quietly. “She was always the same. Perhaps a little… sadder, quieter. But only in the drift.” His fingers bury themselves in the sand. “Everyone at the base loved her. She would always say—”

“Pretty girls can do anything?” You finish for him, and can’t help the smile when he nods. “Heard she developed the Jaeger AIs, too. A pity, really…”

“An idealist to the very end,” Phainon agrees. He’s still looking up at the sky. “She missed you.” And somehow you hear the so did I, that goes unsaid.

“Well, I’m here now,” you murmur, glancing over at the waves. “If that makes any difference.”

Phainon smiles. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It does.”

The beach empties slowly as darkness begins to settle the shoreline, and before you know it, it’s time for the two of you to leave as well. You’re brushing sand from your now dry clothes when Phainon nudges your shoulder, lifting one boot to show you the sandy mess inside. 

“Gonna go rinse these off,” he says, nodding toward the public restrooms near the boardwalk. “Be right back.” He takes a few steps back, before calling over his shoulder. “Don’t go wandering off, okay?”

You watch him go, silhouette disappearing inside the building. The evening air carries with it the last warmth of the day, sea salt mingling with the sounds of water lapping at the shore. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful.

And that’s when you feel it — the prickle of eyes on your back. Your hand stills, right above a patch of sand on your shirt. The sensation is unmistakable, you know it, an instinct honed from years in back alleys and shady warehouses. Someone is watching you, and you need to find out who.

Casually, you bend down to tie your shoe, using the movement to scan the area around you. Families packing up towels. Lovers strolling through the town, holding hands. Nothing out of place. And then—

Movement. A dark shadow detaches itself from a narrow alley between two shuttered shops. Just a flicker, one moment there and gone the other, but you’ve picked up on their body language. The too still posture, the deliberate positioning just beyond reach of the flickering streetlight right before they disappear into the alley’s mouth.

An invitation. Or a trap.

You glance back at the restrooms. Phainon is still inside. You have maybe three minutes — four, if you’re generous — before he comes looking.

You’ll have to handle this quickly.

The sand crunches under the soles of your shoes as you turn toward the alley, fingers brushing the folded steel against your spine. The cheerful sounds of the beach fade behind you, replaced by the drip of a broken pipe and the skitter of rats in the growing dark.

The moment you step into the alley’s mouth, the world narrows to two brick walls and a creeping sense of dread crawling up your spine. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the gloom, but once they do, you recognise them almost at once.

“Took you long enough,” the hulking and sour faced one — Rhys, if you remember correctly — steps forward. “We expected you to notice us sooner, to be honest.”

“But I guess you went soft playing house with the PPDC’s golden boy, huh?” The other one, Vesper, raises an eyebrow over shadowed eyes. The jewels on her teeth glint when she grins. “The boss won’t be too happy when he hears about this about his favourite pet, will he?”

You force down your frustration. It would have been easier, if they had just been pickpockets or even straight up lunatics out for your life. But these guys? They might not be the brightest bulb or be particularly good at fighting, but they know you, they hate you, and they work under Lygus, and that’s what makes them so dangerous. It’s enough to make fear crawl over your flesh, cold like the fingers of a dead man. 

“You’re my best, dear,” he’d told you once, pouring you a double shot of obscenely expensive whiskey while the others had seethed in the corner.You hadn’t even been legal drinking age. “Only one with any brains in this whole damn operation.”

They called it favouritism. Well, Lygus’ favour had kept you alive, that’s for sure. But it had also painted a giant fucking target on your back.

Vesper’s grin widens when she sees the tension in your jaw. “Notice you? Please. Just didn’t you donkeys messing up my job,” you lie smoothly, rolling your shoulders back to hide the nerves. “Since that’s all you guys are ever good for, isn’t it? Do I have to remind you about that botched exchange in Styxia? Embarrassing, honestly. The circle was talking about it for weeks.”

Rhys lunges forward, his meaty face flushing an ugly red, but Vesper pulls him back. Damn. A step closer and you could have cut his throat open and left him to bleed dry on the ground. “A job, huh?” Her green eyes glitter with malice. “Mind telling us what kind of job involves cozying up to the damn fucking military? Everyone knows the boss would never touch them with a fifty foot pole.”

You sigh loudly, dramatically. “The kind that pays a shit load of money, that’s what.” You take a step forward, hand slipping beneath the back of your shirt. Your thumb rubs over the folded blade there, its unlocking mechanism. “So… why would I tell you anything? I’m a greedy bastard, after all — this whole damn cake is mine, and I’ve no intention of sharing.”

Vesper barks out a laugh, crossing her arms in a move that leaves her entire front unprotected. Stupid, really… This is why Lygus had always called them a circus of cheap fools. “You know what?” she hums, sounding far too smug for your liking. “This smells like bullshit. What, are you trying to cut ties now? Go legit? Clean up your act after all that you’ve done?” She bares her teeth in a grin. “And I have a feeling that that PPDC saviour boy doesn’t even have the slightest inkling of some of the things you���ve done.” When your eyes narrow, she just laughs, the sound high and mocking. “Why, I mean some of the things you’ve done horrify even us! That’s why the boss likes you so much, isn’t it?”

Your mouth pulls into a thin line. “He likes me because I’m competent and you lot can’t tell your left sock from your right,” you reply sharply, but your eyes are already at her neck. One clean slash through the carotid artery, and then a quick pivot to catch Rhys off guard. It shouldn’t be too difficult. The troublesome part is, as always, cleaning up the mess.

But before you can do anything, when a familiar voice suddenly echoes down the alley. “Hey,” Phainon calls from the entrance, voice deliberately casual. “You good?”

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Rhys hisses, “this isn’t over” with a final glare before the two of them melt into the shadows. You stare after them, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Shit.

“Hey,” Phainon calls, closer now. His boots scuff against the wet asphalt as he approaches you at a light jog, looking slightly out of breath. “Thought I told you not to go wandering off.” He tries to smile, but there’s a worry in his eyes as he glances over you, hand hovering at your elbow, not quite touching. “Everything okay?”

The concern in his voice makes your stomach twist. Not yet.

You force a laugh, pulling the back of your shirt back over your concealed knife. “Just some locals getting the wrong idea,” the lie slips out smoother than it should. “They thought I was looking for company.”

Phainon’s eyes narrow slightly. And you’re not sure whether he believes your words. He scans the empty alley, then your face, his gaze lingering on the tension in your jaw. You find yourself unable to meet his gaze. “They hurt you?”

“Just assaulted my nose with bad knock-off Dior Sauvage.” You wave him off, stepping back into the street. The sudden brightness is almost dizzying. Not yet. “Not my type.”

“Hm.” Phainon doesn’t press, but his silence speaks volumes as you walk back toward the beach. And as you walk, you find yourself struggling. You should tell him. You know this. It’s the right thing to do, to come clean and face his disappointment when he finds out about the things you’ve done, like the person he seems to believe you are. But you’re a coward, and so you remain silent and let this delusion continue running its doomed course. 

(Just a bit longer. Let me have just a bit longer.)

And so, the two of you return to the Shatterdome in silence. But the weight of Vesper’s words linger like a noose around your neck, a ticking time bomb pulsing in the cavity in your chest.

Because Lygus always finds out everything, eventually.

Your phone buzzes on your mattress like a live wire. 

You stare at it for a moment, screen glowing ominously in the dark of your room. Slowly, you pick it up. Unknown number, it says, but the tone — polite, almost affectionate in a twisted, paternal way — is more than familiar to you. Cold terror curls its fingers around your throat. You can almost feel him standing behind you, smiling over your shoulder.

For one cowardly moment, you consider smashing the device against the wall. But Lygus will find another way. He always has.

Unknown Number: Hope you’re enjoying your little military vacation, my dear. How’s the sea view?

Unknown Number: I must say, I’m a little disappointed by your lack of communication. But I suppose the excitement of something new must have distracted you. Don’t worry, I understand.

Unknown Number: Since you might be occupied, I thought I should update you about the progress we’ve made together!

Unknown Number: You remember the kaiju secondary brain we procured from Cerces? Imagine this: a bio-weapon not just for destruction, but for chaos. The scientists down at the Maw have found a way to connect it to an intelligent weapons system. They’re thinking of calling it IRONTOMB.

Unknown Number: Think about it: an alien brain, wired to destroy humanity, equipped with some of the best weapons money can buy. Not as quite as good as having a kaiju on a leash of course, but we take what we can get. And that’s all thanks to you, dear.

Unknown Number: Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Lygus, darling, that sounds terribly illegal and diabolical.’ And you’re right! We always work so well as a team.

Unknown Number: Which is why I’d hate for you to have to be cut loose. Can’t have you getting too chummy with your military pals, now.

Unknown Number: So here’s my offer, sweetheart. Come home by the end of this week, and we’ll keep our dirty laundry between us. I'll even send someone to fetch you. Refuse, and well… let’s just say that not even that Marshal herself will be able to keep you out of an electric chair. In fact, she might be the one to flip the switch herself.

Unknown Number: With love, as always

Unknown Number: Lygus

Attached is a schematic that you tap on with shaking fingers. It glows on your screen like a living wound — pulsing veins of circuitry feeding into the grotesque, floating mass of the kaiju secondary brain you’d pulled from the wreckage. At that point, it’d been your greatest work — the largest intact preserved piece of kaiju brain ever — and sold for close to half a billion dollars. Now, it’s IRONTOMB. The name alone makes your throat constrict.

What was once gray matter is now covered in electrodes, suspended in a tank of amber fluid. Wires snake into its folds like parasitic worms. Your fingerprints are all over this nightmare.

The phone slips from your numb fingers as Lygus’ voice echoes in your skull. Bad child, he’d used to say. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You press them between your knees, but the tremors only travel up your spine. But your mind, strangely, is brutally clear. The show is finished, the game is over. You can’t stay here any longer. 

You lean over the bed, nausea suddenly building in your stomach. Distantly, you think you want to scream, but it lodges itself in the back of your throat, a hard, tight knot that just constricts tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

The door swings open. 

You don’t turn. Don’t breathe. You know who it is. You can’t—

“(Name)?” Phainon calls out, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. He comes to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Close but not quite touching. That’s good, because if he did, maybe he would feel the way your entire body is shaking. Is it shaking? “I just… got back from testing. They ran some numbers on me and a new recruit. Glykon, I think his name is.”

You know where this is going.

“They say it’s an acceptable number,” he continues, too carefully. “Fifty-four. We’re considered drift compatible. Aglaea wants us to start some tandem drills, keep our options open.” Phainon pauses, hesitates, licking his lips — a habit he only does when he’s nervous. His hands twist in front of him, before clenching into fists. “Look, I know the agreement you have with Aglaea. I know you don’t want to be here. But I just… I wanted to ask, if you would…”

For a second, the words don’t quite register. Then, like a slow-rolling detonation, the meaning hits.

Compatible. 

That should be your salvation. It is your salvation. A clean exit, a reason to back out. Lygus’ mouth stays shut, Phainon saves the world again, and everybody is happy. 

Instead, something wild and frantic cracks open in your chest.  You laugh — a sharp, humourless sound — because if you don’t, you think you might scream instead.

“That’s great.” The words taste like rust in your mouth. “Finally, someone else wants you. Guess I get to wash my hands of this kaiju mess at last.”

Phainon goes very still. You can feel his stare like a physical weight, but you don’t look up. Can’t look up. If you meet his eyes, he’ll see it — the tremor in your hands, the terror stalking behind your ribs. That pale, sinister smile reflected in your mind’s eye.

“I thought…” He begins, voice quieter now, something soft and vulnerable. You cut him off before he can finish.

“What? That we were finally getting chummy?” You force a laugh, jagged at the edges. You think it might leave bloody gashes along your throat. “I mean, yeah, I guess we don’t hate each other anymore. Congrats.” You clap. “But I’m still not strapping myself into a death trap for you, seriously.”

You can’t stand it — the weight of his stare, the unspoken words clotting the air between you. So you risk a glance up, just for a second, and regret it instantly.

Phainon’s face is raw, unguarded. And his eyes—

They’re wet. Not with anger. Not even frustration. Just hurt, bright and bleeding, like you’ve shoved a knife between his ribs and twisted the blade. His lips part — just slightly — as if he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a quiet, pained noise that goes straight to your heart.

Before you can speak (to take it back, to comfort him somehow, to lie better), he’s already on his feet. The mattress shifts under his weight, the springs groaning softly, like even the bed is protesting his departure. He turns on his heel, strides toward the door. 

You expect a slam. A crash. Something violent, something final. But the door just shuts quietly behind him.

Somehow, that feels worse.

You don’t follow after him. Instead, you collapse forward, elbows on your knees, fingers knotting in your hair. A choked sound claws its way out of your throat — half sob, half scream — and then the tears come, hot and relentless, slipping between your fingers like traitors. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

You don’t know if it’s the remnants of the Drift still humming under your skin, or if you just know him after all these years, but the certainty settles in your chest like a stone:

Somewhere, in the dark of the Shatterdome, Phainon is crying too.

[bakughoust]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 13k

synopsis: pacrim!au. wahhhh writing this almost made me tear. i can't believe i've become the shaoji of this universe. also how are the snippets getting more attention than the actual fic LMAO

chapters: one | two | three | four | five

II. FRICTION

For the second morning in a row, you hear Tribbie’s rapid fire knocking on your door. You glance at the clock and groan. It’s seven in the morning again. Does the military run on some deranged circadian rhythm designed by sadomasochists or what?

It doesn’t help that you’d spent the night tossing and turning. The cot wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the real culprit had been the memory replaying behind your eyelids every time you closed them: Phainon’s expression in that corridor outside Aglaea’s office, the flash of quiet vulnerability you’d seen in his eyes.

It matters to me, he’d said. Those words had haunted you more than any nightmare ever could.

The knocking intensifies, “Coming, coming,” you grumble, shrugging on your jacket.

Tribbie beams up at you when the door opens, looking energetic enough to singlehandedly power a Jaeger’s core. “Morning! You sleep okay? The beds here are kinda terrible, right?” She doesn’t wait for a response before thrusting a steaming mug into your hands. Ouch. Hot. “Coffee! Thought it might help wake you up.”

You stare down blearily into its contents. It smells like a three-in-one mix: engine oil, battery acid and maybe a death wish. Tribbie smiles proudly up at you. “I even added sugar! Figured you might need it after what happened yesterday…” She rocks on her heels, grips the straps of her overalls. “So, are you ready for another fun filled day of—”

You slam the mug back like it's a shot of whiskey and sigh. “Lead the way.”

Jaeger: Jaegers ([ˈjɛːɡɐ], Jäger, Hunter) are a special type of mobile weapon created by the Jaeger Program. The Jaegers were the most effective first and last line of defense against the kaiju during the Kaiju War.

Tribbie leads you through the maze of interconnected corridors in the Shatterdome, walking backwards without tripping as she does. You’ll never get used to the size, you think, the sheer scale of it all. It’d take you a map and a compass not to get lost in this place. Back in Marmoreal, you knew every back alley and escape route like the back of your hand. Here, there’s nowhere to hide, just endless corridors branching into more corridors. People here and there and everywhere, and their eyes…

Tribbie slows down to walk properly beside you, her tiny hand gripping yours. “You okay?” she asks, too perceptive for her age. “You’re all…” She slouches her shoulders and screws her face into an exaggerated scowl that would be comical if it weren’t so accurate.

That gets a suppressed snort out of you. “Just not used to…” you gesture at a passing security team, “...having so many people around.”

Tribbie blinks at you, blue eyes big and innocent. “Why?” she asks curiously, as though it’s normal to live surrounded by thousands of soldiers and the most advanced war machines ever built in a giant military facility. “Did you live alone before coming to the Shatterdome?”

You never stayed in one place for long. Work — wow, that’s what you’re calling it now? — had always forced you to stay on the move. You could be sleeping in the bed of a five star luxury hotel provided by a client one night and be bleeding out in some dark, dirty alleyway the next. But one thing had always stayed constant — the kind of silence that comes with being alone. 

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Were you lonely?”

Perhaps it’s because the question takes you by surprise. Or the way that she asks — no pity, just simple curiosity. Or maybe it’s the warmth of her small hand in yours that reminds you of times long past, running along the beach with the salty sea breeze in your hair, pulling along a boy with the brightest blue eyes after a pink haired girl to chase the planes flying overhead…

“... maybe,” you mutter, immediately regretting the vulnerability. Since when do you trauma-dump on children? “I mean, not really. I liked the peace. And quiet.”

But Tribbie just squeezes your fingers tighter. “Good thing you’re here now, then,” she declares, as if that settles everything, and pulls you along.

The first place she shows you to is the mess hall, which is, according to her, the most important place in the Shatterdome. No organisation can run on an empty stomach, and hangry soldiers are scary. The next stop on your tour are the K-Science labs, which you make an effort to avoid. You’ve already formed more than enough traumatic memories in there, thank you very much.

After that, Tribbie brings you to the hangar. It requires another biometric scan of her palm to authorise, which almost fails because the scanner is too high up for her to reach, but then the gates open, hydraulics hissing, so massive that they’re barely open a crack and you could still fit a bus through sideways with ease.

“The Jaegers are all stationed inside,” Tribbie explains as the two of you walk through. “Roof’s fully mechanized, it can retract fully within three minutes for the jumphawks to lift the Jaegers out. The other gate,” she gestures at the giant gate on the other side of the hangar, just as massive as the one you’d walked through, “leads to launch bays overlooking the ocean. Saves twelve minutes on deployment when the alarms go off.”

For the tenth, no, hundredth time since coming here, you decide to bury the question of is a kid supposed to know all of these things and glance around the hangar instead, neck craning backwards to take it all in.

It’s by far the busiest place you’ve seen in the Shatterdome. Metallic clangs and the whirring of electrical tools echo throughout the vast space. People — engineers, technicians, operators — rush around the hangar with a sort of calm, laser focused urgency, looking like they’ve had three tasks due since yesterday.

But all that still pales in comparison to the Jaegers.

Towering monuments to human ingenuity and desperation, the Jaegers dwarf everything in the hangar like mechanical gods. Catwalks swing high above your head, small teams perched on gondolas like birds as they work on the monstrous hunks of metal. It's hard to believe these things can move, let alone fight. But you've seen the videos. You know what they're capable of.

Someone had once looked at the kaiju, after several nuclear resolutions had proved unsustainable, and said, “we’ll build our own monsters.” And against all odds, it had worked.

You’re still staring when a sudden alarm blares — short, sharp bursts of sound. You freeze when everyone around you does, heart thumping in your chest. Half a second passes before a tired voice crackles over the PA.

“False alarm, people. Just Professor Anaxa testing the Mark-4’s systems again.”

Groans echo through the hangar as work resumes. Tribbie just laughs. “Happens like twice a week, nowadays. It’s a good sign, though — means Naxy’s almost finished.” A new Mark-4? “He’s been driving Aggy crazy about the budget for the past year.” She takes your hand, pulls you along. “Come on, I wanna show you—”

“Hey, Tribbie! Oh, who’s this?”

The sudden voice makes you turn. Two people are standing to the side. They look young, maybe in their mid-twenties, if you’d had to guess. Identical silver-gray hair, the same golden eyes. Even their clothes are matching, even if their body language couldn’t be more different. The woman stands with one hip cocked, arms crossed, while the man fiddles lazily with a tool crate, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else napping.

Tribbie brightens when she sees them. “Aggy’s trying to recruit her,” the young girl chirps. She turns to you. “This is Stelle,” the young woman grins, gives you a mock salute, “and this is Caelus.” The man lifts two fingers in a half-hearted wave. “They’re the twins who pilot Trailblazer.”

“Intergalactic Baseballer,” Stelle corrects automatically. She glances over at her brother, quirks an eyebrow. “Because someone thought it’d be funny to program our Conn-Pod with baseball commentary during our first drop.”

Caelus shrugs, evidently unrepentant. “Worth the disciplinary hearing.”

You look at the two of them. There’s something about their accent that’s distinctively non-native, even though their standard Amphorean is near perfect. Stelle catches your look and laughs. “We transferred here from the Herta Science Station a couple of years back. The Okheman Shatterdome was short on Jaegers ever since… you know.”

Since Kephale fell. That loss had marked the beginning of the end — Janus had fallen in less than six months after that, together with the city it’d been named after. Two months later, Georios had self-destructed its core to bring down Terravox, a kaiju rampaging through Aidonia. Three Jaegers lost in less than a year.

Caelus clears his throat, deliberately lightening his tone. “It’s nice here,” he shrugs. “Better funding there, but way more paperwork. The food’s worse there, too.” He makes a face, sticks out his tongue. “I hope I never have to eat diet fried rice again.”

Rangers from the HSS… Recognition clicks in you. “Wait — you’re the Jarilo Rangers.” The words come out before you can stop them. “I watched your takedown of that Cat III near Belobog’s geomarrow plant—”

“Noooo.” Stelle’s face crumples in exaggerated despair. “Why does everyone remember us from the Cocolia incident?” She throws her arms up. “We slipped on ice! On live broadcast! Do you know how many memes it spawned?”

Tribbie just smiles. “You guys were #1 trending on the World Wound Web for weeks.” 

Caelus pats his sister solemnly on the shoulder. “But we looked damn good doing it, at least.” He points out one of the Jaegers — a sharp, brutal thing built for the singular purpose of beating the crap out of kaiju. Its armour, forged from reinforced carbon-plated alloys, shimmers with a gunmetal grey sheen. An empty space rests where the Conn-Pod should be, nestled between angular shoulder plates.

“That’s our baby. Mark-2 with an experimental Stellaron core… Mister Screwllum said that if anything went wrong, it would be like having the sun crash land on earth.” He thinks about this for a moment and then shrugs, scratching at his head. “It’s safe though. Been five years and nothing’s happened…”

“Yet,” Stelle adds, unhelpfully. Are all rangers just born without any sense of self-preservation or is it an occupational hazard? You glance down at Tribbie. Unlike you, she doesn’t look particularly fazed by the possibility of being eviscerated by the equivalent of a small sun imploding. 

Good god, you’re surrounded by lunatics.

“That one,” Tribbie points to a sleeker model with angular armour, “is Akivili. Also from the HSS. And the one over there…”

Your attention snags on the massive form behind them. “Nikador,” you breathe.

The last remaining Jaeger from the Titan line looms like a slumbering god of war, casting a shadow over the hangar. Its armour, once pure white and gold, has dulled to the colour of old bones. There are long scratches in the plates across its chest, where kaiju claws failed to penetrate.

Even powered down and completely still, its presence is overwhelming. After Kephale, it’s responsible for the most kaiju takedowns in Amphorean waters.

“Old Nikky.” Stelle looks at it. “Last of Professor Anaxa’s original five still standing. We call it the Undying.” She snorts to herself. “Just as stubborn as its pilots.”

“The Titans,” you murmur, running through the list of names in your head. “Phagousa, Janus, Georios, Nikador and…”

Caelus must guess what’s on your mind, because he shakes his head. “Kephale’s in pieces down in Bay 9. Anaxa’s cannibalising him for parts — building that top-secret Mark-4 prototype of his.” He shakes his head. “Still a shame, though. He was a real fighter.”

Kephale. The Jaeger that Phainon and Cyrene had piloted. You remember watching the replays of the battle footage in internet cafes, hunched over instant noodles between jobs. Studied every frame — the way it moved, the distinct step forward of its right foot during combat manoeuvres, even the slight delay in firing its Plasmacaster. You could probably still recite its technical specs from memory.

Now it’s just another ghost in the Shatterdome’s graveyard. One of its pilots is gone, ashes scattered into the warm, sunlit waters of a familiar sea. And the other…

Stelle’s sudden clap jolts you from your thoughts. “So!” She grins, all mischief in the edges of her smile. “Since the General is trying to recruit you…” She jerks a thumb at Trailblazer’s — sorry, Intergalactic Baseballer’s — Conn-Pod, suspended high above its body by rigs. Right, since the Mark-2s are nuclear powered… “Want the full VIP tour? Nothing sells the Ranger life quite like seeing the inside of a real Jaeger.” Her eyes gleam gold. “Okay, I guess the fat paycheck helps too.”

You should say no. These are weapons of war, not toys — each one costs more than the GDPs of some small nations. You don’t even have any intention of becoming a ranger. But standing here in their shadow… you feel like a teen again, pressing your nose to the shop windows to stare at the Jaeger models on display. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

When Aglaea cuts you loose — and she will — this chance won’t come again.

“... just a quick look,” you find yourself saying, and Stelle’s triumphant whoop echoes through the hangar.

J-Tech: J-Tech (or Jaeger-Tech) is an occupation given to officers in charge of the maintenance of the Jaeger systems and robotics.

Tribbie leaves first, citing that the GM has something for her to do. You follow Stelle and Caelus into one of the many elevators in the hangar, wires screeching as it ascends.

The metal catwalk vibrates underfoot as you step into the Conn-Pod — the Jaeger’s head. It’s bigger than you expect — wow, that’s what she said — but that goes for everything associated with the Jaegers, so. The lights are dimmed, windows curved like a visor. Two rigs hang like dormant sentinels in the center, awaiting their pilots. Everything smells vaguely of something metallic and chemical coolant.

Caelus slaps a control panel with practiced familiarity. The speakers crackle to life: “This ball is long gone, just like the ex-girlfriend who will never return!”

You stare. “You built a Discord soundboard into your billion dollar Jaeger?” Stelle just laughs. Caelus pats the console affectionately. “Gotta keep things lively when you’re about to get your ass kicked by a kaiju.”

“For when we’re about to kick a kaiju’s ass, you mean.”

You leave behind their bantering to wander over to the massive forward visor. Below, technicians scurry like ants across the hangar’s ground floor. You glance back at the pilot’s rig behind you, and imagine—

— a pink haired woman, grinning as she leans over the center console to give you a fist bump.

A dark mass, emerging from the waves. Moving fast, too agile.

A sinking feeling of despair. Teeth, clamping through the top of the Conn-Pod.

Metal screeching, something in his mind shattering, and then—

Silence.

Something in your stomach lurches, and you grab onto the nearest thing to steady yourself. What the fuck was that? Imagination that vivid is only reserved for bedtime, and although you’d read the news articles, thought about it, had nightmares again and again about it, you’d never actually seen the way that Cyrene had—

Oh.

“You okay?” Caelus asks, noticing your white-knuckled grip on the railing. He’s peering at you, golden eyes concerned. 

“Yeah. Just…” You flex your fingers, pry them off and shove them in your pockets, “never been this high up before, actually.” There’s a dryness in your throat and you swallow hard, decide to turn your mind to other things. “Um, what’s drifting successfully actually like?”

The twins exchange one of those wordless glances that only siblings can pull off. They seem a little surprised by your sudden question, but try to humour you regardless.

“Honestly?” Stelle shrugs. “Wasn’t much to think about. It kinda just… happened.”

Caelus nods. “It’s like remembering how to ride a bike, except the bike is also remembering you back.” What does that even mean? He scrunches up his face, searching for the words, and then gives up. “Hard to describe, unless you’ve felt it yourself.”

You think back to yesterday’s failed attempt, how violently you’d forced out Phainon’s presence in your head. “I guess it’s not supposed to feel like someone’s groping around in your mind, huh?”

“It’s a two way street,” Stelle shrugs, tilting her head to look at you. Her eyes are suddenly more perceptive than you’d like. “Like they say, it’s a neural handshake. Can’t have a handshake when one hand’s closed. Or if the other is trying to go for a slap. Or if one’s giving you the middle finger. Or—”

“I’m sure she gets the idea,” Caelus laughs, and you glance away. “Well, even with a successful sync, it doesn’t mean drift compatibility’s always high. Like shaking someone’s hand and finding out they have sweaty palms.”

Ugh. You look at the two of them. “But you’re twins,” you reason aloud. “Guess it came naturally for you.”

“That probably helped,” Stelle admits. “But compatibility’s weird sometimes. Some married couples can’t drift to save their lives and then you get guys like Mydei and Cassie who synced a 70% on their first try.”

Anything above 50% is within the passing range. Most pilots score between 56% to 80%. You think back to the 26% you’d gotten with Phainon, try to extrapolate it the best you can. Maybe if you can just complete a successful sync without giving away too much…

But then there’s the other issue. “And after you drift,” you say slowly, “is it normal to see memories—”

Before you can finish asking your question, the Conn-Pod doors hiss open. A tall man with green — green? — hair storms inside, flanked by a team of J-Tech in greased-stained coveralls. His lab coat might have been white once, but now it’s just a map of coffee stains and scorch marks. One of his eyes is covered with a medical eyepatch.

“Stelle!” he barks, completely ignoring you and Caelus. “Why are you contaminating my equipment with your… your…” He waves a hand vaguely at her. “Vibes.”

Stelle rounds on him, scowling. “You’re the one harassing me in my Jaeger!”

His one visible eye twitches. “I formulated all the repairs for this thing. I was the one who re-calibrated every neural relay when you fried them kicking that EMP kaiju!”

Caelus sidles up next to you. “Professor Anaxagoras. He’s the head physicist and engineer in the Shatterdome. They’ve been like this ever since Stelle asked if his hair came standard issue with the military uniform,” he whispers, not quietly enough.

Anaxa’s head whips around. “I heard that!”

Before the argument can escalate, a mountain of a man steps between them. His coveralls are streaked with grease, hands scarred from decades of physical work. When he speaks, his voice is… quieter than you expect, a low rumble in the cavern of his chest. “No time for arguments,” he says, slow and patient, with the air of someone who's mediated this argument too many times. “Plasmacutter upgrades necessary.”

Stelle brightens. “(Name), meet Chartonus — the person who actually keeps this circus running.” His eyes, intense and deliberate, settle on you. You shift, mildly uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you.” he says, slowly. He speaks with an accent distinctively not Amphorean. Or at least, not the standard Amphorean you’re used to. 

Stelle elbows the technician lightly. “So? What fancy new ways to murder kaiju do you have for me this time?”

“Let me explain my own designs, thank you very much,” Professor Anaxagoras — Anaxa? — pulls out a tablet from the pockets — how’d that even fit in there? — of his lab coat, projects a rotating schematic. The blade’s design glows blue. “Managed to stabilise the system, prevent a complete meltdown while the plasma blades heat to 30,000 Kelvin. Should slice through even a Cat IV’s hide like butter.”

“Holy hell,” Caelus whistles, looking impressed. He leans in to take a closer look. “Overkill, much?”

Chartonus shakes his head. “Not overkill. Necessary.” He glances at Professor — Anaxagoras? Anaxa? — and his shoulders slump slightly. “Reports from Analytics division. Kaijus learning.” He meets Stelle’s frown with a serious look of his own. Suddenly, you feel like you’re hearing things that you shouldn’t be privy to — words that carry the weight of the world.

Professor Anaxagoras nods, eye narrowing. All traces of humour are gone when he speaks. “There are similar reports coming in from the other Shatterdomes. The EMP six months back? Not an anomaly anymore. Now, it’s a pattern. They’re evolving fast, and we need to be faster.”

“What the fuck?” Stelle exhales sharply, looking frustrated. “How are they doing this so quickly? It tooks millions of years to get from monkeys to here and they’re doing it in months?”

Chartonus just shrugs, a wearisome movement that feels like a sigh. “Hyacinthia’s job, to think. My job,” he glances at the Jaeger, “to build.”

He nods at the massive clock visible through the front visor — the War Clock, Tribbie had told you, reset after every kaiju attack. A tally of borrowed time.

[001:17:42:11]

A month and seventeen days since the last breach. Even as you watch, the seconds climb upward with relentless precision. When Chartonus speaks, his words land heavy.

“When comes… must be ready.”

The maintenance ledge juts out over the ocean like a dare, its rusty railing the only thing between you and a roughly fifty-meter drop into the churning waves below. You dangle your legs over the edge anyway, heels kicking absently against the Shatterdome’s concrete underbelly. 

The Okhema Shatterdome had used to be a wave generation facility, before it’d been bought out by the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and the IPC. From here, all you see is ocean, waters slate grey instead of the sparkling blue waves you’re used to, but it’s better than staying inside. The lack of windows has started to unnerve you just a little, the constant hum of machinery a poor substitute for the crying of seabirds.

You look out. Somewhere beyond the horizon lies Aedes Elysiae. Or what’s left of it, at least.

You’re not the sentimental type. Haven’t let yourself be, ever since you’d decided to leave everything behind. But here, listening to the waves, you can still vaguely picture your hometown when you close your eyes: the salt-warped boardwalk where Phainon had dueled crabs with sticks from the beach, the tide pools where Cyrene had collected her perfectly spiral shells. And you’d been… whatever you’d done didn’t matter, because a kaiju had appeared. 

All you remember doing is staring, eyes wide as the monster rose from the water, kept rising and rising and oh, that’d just been its head. The way its shadow had blotted out the sun. 

The news reports hadn’t even named your town in the headlines. Lethe’s two million souls mattered more than Aedes Elysiae’s few hundreds. But the kaiju that day had taken away everything you’d ever known.

Voices echo from behind you. Bright and eager, cutting through the sounds of the ocean. With energy this excitable, they can only be recruits. 

You sigh, glance behind you. Leaving now would mean crossing the open stretch of the ledge, and there’s no way they wouldn’t see you. Not that you’re not allowed to be here — you didn’t even have to pick any doors on the way, or swipe any keycards. But you’re just not quite in the mood to be perceived right now. When are you ever, actually? You press your back against the cold metal, willing yourself to stay still. Maybe if you don’t move, they’ll pass by in just a bit.

But then, you hear a familiar voice — Phainon’s. Gods, what are the odds? The Shatterdome is massive and somehow you still manage to end up in a place with the Deliverer in it. 

You risk a glance around the edge. Watching them as they crowd around him, faces lit up with something dangerously close to worship. One of them — wiry and still barely just a kid with a fresh Jaeger Academy tattoo on his forearm — leans in, voice almost trembling as he speaks.

“I— I joined the Jaeger program because of you, Sir. After that takedown in Kremnos, I—”

Phainon waves a hand, that practiced, self-deprecating laugh of his rolling out as smoothly as a broadcast soundbite. “Ah, come on, that was a team effort. Georios was the real MVP there.” He sounds disgustingly sincere, and what makes it even more annoying is that you know that it is. 

Another recruit, a woman with hair curling just beneath her ears, pushes her way forward. “I heard that you haven’t found a new co-pilot,” she says determinedly. “I know that I’m not good enough yet to match up to Dr Cyrene, but I’ll try my best.”

You squint, annoyed. Yeah, yeah, good luck lasting more than a minute in there with him.

Phainon just smiles. “It’s not about being good enough. I’m sure that you already carry a hero in your heart. And my scores, well, I guess it’s just not time for me to be back out in the Jaeger just yet.” You catch the weariness in his tone, barely noticeable. But there.

The kid from earlier doesn’t seem to hear it, because he just scoffs. “Bullshit. That just means no one is good enough for you.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a snort. “What, is drifting some sort of matchmaking service now?” you mutter under your breath.

But of course, no one hears you. They’re too busy hanging onto Phainon’s every word, too caught up in the myth of him — the golden boy, the unmatched pilot, the man who should have been grounded after his co-pilot died but somehow kept getting pushed back into the spotlight because the PPDC needed a hero more than it needed honesty.

And Phainon — he plays the part perfectly. The sincere, genuine charm, the effortless confidence, the way he claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder like they’re old friends instead of strangers who’ve known him for five minutes. It’s easy to see why they’re basically eating out of his palm.

It's nothing like the quiet, tortured looks he gives you when your eyes meet. Like he’s looking at the ghost of something he’d rather forget but can’t quite leave behind. And that drift… you’d already known it before, but it’s something completely different to feel Phainon’s disappointment in you. It stings more than you care to admit.

Something twists in you. You tell yourself it’s annoyance.

This is a good thing. You want this. As soon as you’re finished with that NeuroSync, show Aglaea that the two of you are incompatible as people can be, you’ll leave and never cross paths with Phainon ever again.

The recruits finally leave, buzzing with adrenaline, their voices carrying on the salt-stiff wind as they chatter about training schedules and neural tests and did you see the way he looked at me?

And Phainon is left all alone.

You duck your head behind the pillar again. But that doesn’t do you any good, because a few seconds later you hear the sound of boots on the metal sheets, and then a soft ‘hey’ behind you that makes you nearly throw yourself off the ledge.

“Woah!” Phainon panics, fingers clamping around your upper arm with nearly enough force to bruise. The sudden contact sends a jolt through your body, palm warm through the fabric of your jacket. 

“Don’t… don’t sit there.” His voice is tight, strained in a way that makes you look up. Phainon’s face is slightly pale beneath the tan, blue eyes wide with something beyond concern. “The railing’s rusted through. What if you—” He cuts himself off sharply, like he can’t bear to finish the thought.

You roll your eyes, shrugging against his grip. “I’ve been in shootouts. With machine guns. Pretty sure I can handle a dodgy railing.”

But he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers tighten fractionally, and when you meet his gaze, what you see there makes your breath catch — not just worry, but something raw and desperate, like he’s seeing you balanced on some invisible edge only he can perceive. 

“Please?” Just one word, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a physical weight. There’s a history in that single syllable — years of similar pleas you’d ignored, walked away from. Why does he still even bother?

Something in your chest twists. Against your better judgment, you shift back from the edge. “Happy now? Guess I can’t die until we’ve completed that NeuroSync, huh…”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. The hand on your arm lingers a moment longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing the warmth.

Just the warmth, you tell yourself. Because it’s freezing out here.

“I’m surprised you saw me,” you grumble, picking at a flaking patch of paint on the railing. “Thought you were too busy playing hero for your fan club.”

Phainon turns to look at you fully, and the expression on his face is so painfully familiar it makes your teeth ache. That same searching look he gave you when he saw you behind bars for the first time, like he was trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the ghost he’d been chasing. 

“I spent six years searching for you after you disappeared,” he says softly, as if he’s remarking on the weather and not the half-decade he’d wasted combing through wreckage and dead ends for any sign of you. “It’s not a habit that disappeared overnight after you reappeared.”

Six years. You’d heard the rumors, of course — how the PPDC’s golden boy had turned down command postings, how he’d personally scoured every seabed in Amphoreus for what remained of your bones. Any confirmation of your death. You’d told yourself that it was out of obligation. Guilt. The kind of stubbornness that once made him chase you down the beach for stealing his last chimera cookie back when you were thirteen and he was twelve, boardwalk sandy under your bare feet and shrieking with laughter.

But hearing it now, in his own voice, with the sea wind between you — it lodges between your ribs like a shard of glass.

Before you can respond, he’s lowering himself onto the ledge next to you. The space between you is narrow enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar mix of engine oil layered over a hint of something warm and citrusy from some expensive cologne.

The silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic crash of waves against the Shatterdome’s foundational pillars. Out on the water, the setting sun fractures against the waves, scattering light across the sea like diamonds, glittering. 

“I come here a lot,” he says at last, voice oddly soft. “Reminds me of home.”

You almost laugh. The Shatterdome’s industrial landscape is a far cry from Aedes Elysiae’s beautiful beaches, warm sand between your toes and smooth pebbles you’d skipped across the waves. But there is no more Aedes Elysiae. Only this — rusted metal, cold concrete, the war he's so desperate to throw himself back into looming on the horizon.

For some reason, against your better judgment, you find yourself speaking. “Why do you want to get back in a Jaeger so bad?” you mutter. You remember the war clock, the way the numbers had ticked, steadily going up and up. Almost like a countdown, time marching towards an inevitable fate. “Are you that excited to die?”

Phainon hesitates for a moment. His fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knees. “All of us have a responsibility to save the world,” he says at last. The perfect response for the PPDC’s perfect hero. His eyes stay fixed on the horizon where the water meets the sky.

You shake your head, stare out at the waters. “Damn hero complex…”

He just sighs, like he’s given up on explaining himself. You wonder if that's something you'll ever understand, even if you drifted with him another ten, hundred or thousand times. That’s why you’ll never be drift compatible with this man.

But for now, the two of you stay there in silence, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy you grew up with and the man he became, watching the waves until the last of the sunlight fades from the sky.

At night, the bed creaks beneath you as you stare at the ceiling, thin mattress doing nothing to cushion the ache in your bones. Around you, the Shatterdome hums with purpose — muffled footsteps in the corridor outside, distant clang of maintenance crews working through the night. Every sound underscores the same note: you don’t belong here.

All the people you’d met today — Stelle, Caelus, Anaxa, Chartonus — they move through the world with a certain conviction. Like they wake up each morning believing that the things that they do matter. That if they just fight hard enough, they can claw back some light from the darkness that encroaches. 

And Phainon belongs among them. He’d burn himself to cinders if it meant saving the world and think nothing of it. Maybe even do it with a smile. Self-sacrificing git…

You press your face into the pillow, pull the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, they’ll attempt to convince you that you’re someone capable of drifting with a hero. And tomorrow, the results will come back and they’ll tell you what you already know — that you’re not enough.

But tonight? Tonight you’re just a thief in a hero’s bed, counting down the hours until the world reminds you of your place.

Kaiju: The Kaiju (怪獣 kaijū?, Strange Beast) are a race of amphibious creatures from the Anteverse. In 2011, a portal known as the Breach opened between dimensions at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, allowing the Kaiju to enter Earth. As biological weapons of warfare, Kaiju are extremely hostile and toxic creatures designed with the intention to wipe out all humankind.

The K-Science biolab smells like antiseptic and formaldehyde and something sharper underneath — the sharp sting of kaiju blue that always seems to linger no matter how many times Hyacine sterilises the place. Phainon waits by the examination table, fingers drumming nonsensical rhythms against his thigh as he watches her work.

Hyacine doesn’t look up from her microscope. “Give me a second,” she says, adjusting the focus. The mechanical gears in the knob make tiny click-click noises. “Just need to finish up this sample analysis…”

“Still working on Terravox?”

“Mm. Secondary brain tissue, might give us some insight as to how their tails work independently of the main brain. The General thinks she’s seeing a rising number of kaiju with decentralised neural networks.” She finally sighs, straightens up to peel her gloves off and gives him a wan smile. “But you’re not here for my research. Come on, let’s get your psych eval done.”

She motions him towards the chair by her cluttered desk, the same one she’s been using since he’d started these monthly psych evaluations three years ago. Phainon sits, trying not to fidget as she scrolls through his records.

“Sleep still bad?” she asks. Phainon shrugs.

“Could be worse.”

Hyacine gives him a scolding look. “That’s not an answer.” She taps the screen where his prescription history is listed out. “Your meds have been refilled three times this month. That’s more than your baseline.”

He shrugs again. The floor sticks to the soles of his boots. Yikes. “There’s been a lot on my mind.”

“Uh-huh.” Hyacine sets her mouse aside to cross her arms at him. It's always disconcerting to see the usually cheerful biologist slip into full doctor mode—her posture straightens, her voice drops half an octave. Always about the patient’s well-being, though… “How many nights this week did you sleep without the pills?”

Phainon hesitates just a beat too long. It's enough of an answer for Hyacine.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighs, rubs at her temples like she’s fighting off an impending headache. “Look, I can’t keep rubber-stamping these evaluations forever. I know the General believes in you, but…” She leans forward, green eyes softening. “If you’re not alright, it’s okay. It’s expected. I don’t even want to imagine what it felt like, being trapped in the Drift when Cyrene…”

The name hangs in the air between them. Phainon’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice carefully even. “I’m functional.”

“I don’t want you just functional. I want you well.” Hyacine clasps her hands together, looks at him with something like pleading in her eyes. “Phainon, look, you know I’m always on your side. But you’re pushing yourself too hard. The nightmares, the insomnia—” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “These are symptoms, not just inconveniences that you can bury with pills. You’re no good to anyone if you go chasing R.A.B.I.Ts mid-drift, yourself included.”

It’s one thing to know these things, but another to be confronted with them by someone else. “I know.” Phainon’s voice is quiet. “Thank you, Hyacine.”

When she sees that he has no intention of engaging further, Hyacine just sighs, reaches for her stylus with the air of someone conceding the battle but not the war. “Fine. But I’m cutting your dosage. Half the pills, twice the check-ins.” She fixes him with a stern look. “And if I hear you’ve been rationing the pills in an attempt to stockpile them, we’re going to be having a very different conversation.”

No wonder why Mydei likes her so much. Phainon nods, the motion tight but sincere. “Understood, ma’am.”

Hyacine scribbles her signature on the psych evaluation with more force than necessary, a looping cursive. The printer whirs to life and she hands him his prescription chit. He takes it, paper curling between his fingers.

Phainon smiles, a genuine one as he stands. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Just don’t make me regret it,” she mumbles, turning back to her microscope. “People care about you, Phainon.” The door slides shut. 

More than you realise, I think.

After the psych evaluation, Phainon wanders the Shatterdome aimlessly. His feet, as usual, bring him to the Kwoon Combat Room. He’d once sparred with Mydei here for four hours straight, when the other ranger had first become a pilot. If they hadn’t each already had their own partners, Phainon sometimes wonders whether they would have been compatible as co-pilots.

Regardless of that, he pushes open the door and hopes to find Mydei in the training arena — someone who can match him blow for blow, where he can lose himself to the rhythm of hand to hand combat and just… quiet his mind. 

Instead, he sees you.

You’re in the center ring, fumbling with a practice staff like it’s personally wronged you. The sight makes him pause in the doorway. Stelle, Caelus, and March — one of Akivili’s pilots — are sprawled on the ground next to the ring, all looking similarly sweaty. Dan Heng, her co-pilot, corrects your posture with a hand on your wrist and you frown, gripping it even more tightly.

The NeuroSync is scheduled for this evening. He tries not to think of the last time your minds brushed. Tries not to think of the way you had forced him from your mind. You should have been compatible with someone else.

The rational part of him knows he should turn around — the quiet moment you’d shared last evening changes nothing, fixes nothing — but then you laugh at something Dan Heng says, a rare, unguarded sound he hasn’t heard in years, and then suddenly leaving feels impossible.

Before he can make up his mind, March spots him. “Phainon! Perfect timing!” she calls, waving him over with an enthusiastic grin.

He sighs, rubbing at the tension gathering at the base of his neck. Too late to escape now. As he approaches, he watches your shoulders stiffen the moment you register his presence, that guarded look flashing across your face before you school your features into careful neutrality. Part of him is irrationally jealous all of a sudden — though of what exactly, he isn’t quite sure.

“Six to zero,” Tribbie calls — Phainon hadn’t noticed the little redhead behind Dan Heng, there. She beams up at him, waves both hands enthusiastically. Caelus gives him a lazy salute as he comes to stand next to them.

“I’m not used to these things,” you mutter, shifting your grip on the staff. “Who even uses staffs in this day and age? Give me a gun any time.”

Dan Heng exhales through his nose, a slight hint of amusement showing in his eyes. “It’s not about the weapon — not even about winning, actually. The combat room is more about forging a relationship between pilots, developing a physical chemistry with your partner.”

“Could we not say it like that, please?” You attempt the spin that Dan Heng shows you and nearly drop it. Wrist is too stiff… “Guess the military couldn’t come up with a better way to build a relationship than to beat the shit out of each other, huh…”

The dark haired ranger shrugs, sweeping his own staff forward in a controlled arc that you barely manage to block. “Before Cyrene developed the NeuroSync, they were using all kinds of tests to see if potential rangers had compatibility. March and I got tested because we used the same excuse to get out of tasting Dr Himeko’s coffee back at the HSS.”

“That’s not even the strangest one,” Stelle chips in, dabbing at her forehead with a towel before glancing up at him. “Didn’t you and Cyrene get tested with a Nintendo Switch?”

The memory feels like it happened lifetimes ago. It might as well have. He nods slowly, can’t help the slight smile that tugs at his mouth. “Beat the Shatterdome’s highscore for Overcooked 2 in a day.”

“What?” You blink, momentarily distracted. “This is the kind of scientific research my taxpayer dollars are going into?”

Dan Heng uses your distraction to move again. His strike is slow, but you still nearly drop the staff entirely in your scramble to defend. Phainon steps into the ring without thinking, plucking the weapon from your hands.

“Here,” he says, adjusting your grip with practiced ease. His fingers brush against yours — warm and calloused — and he feels you tense. “Can’t wield it properly if you hold it like it’s going to bite you.”

You make a noise of disgust, expression sullen. “Everyone’s a critic…” You don’t pull away, though.

Phainon watches you with an unreadable expression, something flickering behind his blue eyes. There's a strange, almost childish desire rising in him — to keep needling you, to draw out more of those reactions, to prolong this moment where the air between you doesn't crackle with unsaid things. This is the most normal you've been around each other in months, and some traitorous part of him wants to stretch it indefinitely. “Would you rather keep losing?”

“Woo-hoo! Phainon verses (Name).” He turns just in time to catch the staff March tosses at him, her eyes bright with their usual playfulness. Dan Heng is already slipping out of the ring. That guy moves like the wind… “First to five hits wins!”

“Wait,” you lower your staff, eyes darting over to Phainon before frowning at her. “I never agreed to—”

Before he can fully think it through, Phainon steps forward to tap the point of his staff lightly against your forehead. “Dead,” he announces. You whirl around to stare at him, indignant. “What? That doesn’t count!”

Tribbie just giggles, chin propped up on her hands. “One to zero,” she calls in a sing-song voice.

You lunge at him with a scowl and he sidesteps easily, countering with a light but precise strike to your ribs. “Two.”

He can practically see the gears turning in your head as you clench your jaw and fall back, circling him. He expects another reckless charge, but instead you pause — eyes locked on him with an intensity that makes something in the pit of his stomach curl. And then, when he shifts his weight to feint left, you strike.

The staff cracks against his forearm with surprising force.

“One to two,” Tribbie announces, eyebrows raised. Phainon glances down at his arm in surprise, at the hot sting where your blow had connected. You shouldn’t have been able to read that move. He looks up.

You’re grinning a little, looking too pleased with yourself. “Surprised?”

He is. More than he’d care to admit.

The next exchange is faster, more fluid. Phainon goes low, slots the end of the staff between your ankles and flips. Your back is on the ground before you can even register falling, eyes wide as you look up the pole he holds to your throat. He huffs out a little breath, smiles down at you. “Three.”

You push yourself to your feet, eyes narrowed — and just lunge forward, instantly. He’s almost taken by surprise, rushes to bring his staff up to counter yours. You pull away before he can twist your arm into a deadlock, jab at his right shoulder where he can’t quite reach.

You’re still sloppy with the staff, technique unrefined, but there’s something unsettling familiar in the way you move against him. Like you’ve studied his fighting, somehow. Like you know his tells before he commits to them.

It happens again. When he steps forward, aims high just as you go low. Like you knew, somehow. The end of your staff knocks into his side.

“Two to four,” Tribbie is starting to sound confused, now. 

The two of you exchange blows again, but Phainon’s mind is speeding through a thousand thoughts in minutes. Suddenly, it clicks. “You’ve watched my fights,” he accuses, between strikes.

“Kephale’s fights,” you correct, twisting away from his advance. 

He presses and you block — barely — arms shaking from the strain. “Which ones?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, blink away the sweat as your eyes lock. “All of them,” you admit after a beat, and the admission that makes his chest tighten. Something hot and unnameable flares behind his ribs at the thought of you sitting in some dimly lit room somewhere, rewinding footage of Kephale — of him —  over and over until you could predict his movements like second nature. Because Kephale’s movements were — are — his. 

You were watching him.

The fight shifts then. It’s not just sparring anymore — it’s a push and pull, a give and take that feels dangerously like the Drift itself. He sees it now, the way you fight like a cornered animal. Mydei had always said, to know someone you observe them in battle or fight them yourself, to reveal their true nature. You’re all sharp edges and a whirlwind of something frantic, as though staying down for more than a second equals death. But there’s something more beneath it. A rhythm. A syncopation that he finds himself falling into step with.

“You’re not going easy on her, are you, Phainon?” Stelle calls from the sidelines, arms slung over the ropes. She’s frowning.

He’s not. Not going all out, of course. But he’s not exactly holding himself back, either. You drop low and he follows. Your sticks smack together but he’s stronger, forces your staff back and twists it from your grip. But you let it slide, reaching down to catch if before it can hit the mat, and hold one end to his neck just as he does the same to you.

The two of you stare at each other for a few moments. Your chest is rising and falling with each breath, harsh and heavy.

And then he realises: the room has gone quiet.  

Stunned, the two of you turn to see a small crowd has gathered. And at the front of it, arms crossed, expression unreadable — stands the General. Phainon exhales, lowering his staff.

He knows what this means, and from the look on Aglaea’s face, so does she.

Hyacine moves quickly through the biolab, her usual methodical precision abandoned in favour of urgency. The NeuroSync hums to life, screens flickering as initial diagnostic and calibration tests run. 

Aglaea had pushed the test forward, the moment she’d seen you and Phainon in the ring. As though whatever fragile, fleeting compatibility you had with him might just evaporate if given too much time to breathe.

You stare down at your hands, still trembling from the fight — or nerves? Beginner’s luck, you try to reassure yourself. Freak incident. Nothing more. But even that doesn’t convince you. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You were supposed to have another three more hours. Not much time, but enough to make a run for it — if you’d known, you might have just tossed yourself into the ocean and made a swim for it. Not this hurried, reckless plunge into something that could ruin the entire course of your life. Your stomach twists.

And despite yourself, you find yourself glancing at Phainon.

He’s standing against the wall, arms crossed and expression schooled into that infuriating calm he wears like armour. But you see the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes sweep the floor in front of him, restless. Fingers digging into flesh, like it’s the only thing grounding him to here, to now.

He’s just as unsettled as you are.

Hyacine steps back from the console, wiping her hands on her lab coat. “Systems are up,” she says, her voice softer than usual. There’s something hesitant in her gaze as she glances between the two of you. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exchange one last look with Phainon — something silent and weighted passing between the two of you — before you settle into the chair. Hyacine is silent as she attaches the electrodes to your temples, does the same with Phainon. The headsets descend with a mechanical hiss.

It starts with the same unsettling thrumming, as though someone’s placed a speaker right next to your ear and turned the bass all the way up. Grows and stretches, until it’s enveloping your entire mind. And then you fall, no ground beneath your feet, and—

It’s summer, sun high in the sky. You’re on your hands and knees, digging at the sand under the boardwalk where you’re sure Phainon has hidden your flip flops. Cyrene’s cheeky laughter rings out in the background, tasting of salt and sunshine. “Lose something again?”

“I didn’t take them.” A young teen with the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in the surf, waves washing up to his knees. His hands are cupped around his mouth, but you can still make out his grin. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders, y’know.”

You toss a handful of sand at him that scatters in the stiff wind, wave a fist at him. He doubles over laughing, the sound bright and warm and oh so—

The sky goes dark. So suddenly, it steals your breath.

One moment, the sun is shining, the next — the sky splits with the scream of fighter jets. Alarms tear through the air, shrill and panicked. Phainon’s eyes meet yours, blue swallowed by fear. In the distance, the kaiju roars. And then—

He’s kneeling in the blackened sand. Clawing through the debris, fingers raw and bleeding, face streaked with tears he didn’t even know were falling. Cyrene is tugging at his shoulder, her own eyes red-rimmed and wet. “Stop,” she’s saying, voice breaking. “Stop, Phainon, she's gone—”

Not yet. Not as long as he can still move. Not until he sees—

You’re smaller, younger. The knife in your hands feels too heavy. The man in front of you — a pale stranger with cold eyes — presses it into your grip. “Make yourself useful, then.” His voice is smooth, constricts around your throat like a noose. Silk and venom.

Your hands shake. Fear coalesces in your chest, a cold that splinters and doesn’t melt. But you don’t drop it, fingers gripping—

The Conn-Pod shakes. The world tilts violently. Phainon’s voice is frantic. “Cyrene! Cyrene, we need to—”

Then— wet, crunching metal. The sound of something tearing, like fabric being ripped apart. The neural handshake fractures, a burst of warmth like a dying star, and suddenly, there’s nothing. No presence in his mind. No steady stream of thoughts. It’s like hearing his own heartbeat come to a stop.

You stand at the end of a pier, staring out over familiar waters. Silently drop a perfect, spiralled shell into the water, watch it sink beneath the waves without a trace. Too late. Everything is too late.

Phainon stares at his own reflection in the mirror, eyes hollow. Looks down at the bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet, fingers curling around the edges of the sink, and—

It’s too much. All of it, it’s too much. You’re already halfway through ripping off the headset, before you even realise what you’re doing. Try to breathe deeply to fill the clawing emptiness in your chest, eyes wet. Next to you, Phainon pulls his off slowly, eyes on the ground but not really seeing. He looks gutted, like someone’s reached into his chest and rearranged everything in there.

The screen flashes. 86%.

For a second, you just stare, wondering if the Drift has finally cooked your brain so hard you no longer recognise numbers. But Hyacine is gaping at the results as well, similarly wide eyed, and the sinking feeling in your chest becomes real all at once.

“I’ll give the General the results,” Hyacine mumbles, when she finally peels her eyes away from the screen. Her voice is hushed, as though the numbers on the screen might change if she speaks too loud. She offers you a sympathetic look, at least.

Next to you, Phainon says nothing.

You end up in Aglaea’s office again, but not alone this time. Everything is uncomfortably silent, except for the occasional tap tap of the General’s fingernails against the desk as she reviews the results. Phainon sits on the chair next to you, back rigid, arms crossed, jaw set. He hasn’t looked at you once since you entered. The tension between you is palpable enough to choke on.

86%.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, palms damp where they’re pressed against your thighs beneath the table. 

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out, before Aglaea can say anything, hate the way your voice cracks like thin ice. “Look, Aglaea, I’m not a soldier. You can’t possibly think that putting me in a Jaeger is a good idea.”

To your surprise, it’s Phainon who replies. “Stelle and Caelus weren’t soldiers.” His voice is low and measured, still staring at some fixed point on the wall. “March, too.”

Aglaea steeples her fingers. “He’s right. You don’t have to be military to pilot. What you do need,” she locks eyes with you, “is compatibility. You might not be a soldier, but Phainon is. And when the two of you have drifted properly, you’ll understand everything about what’s needed of a Ranger.”

“What, you mean the suicidal urge to climb into a walking coffin?” You snap back. “No sane person would volunteer for that. Only you brainwashed lackeys who think that being torn apart by kaiju is somehow noble—”

“Cyrene did.”

The name hangs between the two of you. Your stomach twists.

“Yeah, and look what happened to her,” you spit, hands trembling violently now. The words taste like battery acid in your mouth. “Fucking idiot should’ve known better than to put herself into a Jaeger—”

Phainon goes very, very still. It’s something deeper, more terrifying. Like all the molecules in the room have frozen in place, too afraid to move.

“Say that again,” he says, voice barely over a whisper.

You don’t back down. “What, does the truth hurt? She was so smart, and all for what? Still stupid enough to get into that death trap. All rangers do is die. And then they shove new ones in and watch those ones die too. Just like they’re trying to do with me now—”

Phainon slams his hands on Aglaea’s desk so hard that the metal shudders under his fists. The sudden violence of it steals your breath. His face is inches from yours now — when did that happen? There’s a white hot anger in his eyes, a nuclear fission ongoing behind those blue irises. 

But when he speaks, his voice is glacial. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not when you spent years hiding from us. Not when you couldn’t even be bothered to show up for her funeral—”

“Enough.” Aglaea’s voice cuts through like a knife. Phainon doesn’t move. The General’s words drop into something deadly quiet. “Phainon. Out. Now. Or I’ll have to call security to escort you out.”

His fingers tighten on the edge of the table. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Then, with one last searing look, he turns on his heel and storms out, door slamming shut behind him so hard the displays shake.

Silence.

You stare at the door. Gods, if Phainon didn’t already hate you before, he definitely does now. He really hates you now. You don’t even realise that you’re shaking like a tree in a storm until Aglaea says your name, cautious.

“I can’t…” your voice barely comes out as a whisper, raw with a hint of unshed tears. You don’t even know who you’re talking to, now. “There are a million other people who are better than me, for fuck’s sake. I’ll never be able to live up to someone like Cyrene…” The admission hangs quiet, in the space between the two of you.

Aglaea just looks at you. And for a moment, her expression is almost kind.

“There might be a million other people who are better. But the Drift isn’t about being better.” Aglaea reaches over the table to rest a hand on your shoulder, a look of sympathy in her sea green eyes. “For now, you’ll have to report to the Ranger division. But I assure you, we’ll keep looking.”

You don’t answer.

“Get some rest, (Name).” Aglaea says softly. “I’ll have the soldiers move your things to the Ranger wing for you.”

You have no words left. Numb, you rise and head for the door.

As you walk along the corridor, you pause at the observation deck windows. Below, in the hangar, the Jaegers stand sentinel in their bays — glorious, towering monuments to human defiance. You press a hand to the cold glass. 

They didn’t save Cyrene. You’ve always wondered what she’d felt like, in her last moments. Whether she’d been afraid. Whether she’d been cold. Crushed between metal and giant claws. Lost beneath the waves, screaming for air, drowning in the dark. And the fear of dying, lodged in your chest, worse than dying itself.

And if Phainon dies too?

Your fingers curl against the window, leaving smudges on the pristine surface as you step away. The thought carves something hollow and aching from your ribs. 

You’d already considered it once, when Cyrene had died. If you lose him, too, you might just end it yourself, on your own terms.

There’s only so much one person can take.

Phainon’s hands are bruised.

He flexes his fingers absently, watching the blue-green mottling across his knuckles bloom darker where the skin split against Aglaea’s desk. Barely feels the pain, secondary to the storm whipping in his chest. He doesn’t even remember walking to the mess hall — one moment, he’d been storming out of Aglaea’s office, and the next he’s sitting at a corner table with a tray of cold food he has no appetite for.

Aglaea had sent him orders, earlier. Move to the Ranger wing by tonight. Shared quarters. Builds compatibility, had been their reasoning. As though the forced proximity could mend what years of absence and today’s words had shattered.

Phainon stabs at his peas with a bit more force than required. They’re overcooked, the kind of mushy that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Wonders if you’ve eaten (he hasn’t seen you come down to the mess hall). Or if you’re already in that shared room, unpacking your things with the same spiteful energy you’d hurled at Cyrene’s memory.

Was that really what you thought of Cyrene? He wonders to himself, chest hollow. Cyrene, who’d died with a kaiju’s teeth buried in her chest? Whose last memories had been of you?

The thought makes his grip tighten. The fork wilts slightly under the pressure.

Around him, the mess hall chatter continues at a careful distance. Soldiers cast furtive glances his way before quickly looking elsewhere to sit. Even the boldest recruits who normally pester him for conversation are giving him a wide berth today. Good, because Phainon has no desire to pretend to be the PPDC’s golden boy now.

He shovels another forkful of peas into his mouth. They taste like cardboard.

“No juice?” Stelle’s voice cuts through his brooding. She slides her tray opposite him, takes a seat. She’s followed by Caelus, and then March, and then Dan Heng, their trays clattering onto the tray in a discordant symphony. “Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

Phainon blinks at his tray. Sure enough, no juice carton. He hadn’t even noticed.

Dan Heng exchanges glances with March, and silently, slowly, puts his juice onto Phainon’s tray. “I don’t like apple,” he says, by way of explanation.

Something tight in Phainon’s chest loosens just a fraction. “Thanks,” he mutters, the word coming out rougher than intended.

Caelus, tray piled high with every variation of potato the mess hall offers, gives him a searching look. “We heard that you’re moving back to the Ranger wing.” A wedge pauses halfway to his mouth. “But from the look on your face… I’m assuming the NeuroSync didn’t go well?”

Phainon swallows. “We’re… compatible.” The peas taste bad in his mouth, so he switches to the pork chop. “But she doesn’t want to do it.”

“Guess Aglaea’s got leverage anyway, if the two of you are still going ahead with this,” Stelle muses. The knife in his hand suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and then, behind his eyelids—

“Make yourself useful.”

The knife in your hands. Trembling fingers, smeared with blood. A tall, pale man who he recognises as Lygus, smiles down at you. It’s not a kind smile.

“Won’t make it out of the undercity alive, otherwise.”

Phainon presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, feels the bruises ache. Drift fallout — fragments of memory that aren’t his but linger anyway, in his mind. He feels your fear like it’s his own, lodged like shrapnel in his chest. I can’t die. I can’t die here. I can’t I can’t I can’t—

March looks sympathetic. “Think the General can change her mind?” she asks, twirling a strand of pink hair between her fingers. There’s no judgment in her voice, just a genuine curiosity.

“I don’t want her to have to change her mind.” His admission surprises him as much as it does the others at the table. “I might not… agree with her. But she has her own reasons, for being the way she is. I just happen to have my own.”

Then why were we even compatible? He signs through his nose, looks down at his tray again. The Drift’s never been an easy thing to work with, let alone understand, even with Cyrene’s years of research.

“Unfortunately, personal reasons don’t matter much when the world’s ending,” Dan Heng mutters. He’s looking at Phainon now, a wry smile on his face. Other than Phainon, he’s the only other military guy here. “I doubt most people want to go out there and fight giant monsters.” He pauses, makes a face. “Except maybe Stelle.”

She flashes him a grin. “I crave destruction.”

“And Caelus too, the guy is crazier than he looks.” Caelus shrugs, not disagreeing as he shoves another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “But someone’s gotta do it. Guess it’s easier, if you have something to fight for.”

Phainon stares down at his tray, bent fork still grasped loosely in his hand. 

He wonders if there’s anything left in this world that you care for enough to risk dying for.

Your room in the rangers' wing is to be shared.

Your things have already been moved in — standard-issue military shirts they’d ‘loaned’ you folded neatly on the lower bunk, a thin pillow that looks suspiciously like the one you’d been using in the temporary quarters. The space is sterile, impersonal, bare. Again. 

Phainon isn’t here.

Good. You don’t want to be around when he returns — not after what you’d said in Aglaea’s office, not after the way he’d looked at you like you’d ripped open an old wound and left it to bleed out. So you toss what little things you have onto the bed and leave before the silence can suffocate you.

The cafeteria is out of question — too many people, too much noise, too high a chance of running into him. Instead, you wander the Shatterdome’s endless corridors aimlessly, taking turns at random until the sounds of chatter and machinery fade into distant murmurs.

Then, without realizing it, you find yourself standing at the entrance of the Hall of Glory.

The hallway stretches before you, long and solemn, its walls lined with plaques and portraits of Rangers who never came home. Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway as you walk, eyes skimming names until—

There.

Cyrene’s portrait stares back at you, her pink hair vibrant even in the dim light, her lips curved in that teasing half-smile you still see in your dreams. The plaque beneath reads:

Cyrene Pilot of Jaeger ‘Kephale’ “This will be a romantic story like none that has come before.”

You stare at the plaque for a few moments before letting out a huff. Only Cyrene would choose such lighthearted, whimsical words to be put on her obituary plaque. For a moment, you let your fingers linger against the embossed brass, stare into those soft blue eyes as though you aren’t too late. As though she can still hear you.

As though you still have time to tell her that you’re sorry.

“I don’t know what to do.” The words escape you in a whisper. “I can’t do this, Cyrene. I’m not you. Not selfless enough, or heroic enough, or—” You cut yourself off, fingers curling into a fist. “It should have been you here instead.” Your voice is thick in your throat. “What a waste.”

“I’d advise you not to speak like that of the dead.”

The voice startles you — a whisper, soft a candle smoke, yet carrying an unexpected weight to it. You turn to see a young woman with waist length lilac hair pulled into a neat braid standing a few paces away. Soldier? Doesn’t seem like it. In the dim light of the hallway, she appears more like a ghost wandering these halls, hands clasped in front of her.

You drop your hand from Cyrene’s plaque, crack a half smile at her. “The dead can’t hear us.”

She walks towards you slowly, pace unhurried. “No,” she agrees. “But the living still can.” Her hand comes to rest on Cyrene’s memorial plate, her touch as light as a moth’s wing. “My name is Castorice. I come here often. To remember.”

You give your name in response, surprised by how easily it comes. There’s just something disarming about her — maybe the quiet calm that hangs around her, like a shroud, or the faraway look in those violet eyes — that makes the walls you usually keep up feel unnecessary. 

For a long moment, you both stand side by side in silence, studying Cyrene’s photograph. The camera had captured her perfectly, that playful light in her eyes, smile curving her lips like she was sharing a private joke with the photographer.

“It must be terrifying,” you say at last, “being out there in a Jaeger.” The words feel inadequate for the churning in your stomach at the thought. 

Castorice, however, just smiles, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. “The first time? Like standing naked before a hurricane. The fear… you get used to it, but it never really goes away.” She hums softly. “That’s why we don’t go alone. The Drift… it anchors you. Gives you someone to hold onto, when the fear comes.”

So she’s a ranger. You watch her profile as she speaks, noticing the way her eyes linger on certain names along the wall. This isn’t just a place she visits — it’s a place she knows intimately.

“I don’t know how Phainon does it,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The mention of him sends an unexpected pang through your chest. You could run to the ends of the earth and somehow Phainon would still find you there. Haunting you like a living ghost, in the cadence of strangers’ laughter, in the hush between heartbeats, in that hollow within your ribs where his absence has made its home.

“They say he piloted solo for twelve minutes after…” you gesture at Cyrene’s portrait. Castorice nods.

“After she died. He was still connected to her, in the Drift.” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “After Captain Hysilens died when Phagousa fell… the General never stepped foot into a Conn-Pod again. It’s not something that you just come back from.”

The image hits you with a sudden, brutal clarity — what it must have been like for Phainon in those final moments. You remember the suffocating intimacy of the NeuroSync, what Hyacine had called a facsimile of actual Drifting. Phainon’s emotions bleeding into yours, his thoughts like whispers under your skin. You can’t imagine the thought of feeling someone die while being connected like that.

Your breath comes short. The memorial hall suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with ghosts.

Castorice turns fully to face you, her violet eyes holding yours with surprising intensity. "The Drift shows you everything," she says quietly. "But it also gives you everything. There's no hiding, but there's also... no more being alone. Not truly."

With that, she offers you a small, knowing smile before turning back to her quiet vigil. You linger a moment longer, fingers brushing Cyrene’s plaque, before stepping back into the world of the living.

Back into the waking world.

It’s long past midnight when you finally decide to return.

The room is dark when you push open the door, the lights dimmed down. You pause in the doorway, letting your eyes adjust, and see a dark shape — Phainon — sprawled on the upper bunk, one arm thrown over his face. His chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths. 

Is he asleep?

Holding your breath, you shut the door quietly behind you and tiptoe over to your bunk, intending to grab your toiletries and escape to the relative safety of the showers. And then you see it — two neatly wrapped sandwiches and a juice carton, placed carefully on the covers. Your throat tightens.

He noticed. Despite everything you’d said, despite the way you’d torn into him earlier… he’d still noticed.

“Thank you,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

The response comes immediately. “Couldn’t have you starving to death,” he mutters.

You nearly drop your bundle of clothes, startled. “You were awake?”

Phainon’s arm doesn’t move from his face. “Waited for you for eight hours.” His voice is rough with exhaustion, a little snappy. “I thought you might’ve decided to make a run for it.”

Something in you twists — you’d been thinking of just that, actually. “What, worried that your only ticket into a Jaeger might have…” But the memory of his bruised hands, of the food he left despite everything, stops you. You let out a slow exhale, the fight draining out of you like air from a deflating balloon. “I’m sorry. Let me try that again.” You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry as bone. “I just… went for a long walk. Was trying to collect my thoughts.”

Silence stretches between the two of you, thick with everything unsaid. Then Phainon shifts, lowering his arm, and you feel yourself tensing up. Too soon? Even in the dim light, you can still see the blue of his eyes, looking straight at you. “And?” His tone is softer now, the edge gone. “How’d that go?”

You bite your lower lip, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. You sit on the lower bunk, feeling the mattress creak under your weight. “Bits and pieces, I guess.” It’s easier to speak to the darkness. “I ran into Castorice,” you add.

“Mm,” you can hear him shift above you, the bed’s frame creaking as he moves. “She’s one of the nicest people I know. Also one of the only few people I know who can get around how headstrong Mydei is.” A pause. “Maybe that’s why they’re drift compatible.”

Another stretch of quiet. The Shatterdome hums around you — distant footsteps, the occasional muffled voice through the walls. You unwrap a sandwich, not because you’re hungry, but because you need something to do with your hands. Tuna and cucumber. Does he remember, or is this just coincidence?

Phainon exhales sharply above you. “Look, if you want to go,” the words come out in a rush, like he doesn’t want to say them, “then go. I spoke to Aglaea. There’s another batch of new recruits I can continue testing with.”

The sandwich turns to ash in your mouth. “You really hate the last choice that you have left, huh?” You try to joke, but it falls flat even to your own ears, your voice small and wounded.

“What?” He makes a noise of confusion, like he has no idea what you’re talking about. “Gods, no. Don’t be stupid.” When he continues, his words are measured, careful. “I know what it’s like to be out there facing the kaiju. The fear, the terror…” He takes a slow breath. “I don’t want to do that with someone who doesn’t want to be there. No one should have to be forced to do that.”

Your breath catches, and you look down at your own hands. Heroes… “So even the great Deliverer is afraid in there?” you ask, quietly.

He lets out a little laugh. “Of course.” No bravado. No deflection. Just… truth. “All the time.”

Something cracks open in your chest. The admission hangs between you, fragile as glass. “I'm scared, Phai,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You hear him go still above you. That name belonged to a different life — to a sky filled with sunshine and shared ice creams, to a time before kaiju and grief and all the ways you’ve hurt each other since. Too much. Too vulnerable. But Phainon cradles it in his hands, with a gentleness that you know you’ve never deserved. “I know,” he says, so softly that it aches. “I’ll be in there with you.”

Not I’ll protect you. Not there’s nothing to be afraid of. Not you’ll be fine. Just this — I’ll be in there with you.

The simplicity of it is what undoes you. Your vision blurs. A tear splashes onto the sandwich wrapper, then another. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it’s no use — the dam breaks, and suddenly the tears are falling without abandon, your shoulders shaking with the force of the emotions in your chest.

You try to stay silent, but Phainon hears — always does, the perceptive fucker. You hear a sharp intake of breath, and then there’s a pair of long legs swinging over the ledge of the top bunk before he drops down next to you. Through the tears, you see his expression twist into something pained, before he comes to crouch in front of you. His hands hover, fingers clenching and unclenching uncertainly before they settle lightly on your knees.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “Just say the word, and I’ll call it off. I won’t let Aglaea touch you. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You shake your head, swiping at your face. It's not that simple anymore. When has it ever been? You think of dying, the fear of dying, of Phainon dying, and it all just… "What if I'm not brave enough?" The admission tears free, ragged at the edges. "What if I freeze out there? What if I—"

His fingers tighten slightly. “Then I'll carry you.” No hesitation. No doubt. The certainty in his voice steals your breath. You search his face — the new lines at the corners of his eyes, the sun tattooed on the side of his neck, the stubborn set of his jaw. The boy you'd left behind and the man he'd become.

His thumbs brush over your knees, the touch feather-light. “I won’t let you fight alone again, (Name),” he whispers, almost like a promise. A vow. “I swear it.”

And for the first time in years, you find yourself wanting to believe him. Your eyes well with tears again.

Phainon doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. Just lets them fall until they’ve run their course, until your hiccuping breaths even out. Only then does he lift his hand, using his sleeve to carefully wipe the salt tracks from your cheeks. And then, instead of returning to his bunk, he slides down to sit against your legs, his shoulder a warm pressure against your calf. The two of you exist like that in the quiet dark, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of the Shatterdome’s night.

And somehow, impossibly, you feel the fear in your chest loosen its grip. Just a little.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

[bakughoust]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 10k

synopsis: pacrim!au. big robot punch big alien monster. khaslana mode phainon. anyway i just wanted to write phainon shouting at me. toots. (i will still eat shaoji if he doesn't come back)

chapters: one | two | three | four | five

I. ENTROPY

He finds you in the same jail cell.

An hour and twenty seven minutes. That’s the time that it takes him — from the moment that you’re put behind bars (again) until you hear hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor — to get to this little confinement center at the edge of Marmoreal. Doesn’t pause when he rounds the corner — just moves, long strides eating up the distance between the two of you. He must know this place by heart now.

“They let you in again, huh?” you ask, as he comes to a stop outside your cell. His white hair, muted beneath the shitty lighting of the basement, is slightly damp with sweat, stubborn strands sticking to his temples. Did he run? And, does it matter, even if he did? “Of course,” you tilt your head, propping your chin up on your knee to look at him. “You’re Amphoreus’ darling, after all.”

Twelve drops, fourteen kills. Fourteen kaiju, fourteen cities — it equates to millions of lives saved. He’s the most effective Jaeger pilot on record in history. So it’s no surprise that everyone bends over backwards for him — to them, he’s more than just a man. A symbol, just like the sun tattooed on the side of his neck.

Deliverer, they called him. Still call him now, even though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a Jaeger for three years. Saviour of humanity. Hope of mankind.

The man on the other side of your cell looks nothing like any of those things. Phainon doesn’t speak. Instead he just stares at you through the bars, lips pressed together and arms stiff at the sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His eyes, still too blue even in the murk of the basement, flicker with something that you can’t quite decipher. 

Haven’t bothered to, for quite some years now.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” You yawn, slouching against the wall. “Two months?”

Nothing.

“Guess they still haven’t found someone compatible with you, huh? Or you wouldn’t have time to visit a small-time criminal like me.”

Still no response.

“Maybe, next time I’ll ask the guards to bet on—”

Phainon breathes out, and you fall silent. Despite everything that’s happened between the two of you, there’s still a gravity to him. It’s like a law of nature — unlike poles attract, apples fall, and people listen when Phainon speaks. Even you, apparently. 

“How many times are you going to do this?” he says at last. His voice is quiet. Tired.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “How many times are you going to keep coming back?”

Phainon’s jaw shifts at your words, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He doesn’t answer the question. You don’t think that even he knows the answer, himself.

After a while, he exhales and takes a step back. pulls out the military cap from under his arm, runs a hand through his hair and fits it onto his head in silence. He doesn’t say anything — there’s nothing left to say between the two of you. Phainon has tried, of course, with his whys and hows and pleases. They’ve been exhausted in encounters far earlier than this one. Repeated over and over again.

Nothing ever changes. Your answer, too, has always been the same.

“I don’t need to be saved.”

Phainon turns around. “I’ll speak to Aglaea,” is all he says, before he leaves. You wave to send him off — it’s a long way back, after all — leaning against the bars of your cell as he goes.

“See you around, Phainon,” you call after his fading footsteps, faintly echoing down the corridor.

You hope you don’t.

Pan Pacific Defense Corps: The Pan Pacific Defense Corps (abbreviated PPDC) is an organisation created by the United Nations. The Defense Corps represents an international alliance of twenty one different countries across the rim of the Pacific Ocean and the IPC, bound together by the shared goal of containing, combating and eliminating the kaiju.

You’re usually out within a day or two. Sometimes even hours, if you’re lucky — and that’s without Phainon’s interference, even. He might have his friends in the upper ranks of the military, but you’re not without your own connections down below. Besides, you’re only ever detained under suspicion, never arrested. You like to think that you’re more experienced than to be caught with evidence.

So, you’re understandably startled when the next visitor to your cell eight hours later is not the guard who makes photocopies of your release paperwork, but a tall woman with hair like spun gold and eyes that make you feel like you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

She’s dressed in military uniform. The formal kind, not the ugly green fatigues that Phainon sometimes shows up in (as though the kaiju would be fooled by basic military camouflage, but you suppose old habits die hard). Tailored, from the way the dark fabric hugs her figure. With a kind of elegance so potent that it’s straight up domineering.

And there are four gold stars decorating each of her shoulders.

“You’re Aglaea,” you say, before you can stop yourself. She smiles. 

It’s beautiful. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve heard of me.” Neither here nor there, but the statement is laughable in and of itself. Who in Amphoreus hasn’t heard of the General Aglaea? The entirety of the Okhema shatterdome is under her authority, and by extension every jet fighter, soldier and Jaeger in it. Enough military power to destroy a small country, all vested in a single person. And she's standing here in this dingy little jail cell, doing what — looking for you?

“Is there something I can help you with?” you ask, warily as your brain tries to compute a possible reason why a four star PPDC general would be making house calls to a no-name prison and failing miserably. Whatever it is, it most definitely spells trouble for you.

“I just wanted to see the face of the one who’s been causing my Lieutenant so much trouble.” Your eyes narrow. She’s talking about Phainon. “Three times in eight months? And it’s not even Christmas…” She taps a finger against her lips, smiles. “Either you’re not very good at your job… or you’re deliberately seeking his attention?”

You bristle at that. “Not my fault you gave your hound too long of a leash.”

Aglaea only laughs. The sound makes uncertainty crawl around in the pit of your belly. And the unease only grows when she steps across the cell to take a seat on the prison bench opposite you, crossing one leg over the other under her pencil skirt. 

You glance at the cell door and briefly contemplate making a run for it. You’d have felt safer being locked in here with a rabid tiger — at least it wouldn’t toy with its food like this.

“Three counts of identity fraud. Five instances of dealing kaiju biomaterial to criminal and terrorist organisations. Two counts of murder.” Someone’s done her research.

“Suspected murder,” you correct, folding your arms across your chest. It’s not. “What’s the point of this?”

Aglaea tilts her head to the side, golden curls falling across her cheek. “My point is, it would be easy to make you disappear.” A cold weight settles in your chest, like a sinking stone. She says it with the tone of someone stating a matter of fact, not a threat. You can see it in her eyes — she can, and she would. “You’ve been a distraction to Phainon, you know? Not to mention a PR headache to keep under wraps. Humanity’s most admired Ranger, complicity in releasing a criminal from prison?” She tuts lightly. “Not exactly what people want to see from someone they regard as a deliverer.”

There’s a distinct undercurrent of mocking to her words, pointing the finger of blame at you. “I’ve never asked him to do that,” you grit out. Aglaea raises a delicate brow.

“And yet both of us know that he will, anyway. It’s a fatal flaw of his, isn’t it?” Her eyes are piercing as she looks at you. “Being unable to leave people behind.”

You want to retort, but force your mouth to stay shut. Something about the way the General speaks gets under your skin more easily than you’d like, a needle that knows exactly where to poke and prick. You suppose that’s one of the reasons she became General so young.

Aglaea must be able to tell, too, because she smiles and leans against the wall. “Now, I’m sure that you’ve guessed that I am here for a reason. The reason is this: I have an offer to make you.”

An offer. It almost scares you more than the threat. “It’s not much of an offer when you’re practically holding a gun to my head, is it?” you mutter. She just laughs, holds up both hands.

“What gun?” Her voice is infuriatingly breezy. “But if you’d like me to speak in plainer terms, then I shall oblige. I’m recruiting you into the Jaeger program.”

“I didn’t know the PPDC had started branching into illegal activities. A bit ironic for the military, huh?”

“No.” Aglaea looks at you. “I want you to become a ranger.”

You stare at her for a few moments, scrutinising her expression. Nothing about it reveals that this is a joke. And yet you start laughing despite it anyway, like a hyena barking in ridicule. Aglaea does not respond — she merely waits for you to finish, green eyes imperturbable. Your laughter dies in your throat when you realise that she’s serious.

You cough, wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes. “You’re not joking.” You don’t know which scares you more.

“I’m not.”

“You want me,” you jab a finger at your own chest, “to be a Jaeger pilot?” You can barely keep your voice from rising. For all the preparations that the General made — digging up past records, coming all the way here — this is the plan that she had in mind? “You think the world needs someone like me in a Jaeger?”

Aglaea lowers her gaze. And for the first time, you think you see the briefest flicker of something flash in her eyes.

“No,” she replies, blunt. She’s looking straight at you now. “Phainon is the one the world needs. But what he needs, unfortunately, might just be you.”

Okhema Shatterdome: The Okhema Shatterdome is the primary headquarters of the PPDC in Amphoreus. It is under the authority of the Marshal Cerydra, although General Aglaea has been acting in her stead for the past year and a half. It consists of factories for the construction, repair, maintenance and launch of the Jaegers. All operations, Ranger training and experiments regarding the kaiju are carried out within their respective Shatterdome bases. There are currently three combat active Jaegers stationed in Okhema.

The helicopter is loud. Too loud and moves like it’s drunk when the turbulence hits, not loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re in a glorified, overengineered tin can fighting the laws of physics every second to stay in the air. You guess it’s not that much different from a plane, in theory. But knowing where you’re headed still makes you want to throw yourself out of the nearest window despite the thousand foot freefall into the ground.

Aglaea explains the rest of her ‘offer’ to you while you’re in the air. She wants you to test drift compatibility with Phainon — as though the entirety of the Ranger program has tried and failed for the past three years. And now, she thinks a handful of childhood memories might somehow make you different from them.

But you’re not in a position to complain. Or refuse. Or do anything other than agree, really. You’re extracted from the confinement center with nary a peep from the guard, and the General just… takes you with her, like a parent picking up her child from preschool. No papers signed, not even a single phone call to make. Fucking Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She’s jumping over every legal line drawn in the sand like it’s an Olympic sport.

You find yourself missing your prison cell when the chopper hovers over what you assume is the Shatterdome. It’s enormous, like take up half the skyline kind of enormous, which should be expected considering that the Jaegers stationed inside are basically small skyscrapers that can throw punches. But you don’t realise just how much until you see the people dotting the runway that stretches along the entirety of Okhema’s coastline, the size of ants.

There must be dozens down there, hundreds or even thousands more inside just to keep a base this size running. All that for three Jaegers. Six pilots. No wonder why people idolise Phainon like he was chosen by God himself.

There’s a small welcome committee waiting for you when the chopper lands on the heli-pad. Aglaea disembarks first, tucks a lock of golden hair neatly behind her ear as she steps off with more grace than her heels should allow. You follow suit, faltering momentarily when the frozen sea air whips at your face like a thousand icy knives. It’s cold.

“Lovely weather we’re having today,” Aglaea comments, before turning towards the pair gathered at the edge of the heli-pad. “Why is the apocalypse on our front porch this morning?”

“Just a bad storm passing through, ma’am.” A tall, slender woman steps forward, tablet cradled in the crook of her arm. Her burnished gold hair is swept back into a tidy bun. “But there is a bigger storm brewing on your desk, I’m afraid — Marshal Cerydra has a few things that you need to get back to her, and I quote her words, ASAP.”

Aglaea sighs. “Wonderful. So long as she hasn’t threatened to bayonet the UN secretary again… thank you, GM.”

Sudden movement catches your eye — a flicker of red darting behind the woman. Your brain stutters. A child? Here? Before you can speak, the girl steps into view, small fingers curled into the woman’s uniform skirt. Wide, curious eyes lock onto yours.

“Is this the new recruit, Aggy?” — Aggy? — she asks, tilting her head upwards to look at you. The top of her head doesn’t even come up to your elbow. Red hair, blue eyes… you squint at Aglaea. Half siblings, perhaps? Cousins? The General smiles at her, reaches down to pat her head.

“If all goes well, hopefully.” She straightens up, glances at the gold watch gleaming on her delicate wrist. “Trianne, be a dear and ask Trinnon to prepare some tea in my office, will you? I’d like to show our guest,” you bite back a snort, “a proper welcome.”

The child beams — a stark contrast to this backdrop of war and military machines. “Of course, Aggy!” She runs off in the direction of the Shatterdome, only to suddenly whirl back with a wave that makes her whole arm bounce. “See you around, Miss New Recruit!” You raise a hand weakly in response, and she darts off again between the stone faced soldiers and armoured jeeps.

Aglaea gestures at you with a wave of her hand. “Come, now.”

People stare. You can feel their eyes as you follow her down the tarmac, past the lines of stationed fighters and military people doing… whatever it is that military people do. Part of you knows that it’s nothing out of the ordinary — an unfamiliar face accompanying the General must warrant some measure of curiosity — but you can’t help the feeling that someone might recognise you. You pull your jacket together around you, duck your head and pick up the pace.

She leads you to an elevator, hits a button at the very top labelled BRIDGE — COMMAND CENTER and waves a keycard over the scanner. The doors shut behind the two of you. 

It’s a long way up, but the elevator doesn’t stop even once. General privileges, maybe? It deposits the two of you into a corridor. And just like the runway earlier, there are people everywhere. It’s like there’s a heartbeat pumping through the entire facility, pushing everything inside it along. Everyone here seems to have somewhere to be, something to do, walking fast with papers in hand. You follow Aglaea to a door at the very end of it.

Marshal’s Office — General Aglaea.

She flicks the same card over the reader and it slides open. There’s a china set laid out neatly on the desk in the center of the room, stacks of files and papers pushed precariously to the sides. Little swirls of steam are still escaping the teapot’s spout.

“Trinnon’s a little shy. You might see her around, if you’re lucky.” Aglaea gestures for you to sit and you do, in a leather chair that seems just a little too big for you. She takes a moment to pour out the tea — flowery and subtly fragrant — into two cups and slides one over to you. You stare down at the coppery liquid in the cup, suspicious.

Aglaea only looks amused. “I wouldn’t waste all that time and effort bringing you here if I wanted to kill you. There are easier ways to make that happen,” she says candidly, before taking a sip of the tea herself. “Ah, a perfect brew. Now, as I was saying earlier, there are three things that I want from you.”

Three? Her demands just keep increasing. “You want me to test drift compatibility with Phainon.”

She nods, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. “That’s one. The second is this: if the two of you are drift compatible, become a ranger.”

There it is again. Become a ranger. She says it like it’s nothing — as though piloting a giant mech to slug it out with an alien monster that could flatten a city in under an hour is the equivalent of taking a car out for a test drive. As though there aren’t actual soldiers who’ve trained their entire lives to get into the Jaeger program and still fall short. Digging for needles in haystacks, is how Drift-Tech had described it.

And to pilot a Jaeger, you need two.

You lean back in the chair, trying to be rational about this. The odds. “Let’s be real here — what are the actual odds that I’m drift compatible with Phainon? After hundreds of failures?”

“Statistically?” Aglaea asks. “Near zero.”

You hadn’t expected her to admit it so candidly. “Then why waste my time? Why waste yours?”

“Because miracles can happen, unlikely as they are,” she counters, and slides a folder across the table. “Succeed, and you walk away with a Ranger’s commission. Full benefits, hazard pay, the works. Some might even say it pays too well.” She mutters that last part under her breath.

You push the folder back. “You mean a front row seat to getting eaten by a kaiju.”

Aglaea doesn’t even blink. “Fail, and you’ll still get a clean record.” You look up at that, mouth suddenly dry. Clean record? “A new identity in any country you’d like. I heard the Xianzhou has some beautiful scenery. Or perhaps Penacony, if you prefer the nightlife.”

It sounds too good to be true. “There’s a caveat to that, I’m guessing.”

“Phainon can’t so much as hear your name again.” Aglaea’s voice turns steely. “I can’t have him distracted chasing ghosts or getting tangled in…” her eyes sweep over you, “unfavourable associations. The program’s reputation is hanging by a thread as it is.”

Unfavourable associations. Right, that’s how she sees you. “You’re going to a lot of lengths for one washed-up Ranger,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest. “What’s he to you?”

“Not to me. To the world.” Aglaea taps on her tablet, slides it over to you. You glance at it. It’s a news feed, showing protestors outside a Jaeger research center. They yell, wave signs around furiously. “Two failed drops in Belobog last month. And after Janus and Georios fell…” Her lips press together in a grim line. “Public approval ratings have never been lower. The Wall Initiative gains traction every day we don’t have a win, and that damn concrete won’t save a single city when the next Cat IV comes through the Breach.”

She sounds like she’s sure. Then you remember, before she became General, she had been a pilot too — for Phagousa, if you remember correctly. And her co-pilot… 

“And you think Phainon can?”

“He’s the symbol this program needs. In the people's eyes, he's the only pilot who’s never lost.” Aglaea laces her fingers together. “Get him back in a Jaeger, and people might remember why we built them in the first place.”

You glance down at the folder on the table again. A clean slate. A blank record. No more hiding, no more looking over your shoulder. Wasn’t that what you’d been working towards, this whole time? And yet… “It doesn’t have to be me inside that Jaeger.”

“If I had other options, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Aglaea says, bluntly. “But at the moment, you’re all we’ve got.”

Oh, joy.

“You’ll keep looking?” you press.

Aglaea’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The second we find someone who doesn’t make the compatibility readers spit error codes, you’re free to go.” She reaches for her intercom. “I’ll have the NeuroSync scheduled for tomorrow. Tribbie will show you to the testing room first thing in the morning.” You exhale, and Aglaea leans forward. “And, while we’re being honest? Don’t even think about trying to escape. It won’t be worth it.”

She doesn’t continue, but the unspoken threat hangs over your neck like a guillotine. I’ll find you, and this time, I won’t be so kind. 

Before you can respond, the door crashes open.

Phainon stands in the doorway, breathing ragged like he’s just sprinted across the entirety of the Shatterdome. The overhead lights catch the blue in his irises — the same eyes that you’ve stared down in every Ranger recruitment poster in Marmoreal. 

Hero. Saviour. Deliverer.

“Aglaea, I heard you—” His voice cuts off abruptly as his gaze lands on you. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, all at once.

You watch as a dozen different emotions flicker across his face — shock, anger, confusion — before his composure slams back into place. It doesn’t look as though Aglaea let him in on her grand plan, which is surprising, considering that he’s the main character in it.

“Ah, Phainon. Perfect timing,” Aglaea says, just a hint too pleasant. She rises, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her uniform as she does. “I was just telling (Name) here that the Shatterdome is huge, and not to get lost. Would you show her to the guest quarters?” Aglaea slides a keycard over the table. “She’ll need some rest before tomorrow’s NeuroSync.”

Phainon’s jaw works. He glances at you again. “We need to discuss—”

“That can wait till later.” Aglaea’s voice is smooth as silk, but could cut through steel. “Unless you’d like to explain to Hyacine why our only viable candidate passed out from exhaustion before we even begin?”

The two of them lock eyes for a few seconds before Phainon steps aside reluctantly, movements stiff with barely-restrained tension. “No, General.” He holds open the door for you as you gather your things, but his eyes remain on the ground. He doesn’t look at you. 

You make a point to finish all the tea in the cup before you leave. Aglaea only smiles as the door shuts behind you.

“All the best to you, (Name).”

Ranger: Ranger is the rank given to Pan Pacific Defense Corps officers assigned to the Jaegers. They are commonly referred to as Jaeger Pilots. Prior to piloting a Jaeger, all rangers are required to undergo multiple rounds of psychological evaluation and rigorous military training.

The walk to your quarters is silent. Phainon walks ahead of you without looking back. The silhouette of his shoulders are rigid beneath the dark fabric of his uniform, the golden sun at his neck barely peeking out over the folded collar. It’s clear that he isn’t in the mood to talk.

So you do. Let the quiet stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before you break it.

“So,” you drawl, deliberately quickening your step to keep pace with him. “How’s it possible that the great Deliverer can’t find a single partner? What, does your charm and pretty face not work in the Drift?”

Phainon’s shoulders tense, but he keeps walking. Maybe even speeds up a little.

You press harder, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “Or is it that no one can stand being in the same head as that hero complex of yours? Must be embarrassing. Aglaea’s scraping the bottom of the barrel so hard that she had to dig me out of a prison cell—”

“That’s enough.” He whirls around so suddenly that you nearly collide face first with his chest. Up close, he’s all sharp angles and controlled anger — eyes almost molten golden under the harsh lights. There’s a hint of a bruise at his jawbone, faint, barely there, but there. 

You don’t remember that from the news reels. What’s he been fighting, the Loch Ness Monster?

“This isn’t some game,” he bites out, voice low enough that the techs passing by glance over, exchange glances and hurry away. “Hundreds and thousands of lives are in danger. People die. Every day we don’t have a Jaeger in the field is another city in Amphoreus on the brink. But no, you wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I understand,” you interrupt, stepping closer. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic — oil? blood? — clings to him. “You need this. The Deliverer title must be getting rusty, huh? That’s why I’m here.”

His breath catches. You see it — the minute fracture in his control, the way his fingers twitch at his side like he’s physically restraining himself. 

“You think I want you here?” His voice is rough, stripped raw. “I didn’t even know Aglaea went to look for you. I didn’t have a—”

“Choice?” You laugh, sharp and hollow and humourless. “You’ve always had a choice, Phainon. You just hate the one that you have left.”

For a heartbeat, you think his composure— that perfect, polished, military composure — might finally snap after all those years. But then his jaw clenches, and he turns on his heel with surgical precision. “Your room,” he mutters, gesturing at a nondescript door like he can’t stand to look at you another second.

The space inside is, at least, a little nicer than what you’d expected. A cot, wide enough for you to stretch out on. Sheets in the same, standard shade of military regulation green. The hint of a lingering sting of disinfectant in the air. Aside from that, the room is bare. Impersonal. Empty.

You sink onto the mattress, springs groaning in protest, and stare at the ceiling. Outside, Phainon’s footsteps fade down the hall.

“Guess I’m stuck here,” you mutter to the blank walls, “because you still can’t stop playing the hero.” As usual, they don’t bother replying.

At least some things never change.

An hour after he leaves, Phainon returns to Aglaea’s office.

She barely glances up from her dossier when he does, takes a sip from the teacup in her hand. “Good afternoon, Phainon,” she says mildly, flipping a page with deliberate calm. Like she’d expected him to show up again. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You brought her here.”

Aglaea doesn’t seem bothered by his accusatory tone. “I did,” she admits easily. “You asked me to get her out of prison, didn’t you?”

Phainon runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, grimacing in frustration. “You know that this isn’t what I meant. A ranger, Aglaea?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Aglaea finally sets down the dossier in her hands, looks at him — really looks at him. She gestures to the wall of monitors displaying report dashboards — kaiju attack patterns, evolving faster than they can keep up, the steadily dropping public approval ratings ever since three years ago. “The numbers don’t lie, Phainon. The Jaeger program is expensive, and the people are not seeing the payoffs they expect. We’re losing this war on two fronts, now.”

Her tone is grim. Behind the cold eyes, the calm exterior, Phainon can see the worry. Everything she says is true, and Phainon wants — needs — nothing more than to be out there in a Jaeger. And yet…

“She didn’t sign up for this.” He’s not sure what means Aglaea used to persuade you, but Phainon is pretty sure that you’re not here by choice.

“None of us signed up for alien monsters to invade our world, but they did anyway.” Aglaea sighs, her expression softening marginally as she rises from her desk. “There are bigger things at stake here than you, or me, or…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “your past acquaintance. The people need a deliverer to put their hopes in, Phainon. They need to believe in something.”

Phainon’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the sound of the distant thrum of the Shatterdome’s machinery, the muffled buzz of people with things to do to keep the world from falling.

“I know,” he finally mutters. The words taste bitter in his mouth.

Aglaea nods, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of sympathy. “Just one NeuroSync test,” she assures him, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let her go unharmed. You have my word.”

The muscles in Phainon’s jaw work as he struggles with his own reservations. Finally, he snaps to attention and offers a sharp salute. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for my… insubordination.”

Aglaea gives him a faint smile. “Go get some rest, clear your head,” she orders him as she settles back in her chair. “Big day tomorrow, hm?”

Phainon presses his lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door slides shut behind him, Aglaea sighs and returns her attention to her reports. The display flickers ominously as another red alert pings in from the coast. Strange readings in the seabed, exotic matter, negative mass-energy density readings, blah blah blah. She glances down at her teapot, finds it empty, and switches over to a coffee pot instead.

Just another day, pushing back the end of the world. Doing what needs to be done.

NeuroSync: Jaegers are controlled by two, or rarely, three pilots stationed inside the Conn-Pod through a system called the Drift. To provide a more comprehensive estimate on drift compatibility, Dr Cyrene developed the Neural Handshake Synchronicity (NeuroSync) Scale with Professor Anaxagoras.

The knock on your door comes just after seven. Or 0700 hours, according to the clock next to your cot. Damn military… You’re already awake — the unfamiliar environment and bed had seen to that. You’d spent the night staring at the ceiling fan whirring overhead, replaying every word Phainon had said yesterday in your head, counting down the minutes until this farce began.

Which is now, apparently. You throw your keycard at the door and pump your fist when it hits the scanner, makes a little beep, light flashing green. “Come in.”

Instead of the stone-faced soldier you’re expecting, the door swings open to reveal… a child. She can’t be more than ten, looks uncannily similar to the other girl you’d seen at the runway yesterday — Trianne, was it? — and her blue eyes wide under the brim of a comically oversized PPDC cap. The sleeves of her miniature jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbows, exposing arms dotted with illegible marker stains. 

She beams at you, and it’s like staring straight on into the sun. “Hey!” She waves at you, still sitting on the edge of your bed. “I’m Tribbie, and I’m here to bring you for your NeuroSync!” She announces this like she’s taking you on a field trip to the amusement park and not what will likely be the most violating experience of your life. “I’ll show you to the K-Science department so you won’t get lost. The Shatterdome is huge!”

You open your mouth to question every workplace safety regulation in existence before clamping it shut. You should know better than to question the military by now. “Let me guess — you’re Trianne’s sister?”

Tribbie smiles, wide. It’s… adorable, really. “Yup! There’s three of us — Trianne, Trinnon, and me!” She holds up three fingers. “But Trinnon’s a little shy, so it’s hard to find her sometimes. She hopes you enjoyed the tea she made yesterday, though!”

You follow her through the maze of interconnecting corridors. Every door looks the same, every hallway it opens too looks like an extension of the one just came from. But Tribbie walks through all of it with the easy confidence of someone who knows that they belong here. The janitors pause in their work to return her waves. A grizzly mechanic slips her what looks like a candy from his pocket.

“You’re popular,” you observe aloud. “Did you grow up here?”

Tribbie just shakes her head. “Only since Mama and Papa died. Aggy took us in after Januspolis fell.” She skips ahead to press her tiny palm against a biometric scanner before you can ask any more. 

The scanner flashes green, and the doors to K-Science slide open. There’s a funky smell in the air — chemicals, formaldehyde, something else. The floor tiles, which look like they were once supposed to be white, are stained a permanent yellow. It’s slightly sticky underfoot. Ew.

The lab itself is an organised chaos. Wall screens flicker with rotating kaiju anatomy models — you recognise a few. Cocolia, the Cat III that had attacked Belobog a few years back. They zoom in on Hoolay’s claws, each one as long as a school bus. It had taken two of the Xianzhou’s Mark-3 Jaegers to finally put that beast down, and even then, it’d taken hours and the city of Yaoqing had taken significant damage. Last you heard, they were still trying to repair the Caelorum Venti Pavilion.

You glance at the sides. Specimen jars line the shelves, murky fluids preserving an uncountable range of tissue samples. And at the center of it all, a pink haired woman in a stained lab coat stands over a dissection table, her goggled face uncomfortably close to the wrinkled grey mass in front of her.

“Dr Hyacine! I’ve brought the test subject!” Tribbie announces.

The scientist — Hyacinthia, it says so on her lab coat — doesn’t look up. “One moment, just… there!” There’s a wet squelch, and she straightens up, holding a glistening strand of tissue from the mess. “Beautiful. Tribbie, would you label this for me? Thermoreceptor nerve cluster, sample K-425.”

As Tribbie scrambles onto a stool to reach the labelling machine, Hyacine finally notices you. She pushes her goggles up, leaving a comical ring of clean skin around her eyes. She’s pretty. And cute. Pretty cute. And that blue stuff doesn’t look like kaiju blue, at least… “Oh, you must be the new candidate that Aglaea was talking about!” She holds out a gloved hand, glances down at the mystery mix of chemicals staining the rubber and retracts it.  “Sorry for the mess. We’re prepping samples for the Penacony lab.”

You glance at the dissection table. “Secondary brain? From how well it’s been preserved, must have been a recent one… Terravox?”

Hyacine blinks from where she’s tossing her gloves into the bin. “You know kaiju biology.” She sounds surprised.

You shrug, suddenly awkward. Your experience with the black market harvesters had taught you to identify the valuable parts quickly. “Just a side interest of mine,” you mutter, glancing at the secondary brain again. You wonder if anyone has tried Drifting with a kaiju brain before. “So, um. How does this NeuroSync thing work?”

“Right!” Hyacine claps her hands together. “Well. The NeuroSync equipment’s set up in the clean room.” She gestures to a sealed chamber at the back of the lab. “We’re just waiting on—”

The doors slide open again with a hiss of compressed air. Phainon is standing there, in the doorway. Speak of the devil.

“Phainon!” Hyacine smiles brightly, and you catch Phainon’s lips twitch upwards — he still smiles??? — in response. “Good morning. Ready for your NeuroSync?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And you count two seconds before his eyes find yours and he just frowns, like it’s instinctive. You square your shoulders and stare back at him, refusing to look away. He doesn’t say hi. Neither do you.

The silence stretches. Hyacine’s smile falters as she looks between the two of you, before she awkwardly claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Let’s get the two of you started.”

Hyacinthia: Hyacinthia, or Hyacine for short, is a kaiju biologist who works in the K-Science lab of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She is also the head of the Okhema Shatterdome's Psychology Department, holding degrees in both Neurology and Psychology.

The clean room is anything but. While free of kaiju viscera, the space bears the scars of countless experiments — scorch marks on the console, a patched hole in the ceiling. And there’s a persistent smell of burnt wiring… 

Two medical chairs, like the kind that you’d see at the dentist, sit in the center, headpieces a trailing nest of cables. You eye it suspiciously as you take a seat on the one closest to the door. Not that running would do you any good. But still, it’s the damn principle of the thing.

“Don’t worry,” Hyacine says, as she rushes around to set up, fingers fluttering over the settings on the main console. The screen lights up. “This is just a compatibility estimate. Think of it as mental speed dating.” Phainon coughs. “Or… like a high-five instead of a handshake.” At your blank look, she amends. “A lightweight neural connection. No full drift, just enough to measure potential sync levels.”

Tribbie, upon seeing the look on your face, tries to reassure you, bless her heart. “It doesn’t hurt! Or, well, that’s what I heard, at least.”

You close your eyes and wonder if your health insurance covers brain damage from drifting with your childhood friend turned enemy.

Phainon takes his seat with that same calm composure, his jaw set. Says his pleases and thank yous and even smiles as Hyacine carefully fits the neural sensors to his temples. It’s like they’ve got a whole different man in that chair. 

Only when Hyacine goes back to check the readings on the console that you see his fingers twitch on the armrests — the only outward sign of his discomfort. You stifle a snort. Still trying to play the hero.

“Problem, Deliverer?” you ask, sarcastically.

His gaze flickers over to you, but he doesn’t respond. Just fixes his eyes forward again with that stubborn determination of a man who hasn’t given up for the past three years.

Hyacine steps over to you next, her touch surprisingly gentle as she positions the sensors. The electrodes stick uncomfortably to your skin. “This might feel a little strange at first. Like someone’s standing a bit too close in an empty room. Or like someone’s whispering directly into your ear.”

None of those things sound very attractive or comforting to you, but Hyacine is already stepping away, fiddling with the controls. The system initialises, and you start to feel a low hum building in your skull. It spreads outwards like seismic waves, until there's a high-pitched oscillating whine vibrating through your molars. You barely have time to register the discomfort before it—

Pressure.

It shifts, expands. Not against your skin, not against your head, but directly into your mind. Like it’s pressing against the boundaries of your very self. And you feel it there, Phainon’s consciousness on the very edge of that territory, lingering. 

Hesitant.

Before you can figure out why, the drift surges. Like waves beneath your feet, a riptide yanking you out to sea. Your breath catches in your throat. And suddenly, you’re—

— standing in a crowd. Blue and white balloons rain down all around you, in the packed plaza. Cheering so loud, you can’t hear your own thoughts.

A sea of faces in front of you — no, him? — indistinguishable. Phainon grips Cyrene’s hand behind the conference table, feels her pat his sweaty palm reassuringly. His heart is a raging wardrum in his chest—

— You see him, both of them, golden and gleaming in their new Ranger uniforms. The reporter hands him a microphone, you watch his mouth shape words you can’t quite make out. One drop, two kaiju solo, first mission.

His eyes scan the crowd. The reporter asks him a question he doesn’t remember responding to. Surely if you were still alive, then surely, you would—

— The crowd surges, cheering. “Heroes!” You stare up at the stage. Elevated. Unreachable. That hollow feeling in your chest clenching around nothing.

Where are you? Fear wraps itself like a fist around his throat, burns like the sun tattooed into the side of his neck. A reminder. A promise. Please, where are you—

— And then you turn your back on him, on them and—

The memory fractures like glass as you slam your mental defenses shut with enough force to make the neural feedback alarms wail. Your whole body jerks out of the seat as the connection severs with a sound like tearing metal in your head.

Across from you, Phainon gasps, his pupils blown wide. He’d seen it too, that fractured moment of you walking away. But not why. Never why.

Hyacine panics in her mother tongue as three different monitors flatline all at once. “Gods! I said neural high-five, not neural warfare!” Her hands fly over the keys.

Tribbie, wide-eyed and mouth open, points at the main screen where the compatibility readout flickers erratically. You rip your headset off your head, look up to see the results with your heart pounding in your chest.

[NEURAL COMPATIBILITY: 26% — LOW SYNCHRONIZATION]

[SYNC STABILITY: LOW]

You’re panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile, taste copper on your tongue. The afterimage of that press conference, the dirty back alleys that you’d retreated back into, still pulses behind your eyes. The way you’d—

No. That memory stays buried.

Phainon pulls off his own headset, staring at you with something dangerously close to realisation. He doesn’t even look at the screen. “You were there,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is low and certain.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Everyone in Okhema was there, Deliverer.”

His blue eyes burn with an emotion you can’t quite decipher, but he doesn’t press. The not-quite lie hangs between the two of you, thin as the neural gel still dripping from the sensors. He knows. Not the whole truth, not the reasons that still ache like a bruise against your ribs, but too much.

It will always be too much.

You’re really starting to get sick of Aglaea’s office.

It feels like the kind of place where warmth goes to die. And now, you feel like you might just keel over from the trepidation too, as Aglaea studies the results on one of the displays behind her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her expression is inscrutable — you can’t tell whether she’s surprised, excited, disappointed, anything. She doesn’t even speak. 

You decide to break the silence first. “26% scores in the incompatible range,” you manage to scrape up the courage to say. “I did what you said. Now let me go.”

Hyacine shifts uncomfortably next to you. Her fingers twist in the hem of her stained lab coat. “To be honest?” She gestures at the neural readouts. “No one’s maintained a neural link with Phainon for a minute before…”

“Which further proves we’re incompatible—”

Aglaea finally looks up from the display, raising an eyebrow. “Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold.” What? Fuck. She swipes through a few readings, expands a graph that looks like waves and turns it towards you as if you can make sense of any of it. “These readings don’t indicate incompatibility. In fact, the NeuroSync was gaining until this point,” she taps at a drop in the graph, “which shows an active deliberate rejection.”

The blue light reflects in her eyes as she leans forward. “Tell me — is it the idea of seeing into his mind that scares you? Or are you more afraid of what he might see in yours?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent marks when you suddenly feel the phantom warmth of a hand on yours — a memory, perhaps? But not yours.

“I don’t want him in my head,” you repeat through gritted teeth, louder this time. “That should be enough. Don’t I have rights?”

“A civilian would, perhaps,” Aglaea concedes, sitting back in her chair. “But you’re not just any civilian, and this isn’t just a civilian matter.” She steeples her fingers. “We’ll try again in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I advise you to consider taking a walk around the Shatterdome. Perhaps some of the people who work here will inspire you. Tribbie will show you around tomorrow.” The redhead beams, gives you a thumbs up that feels out of place in this grim atmosphere. “You may return to your quarters for now.”

You stand up stiffly. Not like you have much of a choice, now. 

As the door opens, Aglaea speaks one more time. “Think carefully. The world needs Phainon in a Jaeger. And right now, whether you like it or not, you’re the only key we have to make it happen.”

The door slides shut behind you, sealing Aglaea’s decision in like a stone rolled over a tomb. You stare at it for a few seconds before you exhale sharply, rolling the tension from your shoulders — only to freeze when you see him.

Phainon stands against the wall opposite, arms crossed, blue eyes tracking your every movement. He must have been waiting the entire time. For you?

Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold, Aglaea had said. What exactly had been so bad about it? It can’t be because the two of you are actually drift compatible, can it? Or did you just not hit the threshold needed for all his… hero complex trauma to bash your subconscious to pieces?

Neither of you speaks, for a long moment. The hum of the Shatterdome’s machinery fills the silence between you, a low persistent thrum that vibrates through the building, like the breathing of a giant, concrete beast.

And then—

“Would it really be so terrible?”

His voice is quieter than you expect. Not angry, not demanding. Just… hurt. You stiffen.

“What?”

“Having me in your head.” He pushes off the wall, taking a single step towards you. Too close. “You fought the drift like it was poison. Like I was—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I just want to know why.”

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed like a live wire. You don’t have an answer.

Or perhaps you have too many. But the words stick in your throat, choking you. Nothing comes out.

You turn away, towards the hallway’s dim lighting. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

Phainon’s hand shoots out, catching your wrist before you can leave. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm — enough to make you stop. His skin is warm against yours. So, so warm. He looks at you, something almost resembling pleading in his eyes.

“It matters to me,” he whispers, his voice low and fierce. 

For a heartbeat, you almost believe that. 

Then reality crashes back. Right. Of course it matters to him. Not because of you— not because of whatever broken history you’ve shared between the two of you, but because he needs a co-pilot. Because not even the great Deliverer can save this world alone.

The realisation hits like ice water being dumped over your head. You wrench your wrist out of his grip, his warmth lingering like a molten brand against your skin. 

“Then you should’ve been more compatible with someone else,” you say flatly.

His expression crumples — just for a second, you see hurt behind those blue eyes — before the mask of a perfect soldier slips back into place.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and walk away, shoes echoing in the corridor. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, shadows pooling in the corners like ink.

Behind you, Phainon doesn’t follow.

The Ranger baths are one of the Shatterdome’s few luxuries — a concession for the pilots who regularly climb into giant machines to beat up giant aliens in the name of saving the world. Steam curls in thick tendrils along the vaulted ceilings before being sucked out through the vents, a constant hum. The water, treated with salts and minerals to replicate the composition of EdoStar’s famous hot springs, glow faintly blue under the light.

Some swear that the baths have healing properties, that they can leach even neural fatigue from a pilot’s mind. Phainon isn’t sure he believes that — Professor Anaxa certainly doesn’t — but right now, he’ll take any reprieve he can get.

He sinks deeper into the scalding water, letting the heat work its way into his tight shoulders. But no amount of steam or heat can soften the way your words had cut earlier, like a knife sliding between his ribs.

“I don’t want him in my head!”

The memory of your voice, sharp with revulsion, echoes in his skull like a bad neural feedback loop. He exhales sharply, smacks the water with his fist, watching the ripples distort his reflection on the surface.

The door creaks open without ceremony.

Mydei stands in the entrance, dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, crimson tattoos on full display. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Phainon.

“You’re here,” he observes, tone flat as if commenting on the weather.

Phainon attempts a smile of acknowledgement, barely gets halfway before he fails and just kind of… grimaces. Mydei’s other eyebrow joins the first. 

“That bad, huh?” He steps across the wet tiles, a smaller towel draped over one shoulder, and sinks into an adjacent bath with a splash that sends water sloshing over the edges.

For a long moment, the only sound is of the distant hum of the filtration system, and the steady drip of condensation from the vents above. Then Phainon’s watch chimes. A message from Hyacine flashes across the display.

[Second round of NeuroSync scheduled two days from now.]

It’s followed by:

[All the best! Don’t let today get you down!]

Phainon throws his head back, feels the migraine building in his skull. No amount of forced tests will change the fundamental truth: you don’t want him in your head. And the thought of having to coerce you into it sits like a stone in his gut.

“Heard they NeuroSynced you today with someone Aglaea scraped off the streets,” Mydei says, leaning back against the stone edge casually and golden eyes watching him very, very carefully. Phainon sighs, sinks a little more into the water.

“I’d forgotten how fast word travels around here.”

“Thousands of people jam packed into a single building…” Mydei shrugs, sending ripples across the water. “Not like there’s much else happening in the Shatterdome.” His eyes flick to Phainon. “Though the General was… vague, about the results.”

A beat. Phainon stares at the ceiling, where the droplets gather and fall in a slow rhythm. Again and again.

“It didn’t go great,” he admits.

Mydei studies him. “You sound… reluctant. That’s odd. I thought you’d be clawing at the chance to get back in a Jaeger.”

He exhales through his nose, watches the steam curl along the water’s surface. “It’s… complicated.” The word feels inadequate, but nothing else quite fits.

Mydei’s expression shifts ever so subtly — a slight narrowing of his eyes, the barest tilt of the head. He’s always been quick to catch on, to understand. Too quick, sometimes. “Ah.” He leans back against the stone edge, arms spread along the rim. “So it’s that person.”

Phainon grimaces. “Too obvious?”

“You’ve only ever called one thing in your life complicated.” Mydei rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Can’t say I’m surprised Aglaea went digging for her. With your track record, I thought she’d have better luck finding a kaiju that wanted to drift with you.” That familiar smirk returns. “So? How was drifting with the hero of your heart?”

The old nickname lands like a poorly thrown punch. The hero of his heart. Gods, he had used to think that way of you. You were the reason he’d ever joined the Ranger program in the first place, after Aedes Elysiae had fallen and taken everything he’d known and loved with it. And now… now it all just…

“Pretty terrible,” Phainon murmurs, the confession escaping him before he can think of any other way to put it. “She rejected the neural link before we could even establish a proper sync.”

The memory surface, unbidden. The press conference after that first victory in Kephale, the parade through Okhema’s streets. The desperate, foolish hope that had lodged in his chest, like something fragile pushing through concrete: if you were out there, you would see this. They were on every television screen, their faces plastered across every news report in Amphoreus. You would see them. You would come find them, and—

You hadn’t.

Phainon had only found you years later. 

They’d been rumours first. A skilled kaiju parts smuggler working with the Theoros Lygus, who had been one of Aglaea’s biggest headaches — still is, actually. Just another criminal, they’d said at first. Except this one had a wicked expertise in dismantling kaiju. Except this one was sniffing dangerously close to international levels of crime. Except this one…

Had a name he recognised.

He’d gone to see for himself. The prison’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound like static in his skull. And then, you.

Alive.

The realisation had hit like a shotgun round to the chest. They’d mourned you. Held a memorial with an empty casket just for the two of them — everyone else who’d known you was long gone. And yet, here you sat, on the cold cement floor, face bruised black and blue and still smiling sharp enough to draw blood.

“Phainon,” you’d said upon seeing him, voice so familiar yet utterly changed. It’d wrapped like a noose around his name. “Fancy meeting you here. Seeing each other like this… fate definitely has some sense of humour, eh?”

He’d gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white, trying to reconcile the ghost from his memories with the reality in front of him. The hero of his heart… Where was the kid who’d patched his scraped knees with chimera bandaids when he’d fallen chasing kites? The one who’d pretended not to be scared of spiders to comfort Cyrene as she cried?

The softness was gone, the spaces left behind filled with something sharp, jagged. Leaving behind someone he could barely recognise. Maybe you did die that day Aedes Elysiae fell. Just… not the way he’d thought.

“Look at you now,” you’d said, gestured at him in mock presentation. “All grown up and shiny and heroic. The great Deliverer, gracing us common criminals with his presence.”

The words had hit him like punches. Your eyes — gods, they were the worst part. Still the same colour, but hardened into something cold and glittering. Unrepentant. Unrecognisable.

The words had tumbled out before he could stop them. I can get you out of here. Come— come with me. We can give you a fresh start.

Please.

You’d looked at him then — really looked at him — with eyes that held none of the warmth he remembered. “I don’t need any saving,” you’d answered. “Especially not from some PPDC poster boy playing hero.”

But now, he knows. You’d been there. The drift — however brief, disjointed, fractured it was — had shown him that much. That fractured moment: you, standing at the crowd’s edge, just… watching. Then, turning away.

Why? Why do this? The question burns hotter than the waters, clinging like the steam to his skin. He doesn’t understand.

Mydei’s voice pulls him back to the present. “That’s normal, isn’t it? Not wanting someone in your head.”

Phainon blinks. He’s gotten lost in his thoughts again. “Eh?”

“Drifting is… intimate.” Mydei’s face contorts at the word like he’s bitten into something sour. “I don’t think anyone wants a stranger poking around in their head. Hell, I barely wanted Cassie in mine, when we first started out. That’s probably not something you’re familiar with, considering that Cyrene knew what you looked like in diapers.” Phainon opens his mouth and Mydei holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m aware that this one happens to be your childhood friend too. But I wouldn’t exactly call the two of you friends now.”

He’s right. Phainon stares at his distorted reflection in the water for a few moments, watching the way steam warps his features. “How did it go? For you and Castorice?”

Mydei almost grins at that. “I was your typical hothead ranger recruit. Volunteered for the initial test phases of NeuroSync. Cas was a nerd from the Neuroscience department. She was so soft spoken, I thought she’d crack under the pressure.” His smile turns into a smirk, almost proud. “Turns out she has the stubbornness of a kaiju and the patience of a saint. Don’t think we would have made it work otherwise.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch against the tiles. “Still hit 82% sync, though.” He hasn’t seen a number higher than twenty in months.

You have baggage, Hyacine had told him, during one of his monthly psychology evaluations. Gods, he knows. But everyone has some kind of baggage, some way or another. Phainon just needs to find a way to stuff it away, bury it until he can be useful again. There are people out there who need him.

“Eventually. Took some communication and effort, too.” Mydei’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “Wasn’t about liking each other. Just… understanding.” He taps his temple. “She sees the shit up here and doesn’t flinch. I see hers and don’t judge.”

“Guess Cyrene and I had it on easy mode,” Phainon murmurs. They’d been as tight as siblings long before they’d ever stepped foot into a Conn-Pod.

Gods, he misses her. Her easy humour, the teasing. The way she’d known exactly when to push and when to comfort. Cyrene had always been the smarter, more emotionally aware one of the two of them — she’d have had you both laughing over drinks by now. 

She would have been so happy to see you here, too. But the opportunity has passed, sailed on by on the river of time. And there’s no point in crying over something that has already happened. The only thing he can do is what’s in front of him right now.

The silence stretches, only punctuated by the quiet sound of water rippling. Mydei watches him for a few moments, before he suddenly speaks up.

“Fifty credits says I can outlast you in this bath.”

Phainon blinks, and then huffs a laugh. It’s hardly a subtle attempt to take his mind off things, but… “That’s not a fair bet and you know it. I’ve been stewing here since shift change.”

“What’s the matter, Deliverer?” Mydei’s grin turns sharp. “Scared of a little heat?”

The challenge makes Phainon snort. He rolls his eyes, but settles deeper into the water until it laps at his chin. “You’re on.”

For the first time all day, the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.

[bakughoust]

— RETROGRADE ⟢

you’re a fugitive with forbidden magic in your blood, hunted by the masked killer known as the flame reaver. but when a chase ends with a fall that leaves his memory shattered, you’re left to deal with what’s left behind—a clueless man with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

★ featuring; phainon x f!reader

★ word count; 17k words

★ tags; alternate universe, bounty hunter phainon, enemies to lovers, amnesia, slow burn, survivor's guilt, angst, eventual smut, blood and violence

★ notes; for the first time ever: user kaientai cryoculus posts a fic on tumblr the same day they dropped it on ao3 <3 NO THANKS to the 3.4 trailblaze quest. we don't talk about her. this fic probably isn't any better angst wise but we do what we gotta do to cope with whatever shit shaoji puts us through, yes?

READ ON AO3

DIRECTORY: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE

I. THE WAXING

There’s a fire in the hearth, burning low and smoky—more ember than flame with each quiet crackle. Inside the tavern, the air hangs thick with the scent of stale drinks, pine soot, and damp wool. Somewhere near the door, a dog lies curled against its master’s boot, half-asleep and steaming faintly from the snowmelt clinging to its fur.

The village is nameless to most, forgotten by the empire’s maps, remembered only by the ones who stay behind. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Widows. Hunters with crooked teeth and mouths full of tales. In a place like this, stories have more weight than anything else. They settle in your bones and linger in the corners of the room like smoke that will not lift.

“I heard he leaves no ashes behind,” an old man near the hearth says, his voice like something clawed from the bottom of a chimney. “Nothing but shadow scorched into the ground, like even the fire doesn’t want to remember what it touched.”

“And I heard,” adds the woman beside him, cradling a mug between hands reddened by years of cold, “that he once burned through a storm somewhere in Thalara. The wind howled, the rain fell in sheets, and still the roof caught his flames anyway. An entire manor, gone before the lightning did the sky in.”

You lift your cup to your lips, slow and unhurried as you nod along. A few seats away, a boy too young to drink but too proud to admit it leans forward with his elbows on the splintered table.

“Do you all think it’s true? That he doesn’t speak, only kills,” the boy says, as though the thought thrills him. “Like a wolf who just can’t sate its own bloodlust?”

“A wolf?”

You haven’t spoken since you sat down in your creaky little barstool, but the scoff leaves your lips before you mean it to—equal parts dry and amused. Eyes flick toward your form, but no one looks too closely. After all, you’ve always played your part well. The traveler, the wanderer, the woman who’s stopped in from the road.

You tip your head slightly, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “Wolves don’t burn their prey.”

The boy frowns. His cheeks flush, but it’s the kind of irritation that passes quickly—youth making him pliable. “Alright, so what is he, then? A ghost?”

“Worse,” says the old man again, voice rasping through the low thrum of the fire. “Ghosts don’t chase you past the veil. This one does.”

The woman nods. “You can at least banish a ghost if you know its name. But no one’s ever gotten his. Not the real one, at least.”

You lower your gaze to your drink, letting the steam curl against your face. 

The conversation drifts, as it always does. Talk of the weather. Of soldiers moving through the southern pass. Of beasts in the highwoods, and girls gone missing near the old mines. But the name lingers in the smoke above their heads like something taboo:

The Flame Reaver.

You’ve heard it whispered in places colder than this. In border towns and outlaw dens, in forest clearings where old women still leave sprigs of sage on their doorsteps come nightfall. You’ve heard it enough times to know when to lower your eyes, when to tuck your hands out of sight, when to vanish before the smell of ash returns.

But tonight, in this nowhere town with its poor ale and quieter mouths, you stay a little longer.

Just to see if the stories have changed.

The snow falls softly by the time you leave the tavern. Flakes catch in your cloak, melting in your hair before the cold can find your skin. No one stops you. No one calls your name. To them, you were just another woman walking into the woods with her hood pulled low, and not much to fear.

Snow is a rare thing in Ashkarra.

This is a land born from fire—a continent carved from the mouth of an ancient caldera, its mountains black with cooled lava, its rivers warm even in winter. Most villages know only ashfall, soot storms, and the red heat that sleeps just beneath their soil. Cold is unwelcome here. The empire has long cultivated warmth as both weapon and law.

But here, in the highwoods near the province’s forgotten edge, something in the land resists. The altitude, perhaps, or the stubbornness of old trees that refuse to die. Whatever the reason, snow sometimes falls here—quiet and thin, like it never meant to exist in such a place at all. 

You take the old trails, not the well-known roads or the paths still marked with hunter’s flags. Your steps curve where the trees grow closer together, and the light doesn’t quite reach. Where memory clings thick beneath the bark and stone. The woods here breathe differently; older than conquest, older than the empire itself. You walk for what feels like hours before you find the hollow you’ve been searching for. 

Here, at last, you let yourself breathe.

Your campsite is nothing more than a fold in the earth—sheltered between the roots of a gnarled tree and the lip of an old stone ledge, where wind seldom reaches and moonlight scatters like dust. There is no fire to betray you, no canvas to catch a wandering scout’s eye. Only your cloak, thick and travel-worn, and the quiet comfort of distance.

You kneel in the snow and lay your palms flat against the ground, where the soil is cold, but not dead. Beneath the frost, something stirs—slow, ancient, drowsing deep in the roots and marrow of the land. You close your eyes and reach gently, not to take, but to ask.

Without hesitation, the earth listens.

Magic rises from the soil with a patient breath. Faint warmth seeps into your fingers as the Thread stirs—verdant and veined with gold like secrets passed from leaf to leaf. It winds between your knuckles like something alive, something that remembers you, and you guide it outward with unyielding grace.

It takes shape in mere seconds: the curve of your back, the dip of the hollow, the uneven scatter of pine needles across the snow. You weave light into shadow and presence into absence, until the world no longer sees you the way it should.

You aren’t invisible. That isn’t what the Thread does. It simply bends the gaze elsewhere, toward things that make more sense—a boulder, a trick of dusk, a patch of overgrown moss. Something forgettable. Someone unremarkable.

If a traveler passed within a hand’s breadth of where you lie now, they would pause only for a moment and keep walking. Not out of ignorance, but because their mind would simply choose not to look too closely. You’ve done this before. The spell hums in your chest like a heartbeat; long enough to know the cost of living as you are. 

But it still works, and that is enough.

You don’t remember the moment sleep takes you—only the weightless drift into stillness, the way the snow seemed to muffle even your thoughts, pressing them down beneath layers of earth and illusion. For a while, there is nothing but the gentle hush of snowfall piling in soft patterns overhead, and the distant ache of names you no longer speak aloud curling like smoke beneath your ribs.

They called you Princess in another life, back when Virelya still bloomed with wild apricot trees and pale glass towers. Before the empire came with fire braided into its banners and justice carved into the edge of their swords. Before the walls you were meant to inherit were swallowed whole by the very flames meant to cleanse you.

Your name had meant something then—heir to a kingdom built on rain and roots, daughter of spring, beloved of the bloom.

Now it lives only in rumors and half-remembered syllables clinging to the edges of worn parchment and bloodstained wanted boards. No longer a title, no longer a promise, but merely a mark. A bounty.

Sleep had been a mercy. It arrives only when you are too exhausted to fear what follows. But the waking is slower—less a return, and more a recognition that something in the air has changed. At first, it's barely noticeable. A tremble beneath your spellwork, a subtle pressure folding in on itself. The trees no longer sway. The wind has gone still. Even the snow, once gently falling, seems suspended in the branches above.

Yet, you feel it.

A presence.

It feels like the faintest unraveling at the edge of your magic’s weave, as though the forest has shifted to make space for something it does not trust. Your wards still hold, but they shiver faintly in your bones, drawn as taut as thread stretched too fine across a needle.

The scent reaches you next.

Not smoke, but something close. Something scorched and bitter, the aftertaste of iron and char. You’ve smelled it before—on the edges of blackened fields, where nothing grew back. When you open your eyes, there’s nothing in the clearing. No footprints. No broken twigs. No silhouette standing above you, cloaked in shadow or flame. The illusion still breathes quietly against your skin, but something has changed.

The Thread itself is well aware. It trembles as if some opposing force presses down on it, dulling its edge, unraveling its quiet trust in the shape of the world around you. You know better than to rise too quickly and disturb the silence. You’ve learned that the Reaver does not always announce himself. He moves like smoke, like something that should not be able to bleed, and yet somehow still leaves the world red behind him.

Weeks ago, in the marshlands north of Caerwyth Pass, you thought you’d lost him. Though barely, your illusions held fast, and when the glade was lit ablaze in deep black flames, you didn’t stop to see the ruin he left in his wake. Now, here in this snow-laden highwood, there is no fire—only heat simmering beneath the frost. 

And the unmistakable knowledge that you are not alone.

You keep your eyes open. Beneath your skin, the Thread coils tighter, each strand vibrating like a plucked string as it shifts and recalibrates, feeling the way the forest breathes around you and where it now refuses to breathe at all, until—

There.

You sense a break in the flow, subtle but distinct. There is no movement or sound, only absence. Your magic can no longer see through a patch of air just twenty paces north, where the trees are thick enough to hide things that do not belong. The Thread doesn’t tell you what waits there, but that alone tells you enough.

He doesn’t know you’re awake. He doesn’t know you’ve seen him.

So, you ease a hand toward the soil, fingertips brushing away the frost. Carefully, you slip the Thread deeper into the roots beneath you, sensing where the ground dips just out of sight, and the exact spots where the underbrush thickens. You feel the deer path just west of your hollow, the slope of ice-glazed stone that might catch a careless step. You stitch the memory of it all into a single thought:

Go.

Your limbs protest the movement—still stiff from stillness, heart already surging in your throat—but your body obeys before fear can win. You slip from your resting place like water through reeds, a whisper of movement beneath the cloak of magic before you run.

At first, there's no sound but your own breath and the crisp hush of snow and soil crushed beneath careful feet. But it doesn't take long before the forest erupts behind you.

A blast of heat tears through the clearing you left behind, searing through snow and spellwork alike. Branches snap from the force; bark splits open with the shock of sudden flame, but you know better than to meet death with your eyes wide open. The Flame Reaver doesn’t falter. He moves like he was forged in a god’s dying breath—his fire sharp as a blade, his blades as swift as lightning. He isn’t bound by the same terrain. He cuts through trees instead of turning from them. Roots that might trip any normal man simply burn to cinders underfoot.

But the forest is still yours.

Even this far from home, even half-starved and weary, even with your spells fraying under the pressure—the forest remembers you, and it answers.

You conjure up vines that shift subtly beneath the snow, giving way where you step as the branches overhead bend just enough to clear your path. The undergrowth ripples behind you, not quite forming a wall, but close enough to put some distance between you. However, it's incinerated in seconds as another surge of fire roars too close to your left. The heat sears past your cheek, glancing off a tree that erupts into flames behind you.

He isn’t aiming to kill you yet. He’s herding you. Toward what, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make your pace falter just for a moment.

And that moment is all he needs.

A blade whistles past, embedding itself in the trunk just ahead—a warning, or a miss by design. You lurch sideways as you veer sharply down a slope, barely catching yourself as snow gives way to slick stone and tangled ferns. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t even speak. You almost wish he would because at least then you’d know where he was.

But the Reaver was never trained to hunt like a man. He was made to hunt like a weapon, and tonight, his Ember Ledger waits to claim its final name.

Yours.

The slope steepens beneath your feet, slick with ice and shadow. You push harder as the air tears sharp in your throat, your cloak snapping behind you like the ragged tail of something being hunted. For a breathless moment, you think you might outpace him after all. Not because you’re faster, but because the forest keeps changing, twisting, and folding to meet your will as if some deep root still remembers the old pact made long before the empire took your name.

But then, the rhythm breaks.

A stone gives way beneath your boot. You stumble just enough to throw off your trajectory—and in that heartbeat of imbalance, the forest opens ahead into a ledge. The cliff appears too quickly, too suddenly. You almost go over, but your reflexes scream as you twist mid-stride, catching yourself on a jagged outcropping. Your fingers tear through frostbitten moss as your momentum drags you dangerously close to the edge. But you manage to stop before falling over the edge.

He doesn’t.

The Reaver bursts through the trees behind you like a shadow torn loose from the heart of a blaze. Too fast to slow, too relentless to care. He lunges for you with the certainty of someone who has never missed a mark in his life.

But the ground betrays him.

The stone crumbles underfoot with a thunderous crack, and he goes down in a flurry of motion—his dark cloak whipping behind him like a veil of shadows. He hits the slope hard, skidding across the uneven terrain and before disappearing over the cliff's edge without the slightest whisper of sound.

Silence wraps around you like snowfall on bare skin, thick and soundless and strange. The breath in your lungs stills. Even your heartbeat feels distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely. You remain crouched at the edge, one hand buried in frost, eyes scanning the ravine below without knowing what you’re looking for. The wind hisses through the pines like a warning, but all you hear is the memory of that final impact. 

No fire rises from the trees. No heat stirs the snow. There is no warning flicker of movement, no sharp scent of scorched air. 

Eventually, you rise.

Not because it’s safe or clever, but because something beneath your ribs—too human, too unkillable—drags your feet forward until you find yourself crouched again, this time at the very edge of the cliff, staring down into the hollow he’s carved with his fall.

And then, you see him.

Sprawled among the rocks like a statue cracked from its pedestal, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his body half-sunken into snow and stone. One arm is curled beneath him awkwardly, the other stretched toward a blade he didn’t get the chance to draw. His cloak is torn and tangled beneath him. That infamously obsidian mask sits shattered across the slope in two jagged pieces, as though the forest itself decided he no longer had the right to hide.

Your breath hitches when you see his face.

Because you’ve never thought of what the Reaver would look like behind the mask. You don’t know what you expected.

But it’s certainly not that.

Not the blood matting white hair to his temple. Not the pale lashes brushing cheekbone. Not the faint, perpetual frown still creased between his brows, etched so deeply it seems less an expression than a wound that never healed. You take it in slowly, unsure where recognition begins and dread ends. For all the fire and fury he’s carried, he looks…

Young.

Too young for what he’s done. Too human for what he’s become.

Not a wolf, not a myth forged in fire; just a man—broken, unconscious, bleeding into stone.

You curse under your breath.

You should leave. You want to leave. There is no logic in staying, no wisdom in kindness, no reason to waste your magic on the very blade pressed to your throat for the better part of a year. And yet, there’s a heaviness rising in your chest, an irritation so familiar it almost feels like grief. You know this version of yourself. The one who still flinches at the sight of blood. The one who still bends, even after everything.

By the time you realize you're moving, your feet have already committed the crime.

The climb is slow. Steep and slippery in the worst ways. You pull the Thread into your hands just enough to light the way, but not enough to make yourself obvious—not enough to tempt the sleeping gods of your regret. The rocks bite at your knees. Twigs claw at your wrists. Every snag of your cloak feels like the forest trying to hold you back.

But still, you descend.

When you reach him, he hasn’t moved. The angle of his limbs hasn’t shifted. His breathing, faint as it is, has not faltered. He lies as he fell—half-shrouded in dirt and snow, as if the mountain meant to swallow him whole and changed its mind at the last second. You crouch beside him, and press your fingers to his throat. 

The pulse you find is strong and insistent. Not the heartbeat of someone ready to die.

You exhale through your nose, and then, without looking at his face again, you call forth the Thread—letting it gather in the cradle of your palms, warm and luminous and reluctant. It does not like him. It knows what he’s done, and what he’ll do again, but it obeys you like it always has.

You press it into the worst of the wounds, watching as the green, gold-veined light slips beneath skin and cloth like moss returning to a ruined temple. You don’t bother with tenderness. You’re too angry for that. Too annoyed. Too tired.

This isn’t compassion or mercy. This is obligation—old and unwilling and so bitter it tastes like iron in your mouth. The Thread works quickly, but you don’t watch. Instead, you glance toward the slope above, where your escape still waits. The snow has already begun to fall again, delicate and silent like a blessing you do not deserve.

Still, you linger long enough to be furious with yourself.

Long enough to wonder what you’ll do if he wakes.

But not even five minutes into this understated reverie, you feel the Reaver’s breath catch. Your gaze flickers back, instinct tightening every muscle in your body, but it’s already too late.

He jolts upright with a guttural gasp, like a man dragged too fast from drowning sleep. His body curls inward, instinctively bracing against pain, and then his arm flails out to catch the ground with enough force to spray loose gravel. You pull back instantly, the Thread already coiling again at your fingertips, but he doesn’t move to reach for a weapon. Doesn’t move at all, really, save to clutch at his ribs with a quiet, strangled groan.

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet, and it takes a moment for the full weight of it to settle. Because you’re looking for fire. You’re bracing for that unholy heat, that unerring judgment, the blade that should’ve already been at your throat. But instead, you find… something else.

His expression shifts. Blank at first, then unfocused, as if the world around him hasn't quite settled into place. Confusion follows shortly as it softens the hard lines of his face. Worse than that, it’s open—the look of someone who hasn’t remembered how to lie. His brow furrows faintly before his gaze drops—to your hands, to the Thread still glowing dimly between your palms, to the snow-draped trees beyond. He squints at the light like it stings.

“...Where am I?”

He tries to shift again, but fails with a wince. His hand rises to his temple, fingers coming away red. He stares at the blood for a long moment before lowering it, and when he speaks again, it’s not the voice of a killer.

“Did you…” He pauses, swallows. “Did you bring me here?”

You say nothing, even as your magic pulses uncertainly at your fingertips.

His gaze flickers to the slope where his mask lies in two jagged pieces, black as coal against the snow. To the blade still sheathed beside him. And then, hesitantly, back to you.

“I don’t—” He swallows hard. “I don’t remember...”

A lie. It has to be. Perhaps he’s learned that if he means to kill you, it’ll take more than brute force.

But even the Thread doesn’t recoil.

The look on his face—confused, wary, flickering faintly with fear—is not one you've ever seen on the Flame Reaver. There is no glint of recognition in his eyes. No sign he remembers the dozens of times he’s hunted you. No trace of the weapon the empire carved him into.

Only the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, wide and unguarded in a face that, until now, had only ever belonged to your nightmares.

And somehow, that unsettles you more than any blade ever could.

You don’t stay long after the healing takes. Just enough to ensure he won’t bleed out on the rocks—then you drag him into a tucked-away thicket at the edge of the forest’s spine. There’s a hollow there, sheltered from the worst of the wind, thick with bramble and moss-covered stone.

By the time you’ve bound his wrists, he’s already stirring again, limbs heavy and useless but expression shifting between groggy and bewildered.

“Don’t try anything,” you mutter, adjusting the knots.

He blinks at you slowly, as though he’s just now processing the cold. His lashes are pale, and the streak of blood above his brow is drying unevenly. “Anything like what?”

You ignore him.

“You’re tying me up,” he adds after a moment. “Did I try to hurt you?”

You glance up sharply, but his gaze is too earnest. Too baffled.

Gods, he really does look like a kicked dog.

“Not yet,” you say, voice dry. “But I’d rather not give you the chance.”

He frowns. “You saved me.”

“I’m regretting it.”

He’s quiet after that, head tilted like he’s trying to solve a riddle that keeps changing its shape. The bindings around his wrists shift faintly as he tests their give, but not seriously. Not like someone trying to escape. More like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Then, softly, “You used… something on me. Back there.”

You glance at him from where you crouch, gathering a handful of dry moss and tucking it beneath the kindling you’ve managed to scrape together. You don’t answer.

He doesn’t seem deterred.

“It wasn’t light,” he muses. “Didn’t feel like it, anyway. Too warm. Too—” He trails off, searching for the word. “Alive.”

You pause, then shove the flint against the steel with a little more force than necessary. Sparks jump, catching on the moss.

“I’m not going to thank you, if that’s what you want,” he says after a beat, and it’s not unkind. Just honest. “I don’t even know what you did.”

You don’t look up. “Good. I don’t want your thanks.”

He shifts again, scooting very slightly closer to the fire with a grimace. His arms stay bound, resting in his lap.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I do. Just not to you.”

“Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

That earns a soft huff that almost sounds like a laugh, making you risk a glance in his direction. He’s not smiling, but there’s the ghost of something like it—bemusement, maybe. Or curiosity. It should irritate you more than it does, but the blue of his eyes does its job in disarming you in more ways than one.

He tilts his head again. “Did I deserve it?”

You frown. “Deserve what?”

“The fall.”

You study him for a long moment, then say, “You deserved worse.”

He nods slowly, almost in acceptance. “Did we know each other?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“…Did I try to kill you?”

You level him with a look. “That’s three questions too many.”

He lifts his bound hands a little. “Hard to shut up when my wrists are tied and have a head full of nothing.”

“Try harder.”

He settles back, exhaling a slow breath, steam curling from his lips. For a while, there’s only the quiet crackle of the fire as the wind rustles faintly through the bramble above. You sit back on your heels, fingers hovering over the Thread curled warm and sullen in your palms, still humming low from earlier. 

He’s silent for a moment longer, blinking slow at the firelight like it holds answers. Then, without looking at you—

“…Do you know my name?”

You don’t respond right away. You press your palms into your knees instead, feeling the dull throb of magic still warming beneath your skin. He casts you a sidelong glance. Not exactly pleading—he doesn’t seem like the type to beg—but there’s a question in his gaze all the same. One that doesn’t ask who am I? But who was I to you?

“If you don’t stop asking questions, I’ll knock you out again and figure out how to sew your mouth shut with bramble.”

That earns another breathy little huff, and for some reason, that shakes you worse than any weapon might have. Because you’ve seen what he is. You’ve run from what he is. The Flame Reaver doesn’t laugh or smile or blink at a stranger like he’s trying to memorize the way she breathes.

Still, you wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin in between.

“Phainon.”

His head tilts. “What?”

You don’t meet his eyes. “Your name. That’s what I’m calling you.”

He’s quiet for only a moment.

“Phainon,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting it. He turns it over in his mouth like it might spark some memory, but none comes. Instead, he just murmurs, “That’s… strange.”

“Then it suits you.”

Another pause. “Does it mean something?”

You shrug, poking the fire with a stick just to keep your hands busy. “A lot of things.”

You don’t tell him it was the name of the morning star in an old Virelyan dialect. That it once belonged to a celestial wanderer, cast down from heaven and bound to walk the world in flames. You don’t tell him it came to your mind the moment you saw his eyes in the dark.

Instead, you say flatly, “Go to sleep.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t argue. He only lowers his bound hands to his lap again and leans back against the mossy rock with a quiet breath. His lashes dip shut as the wind picks up a little, brushing snow from the branches above. Still, you sit up long after his breathing settles, just to make sure he stays asleep. Just to be sure he doesn’t wake up and remember what he was.

Because you don’t know which would be worse:

The Flame Reaver coming back to kill you—

Or Phainon looking at you with those deep blue eyes again.

Serrek’s Reach isn’t the kind of place meant for fugitives. The hills here roll soft and slow beneath the sun, covered in terraces of sage and myrtle that sway like waves in the wind. The air smells sharp with seasalt carried in from the coast not far beyond the southern cliffs.

But for now, it’s safe enough.

Locals call the village you’ve stopped in Crosspine, after the gnarled old tree standing at its center, where four roads meet. It’s a place for traders passing through the Reach, too small for maps and too stubborn to vanish entirely. A cluster of whitewashed stone houses huddled beneath clay rooftops, ringed by gardens and low walls, its streets twisting through shaded groves and shallow streams.

Here, news moves faster than travelers do.

Which makes it exactly the kind of place you shouldn’t linger in.

Yet here you are, halfway through the market at Crosspine’s southern square, weaving through stalls of fruit and leather, with Phainon still trailing after you like a tether that refuses to snap.

He’s too tall to blend in properly, too broad-shouldered, too pale in a way that draws the eye no matter how many layers you’ve shoved him into. The hood you forced him to wear casts enough shadow to hide the worst of it, but not quite enough. You can still feel him lingering two steps behind, watching your every move with that same stubborn focus that has followed you since the highwoods.

You try to ignore it.

You pretend not to notice the stares, the way people glance between the two of you, murmuring under their breath like they’re already halfway through writing the story themselves. Lovers, surely. Or bodyguard and mistress. Or something worse.

It’s when you stop to buy bread that it happens.

“Ah,” the vendor says, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the looming shadow behind you, voice thick with amusement. “You’re lucky to have a man so devoted, miss. Won’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second.”

You freeze.

Phainon, to his credit—or perhaps his complete lack of self-awareness—just tilts his head faintly, like he isn’t quite sure what’s been said. He’s still watching you, calm and patient, as if this entire exchange is nothing more than a passing breeze.

You let out a sharp, awkward laugh and slam down a few extra coins with more force than necessary.

“For the bread,” you mutter. “And your silence.”

The vendor grins but wisely says no more.

You snatch the bread and turn on your heel, stalking off with Phainon following dutifully in your wake, unbothered as ever.

It’s ridiculous, really.

You never stay in the same place for long. That’s the first rule. After leaving the highwoods and slipping past that nameless village and its gossip-thick walls, you had every intention of continuing alone. Even with the Reaver—Phainon—technically out of commission, you knew others were still circling like vultures. Plenty of coin still dangled from your name. Staying meant risking not just yourself, but worse—being cornered somewhere too small to slip away.

You told him not to come with you, as any other sane person would.

“I saved your life,” you said, the night after you dragged him from the ravine, sitting across the fire and refusing to meet his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you get to follow me.”

But he only stared, quiet for a long moment before tilting his head—same damned puppy-like stubbornness curling into his voice.

“But that just means I owe you,” he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You nearly laughed. Or screamed. Maybe both.

It wasn’t just foolishness. Keeping the Flame Reaver at your heels was nothing short of suicide. Who knew when those fractured memories would slither back in? Who knew if they’d ever truly left? In fact, this could still be some elaborate act on his part—a trap coiled tight around your neck, just waiting for you to fall asleep.

But that night, after you gave in to exhaustion and drifted toward sleep, the Thread never stirred. No warnings. No danger. No heat curling too close to your skin. Just silence, and the soft, steady sound of his breathing across the fire.

So you’d begrudgingly agreed and muttered the first condition that came to mind.

“Fine,” you’d sighed, half in disbelief. “But we need to get you more… normal clothes.”

Because there was no hiding what he was, not while he still wore the remnants of that blackened uniform—the cloak gone, the blades left behind, but the rest still clinging to him like old smoke.

Now, days later, you’re regretting every single decision that led to this moment, with him shadowing your steps through the market like some overgrown mutt convinced it’s your sworn protector.

And worse, you’re starting to think he actually believes it.

By habit, you begin your usual search for somewhere to stay. Normally, you’d settle in the woods beyond the roads, tucked beneath the roots and thickets where the Verdant Thread curls strongest—where it can shield you, veil you, wrap around your bones like a second skin. The Thread answers you best where it’s greenest. You’ve always known that.

But this close to the sea, there’s little woodland to speak of. The hills are bare in places, draped in low shrubs and dry grasses that don’t sing to you the way the highwoods did. The Thread still answers, but not with the ease it did when you were running, breathless and desperate as you shook the Reaver off.

Though you feel the difference like a weight in your chest, you can’t afford to be choosy. The village has a small inn near the northern gate, half-hidden behind a crumbling stone wall draped in ivy. You barter for a room—barely more than a loft above the kitchen—and take it without ceremony.

Once you’ve secured the door and settled your pack by the hearth, you notice Phainon in the corner, quiet and watchful as ever.

“You don’t have to stand guard,” you mutter, peeling off your outer layers and unspooling the long scarf that hides your face from most passersby.

He doesn’t move. “What exactly is it that you do?”

The question comes so plainly, so without malice, that it nearly catches you off guard.

You glance at him, half-tempted to lie. But there’s no real point—not when he already follows you like a hound, not when he’s already seen the Thread.

“I help people,” you answer simply, turning away as you unlatch the window to let the salt wind in.

He tilts his head. “That’s vague.”

Your jaw tightens. “Exactly.”

You hear the faintest sound from him—almost like a huff of laughter, though he doesn’t press further.

Later, you slip out a few hours before dusk, with Phainon trailing behind despite your warning to stay. You don’t argue with him about it anymore. 

The hospital lies on the edge of Crosspine, beyond the terraces where the hills fall away into rougher ground. It isn’t much—just an old granary converted into a sickhouse, with patched roofs and walls thick with the scent of herbs. You’d heard of the raid in whispers back in the last village, where a band of rogue sellswords, grown too bold on the Reach’s quiet roads, prey on anyone without enough coin to hire protection.

You find the steward near the entrance, a woman bent over a ledger. The moment she glances up, you explain yourself with quiet efficiency—no names, no details beyond what’s necessary.

Just a traveler passing through. Someone familiar with certain remedies.

She doesn’t question it. She’s too tired, too desperate for help. She only nods and waves you toward the worst of the cots—those left too long without tending, whose bandages have gone untouched because there simply aren’t enough hands to go around.

You feel his stare the entire time.

Phainon lingers near the door, leaning against the frame like he belongs there, watching every word exchanged with that steady, unreadable gaze. He doesn’t interrupt, but he doesn’t look away either, his eyes sharp as blades, summer blue and too clear for someone who supposedly remembers nothing.

You ignore him.

You’ve done this before—countless times, in countless places—and the routine steadies you. Once you’re directed to the farthest corner, you roll up your sleeves, kneeling beside the first patient. The Thread stirs immediately, called by instinct more than intent, winding up from your chest to your fingertips in soft, green-gold light.

They called it a heresy when the Ashkarran empire razed your home to the ground. Witchcraft. Blasphemy.

But the Verdant Thread is older than any empire. It is the magic of life itself—the stitch between root and bloom, between marrow and blood, between one breath and the next. It winds through the world like a hidden river, binding flesh and earth alike, and your kingdom had once been its cradle.

Virelya.

They called it the Blooming Throne, once. The last kingdom where the Thread was tended openly—where children of the royal line were taught to weave it as they learned to read, where gardens grew from their footsteps, and sickness was as fleeting as morning frost.

Until the empire burned it all.

You kneel beside the nearest cot, weaving the magic as you’ve done time and time again, your hands steady as you ease it into broken skin and bruised bone. You mend what you can—not all of it, but enough to buy these people another day, another breath.

You don’t need to glance back to know that Phainon’s still watching.

The weight of his stare is impossible to ignore. It lingers in the room like smoke that refuses to clear. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, yet there’s something in the way he watches you that stirs unease beneath your ribs. The Thread moves easily under your touch, weaving through skin and bone as it always has, but you feel it tightening just slightly in your hands, wary of the one standing too close.

You almost expect the heat to come next. For his body to remember before his mind does. For that terrible fire to bloom where it lies dormant, wild and merciless.

But it doesn’t.

By the time you finish, dusk has begun to stretch long across the hills, casting the sickhouse in soft, amber light. You’ve moved from cot to cot in near silence, hands steady as you let the Thread do its work. You’re wiping your hands on a scrap of cloth when the steward approaches again, her expression drawn but grateful. She doesn’t ask what you’ve done—doesn’t seem to want to know. Perhaps it’s easier that way.

Still, she bows her head, pressing a bundle of cloth-wrapped fruit into your hands.

“Take it,” she insists. “For the both of you. We can’t pay coin, but… this, at least.”

You glance toward Phainon, still leaning in the doorway. He hasn’t moved once, but the steward doesn’t seem to mind his looming presence, nor does she seem to suspect the strangeness of the pair you make. You almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

You offer a brief nod of thanks, slipping the bundle into your satchel, and murmur something quiet about leaving before dawn.

She smiles faintly. “Safe travels, then.”

But as you step toward the door, she pauses—squinting at you, as if something has just tugged loose in the back of her mind.

“…Have we met before?” she asks, studying your face with sudden, sharp focus. “You look familiar.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, but you force a thin, polite smile, already shifting your weight toward the exit.

“Must be mistaking me for someone else,” you say lightly, already nudging Phainon toward the door with a flick of your fingers.

But the steward’s gaze lingers, thoughtful, narrowing faintly in recognition—not enough to name it, but too close for comfort.

You don’t wait for her to puzzle it out.

By the time she opens her mouth again, you’ve already slipped out into the fading daylight, walking briskly down the hill with Phainon at your heels, his long strides keeping pace with unsettling ease.

“You’re walking faster than usual,” he remarks, more amused than concerned.

You don’t answer. Not until you’ve put enough distance between the sickhouse and yourselves to speak without fear of being overheard.

“She recognized me,” you mutter under your breath as the market square comes into view again, its streets beginning to fill with the evening crowd.

Phainon tilts his head. “From where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He watches you, clearly waiting for an answer, but you don’t offer one.

Of course it matters. You know exactly where she’s seen your face—on wanted posters, nailed to outposts and tavern walls across Ashkarra, alongside every price and charge they’ve pinned to your name. Your face has been passed from hand to hand, from bounty hunters to soldiers to mercenaries desperate enough to try their luck.

If any of your siblings could see you now, they’d call you a fool.

They always said you were soft—too prone to mercy, too willing to let the world sink its claws into you. Even before everything fell apart, they’d chide you for slipping from the palace gardens at dusk to tend to the villages beyond the walls, for wasting your time on strangers who would never repay you.

And now, here you are. Healing the children of the empire that burned your kingdom to ash. Mending wounds that should have been left to fester.

You can almost hear your eldest brother’s voice, cold and steady as a blade: Why risk your life for them?

Why use the Thread—your inheritance, the last remnant of everything they couldn’t kill—on people who would turn you in the moment they saw your face on a posting?

But they never understood.

To wield the Verdant Thread is to carry more than magic. It’s a duty—rooted deep, older than grief, older than vengeance. You were taught that from the moment you could speak. Those who carry the Thread must tend it, wherever it winds. To refuse is to let the weave fray and wither, to let life itself go barren.

You’ve told yourself, over and over, that it’s only pragmatism. Heal a few strangers, ease a few ailments, then slip away before anyone grows suspicious. But it’s a lie you stopped believing a long time ago. The truth is much simpler.

You help because you can.

Because you’re still the fool they said you were.

And now, with the weight of the Thread cooling against your palms, with danger once again breathing down your neck, you can only hope it’s enough to keep you ahead of the next hunter waiting in the dark.

You say nothing to Phainon as you both weave into the safety of the square, where noise and bodies make it easier to disappear.

“Let’s eat,” you tell him. “Make sure to have your fill because we leave at first light.”

Phainon follows without question, keeping pace like always—calm, steady, oblivious to the weight hanging between you. If he notices the tension crawling beneath your skin, he doesn’t mention it.

You can’t decide whether that makes him easier to bear… or far more troublesome

By the time dawn breaks, you’re already gone—slipping down the coastal road in the outskirts of Crosspine toward a city with higher walls and even higher stakes: Vherisport.

One of the Reach’s larger cities, perched right at the mouth of the Sarnin Bay, where ships from across Ashkarra dock in endless streams. The streets here are broad and bustling, paved in worn stone, hemmed in by colorful awnings and sharp-tongued merchants hawking everything from silk to saltfish.

You hate cities like this. But you need supplies, and worse, you need coin.

Because now, for the first time in years, you aren’t traveling alone.

You’ve been careful, making sure not to display open shows of magic. But even without weaving, you can feel the Thread fraying beneath your skin—tight with unease as you slip through the crowds, as Phainon keeps pace beside you like he’s been doing it his whole life. The worst part? He doesn’t even look out of place anymore.

You did what you could—traded out his old clothes for plain linen, shoved a hood over his too-pale hair—but nothing could disguise his height, or the way people’s eyes still snagged on him. However, in a city this crowded, no one stares too long. People mind their own business, too busy watching their own backs to care about a man who looks like he could break them in half.

Still, you tug Phainon aside the first chance you get, slipping down a narrow side street, away from the crowd and noise.

“We’re out of coin,” you say flatly.

He lifts a brow, entirely unbothered. “Then we’ll find more.”

You glare at him. “Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that? You think coin just falls from the sky?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’ve said something strange. “You don’t have a plan?”

“Not one that feeds both of us,” you mutter, half to yourself. You’re no stranger to going hungry, but you weren’t dragging around a second mouth to feed before, let alone his.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “Then we shouldn’t have wasted so much back in Crosspine.”

You scowl. “That’s not your business.”

“It is,” he says simply, without hesitation, as though this fact has been obvious all along. “You saved my life. I owe you. I’m not letting you starve because of me.”

You stare at him, stunned by how genuinely he says it—like it’s some eternal truth.

Gods above...

You scrub a hand over your face, sighing hard. “We need work. Fast. And before you suggest anything stupid—no, we’re not robbing anyone.”

“Alright, no robbing. But we’re allowed to take jobs.”

You narrow your eyes at him, already wary of whatever’s turning in that half-empty head of his. “Jobs?”

Phainon gives a small, self-satisfied nod. “I may not remember much, but isn’t that how people survive? By earning coin instead of doing everything free of charge like you do?”

You groan, wishing you’d left him in the damned ravine.

But he’s right.

If you don’t stop playing the bleeding-heart traveler in every town, you will both die starving in a gutter. No Thread, no magic, no mercy. Just a fool with too many secrets and a man with too many sharp edges.

That’s how you ended up lingering in the port city far longer than you’d like.

You’ve long since grown used to deprivation—scarcity has been your shadow ever since you became a fugitive. But your insufferable, newfound companion wasn’t having it. Phainon insisted, with that stubborn tilt of his head, that if the two of you were to keep traveling, you needed to stockpile enough coin and supplies to last at least a few months.

Remaining in Vherisport for more than a handful of days gnawed at your nerves, but you couldn’t deny the logic. Better to scrape everything together now than be forced to worry about it later, somewhere less forgiving.

You could’ve argued and said something harsh, something like I’d be perfectly fine if you just left me alone.

But for some reason, you didn’t.

So, the two of you did the most practical thing first—found a place to stay. Somewhere cheap enough to not drain what little coin you had left, with a landlord lenient enough to overlook rent being a few days late, at least until you and Phainon could find work. 

As luck would have it, the person you came across felt like they’d been sent by the heavens themselves.

Old Merrow, a retired sailor known around the docks, owned a crumbling property near the edge of the shipyards—a squat little house with an attached workshop that hasn’t seen proper use in years. No one visits anymore. The workshop’s roof is half-caved, the walls leaning just enough to make you uneasy on windy nights. But it was shelter, and better yet, it came with a bargain.

Merrow isn’t interested in coin. He’s well past the point of needing it, living off old sailor’s pensions and favors owed. What he wants is stories, company, and meals shared over the fire every few nights, with tales spun thick enough to keep him entertained.

Phainon agreed before you could even blink.

You don’t trust it, of course. Who asks for stories as payment?

But you take the deal anyway.

It’s easy enough to satisfy Merrow. You’ve been on the road long enough to gather dozens of half-truths and scraps of myth, and you’re practiced at shaping them to suit your needs. You never give names or anything that might tie back to your past. Only tales of wandering healers, lost cities swallowed by the sea, spirits that guide travelers through fog and storm.

You always weave a little extra protection over yourself before every meal—subtle illusions draped across your features, just enough to blur recognition if Merrow’s old eyes ever happen to catch the truth beneath.

The first time you do it, Phainon watches closely.

After Merrow has gone back to his house and you’re both settling down on the worn quilts you’ve dragged into the workshop’s back corner, he asks—quiet, but direct:

“Why hide your face?”

You glance at him warily, but he doesn’t press for an answer. Phainon simply watches with that same steady patience he’s carried ever since the ravine. There is no fire in his gaze, only calm curiosity tinged with that faint doggedness that refuses to leave you alone.

Still, you brush it off.

“Some faces are safer hidden,” you say, and roll over before he can push further.

He doesn’t ask again after that.

Still, work finds you faster than you expect.

Vherisport thrives on hard hands and harder backs—too many ships, too many goods, and too many people in need of something mended, carried, or fetched. There’s no shortage of tasks for those willing to work without asking too many questions.

Phainon, predictably, falls into the heavy labor without complaint.

Most mornings, you watch him vanish into the maze of docks, roped into loading crates, hauling barrels, or wrangling shipments with the other dockhands. His strength makes it easy for him, though you still don’t understand why he seems to enjoy it. You catch him smiling sometimes with sleeves rolled up, the sun catching in his pale hair, as if the work itself pleases him—as if it’s enough just to have something to do, somewhere to belong.

It’s strange, but everything about him is.

Meanwhile, you drift through smaller jobs. Sometimes you brew salves for fishermen’s aching joints; in others, you tend to minor illnesses, and stitch up sailors too stubborn to see proper healers. You keep it quiet, making sure not to rely on the Thread to make a living here. Instead, you use your bulk of knowledge with just enough skill to pass as a hedge-healer.

And every time you slip away from the legitimate work to do something softer—mending a sick child’s cough for free, slipping a coin into an old woman’s hand—Phainon notices. He doesn’t scold you for it anymore. He’s long since given up on that, like how you simply resigned yourself to his constant presence.

But he always sighs.

Sometimes with the faintest shake of his head, like he’s wondering how he ended up tethered to someone like you. Other times, it’s just a soft, wordless breath, as if he’s accepted this strange rhythm you’ve both fallen into.

It isn’t quite a partnership, not in any formal sense. You wouldn’t dare call it friendship, either. But there’s something… steady about it. You’ve begun to move around each other without thinking—picking up the slack where the other leaves off, sharing what little you earn without keeping score.

After the city winds down and Merrow’s house grows quiet, you both sit by the cold hearth in the workshop, counting the day’s wages. You’ve managed to find an old clay jug tucked away in a dusty corner, likely once used for wine or oil. It serves the purpose well enough.

Each night, you empty your earnings onto the floor—rough copper, dulled silver—and split them evenly between what’s needed for food and what can be saved for later. Phainon takes it strangely seriously, watching the way the coins stack and clink together with an intensity that almost makes you laugh.

Tonight is no different.

You finish counting your share first, sliding the last of it into the jug with a soft clatter, and glance over to see Phainon still bent over his coins, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“You’re acting like we’ve won a king’s ransom,” you mutter.

He looks up, and there’s something bright in his expression—something that catches you entirely off guard.

“It’s enough,” he says simply, his voice low but pleased. “Enough for a lavish dinner we can share with Old Merrow. And enough left for sweets, too, if we want.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded by what just came out of his mouth.

Sweets.

The Flame Reaver—terror of the empire, hunter of mages like you—genuinely looks pleased by the thought of buying sweets.

You stare at him for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh or be unnerved.

“Gods,” you mutter. “You really are impossible.”

Phainon only smiles, faint but honest.

The worst part is, you’re starting to get used to it.

By the end of the second month, you’ve more or less settled into Vherisport.

It isn’t comfort—you wouldn’t dare call it that—but the days have begun to blur together in a way that no longer feels dangerous.

The apothecary you work at is nestled near the quieter end of the market district, tucked between a glassblower’s shop and a stall that sells old books and stranger charms. The owner, Mistress Elwen, is a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued woman well past her prime but still quick on her feet, with silver hair always tied in elaborate coils and a knack for knowing everything before anyone says a word.

She took you in without question, saying she could always use another pair of hands to grind herbs and stock shelves. But she isn’t blind.

You suspect she saw you use the Thread once, when your hands slipped concocting a rare tonic too delicate for mortal hands alone. You meant to keep it mundane, but the work was too precise, too tedious without it.

Mistress Elwen never said a word.

She only watched, calm and unbothered, as though she’d seen stranger things in her many years. When you’d glanced up, heart pounding in your throat, she merely arched a brow and said mildly, “About time you stopped wasting your talents on salves.”

And that was that.

Now, she keeps you busy with orders from all corners of the city—tonics for sailors with seasickness, remedies for merchants with failing eyesight, charms and teas to ease fevers in restless children. The work is quiet and patient work, perfect for someone like you. She never pries into your past. But gods, she does love to meddle elsewhere.

Especially when Phainon shows up.

The first time it happens, you nearly faint.

It’s just past midday, the shop feels just a tad bit drowsy in the heat, when the door creaks open. Phainon lets himself in with long strides—broad-shouldered, still dusted with salt and sweat from the docks, carrying a wrapped parcel under one arm. You freeze in place, but he doesn’t even hesitate.

The man just walks right up to the counter where you’re sorting dried lavender and sets the bundle down with far too much casual confidence.

“For you,” he says with a lopsided smile.

You stare at the parcel like it might explode. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Lunch,” he reminds you, entirely unfazed. “And this.” He taps the bundle lightly. “Saw it in the market district. Thought you’d like it.”

You can feel Mistress Elwen’s gaze burning holes through your back.

“Phainon,” you hiss under your breath. “You can’t just—”

“Why not?” He tilts his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You’re working. You should eat.”

You want to die.

Worse, Mistress Elwen lets out a delighted little hum from her seat near the window, where she’s pretending to sort herbs but is very clearly eavesdropping on every word.

“Well now,” she says, bright as a bell. “Isn’t he thoughtful? You’re welcome here anytime, dear. My assistant forgets to care for herself more often than not.”

Phainon actually has the audacity to smile at that—clearly far too pleased with himself—before bidding you farewell and vanishing back into the sunlit street. You stand there clutching the cursed parcel of lunch he left behind like it’s some kind of trap, mortified beyond belief.

Mistress Elwen doesn’t wait long.

The moment the door shuts, she gives you a sly, knowing look. “Quite the handsome young man,” she remarks, as if commenting on the weather. “And bringing you gifts, too. You might as well just accept him.”

You nearly choke on air. “Accept what?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why, his proposal, of course.”

“What proposal?!” you hiss.

She only laughs, soft and amused, like she’s watching some play unfold before her eyes. “Oh, come now. You mean to tell me a man looks at you like that, brings you food from the market, and it’s not because he’s courting you?”

You gape at her, entirely at a loss. 

Mistress Elwen chuckles again, utterly entertained, and goes back to her herbs as if she hasn’t just thrown your sanity into the sea.

You, meanwhile, sit there in stunned silence, staring down at the parcel Phainon left behind—still warm from the sun, smelling faintly of honey and roasted nuts.

His proposal.

Gods, you should’ve never let Mistress Elwen put such nonsense in your head. But no matter how hard you try to shove it away, the thought sticks like sap.

You and Phainon.

No, you and the Flame Reaver.

You almost laugh aloud at how insane it sounds.

Even so, you think about it later that evening, as you walk back from the edge of the docks with Phainon in tow, the streets already thinning out as the lamps are lit one by one. You’ve done this walk dozens of times by now, but suddenly you notice things that were easier to ignore before.

Like how every time you pass the market’s flower stalls, the vendors always seem to beam at Phainon, calling out with far too much familiarity.

“Oh! Here comes my favorite new face again,” one of them coos today, waving cheerfully from behind her baskets of wild blooms. “Bringing something for your sweetheart, dear?”

Your head snaps toward her, horrified.

Phainon only tilts his head. “Sweetheart?”

The vendor laughs, clearly finding both of you adorable. “Oh, don’t play coy. It’s plain to anyone with eyes.” She casts you a fond, knowing look that makes your heart sink into your shoes. “Such a devoted pair, the two of you.”

You don’t even have the words to respond—only a strangled noise as you all but drag him away by the sleeve.

But now the dam has broken, and you can’t unsee it.

No wonder Old Merrow always gives you both privacy after dinner, chuckling under his breath as he limps back to his house with a wink thrown your way. No wonder people smile at you two when you’re sitting together at the edge of the wharf after work, sharing quiet conversations over the day’s haul, too tired to bother moving apart.

To everyone else, you must look like—

You feel yourself spiraling.

It’s ridiculous. Completely, utterly absurd. You—fugitive, outlaw, last of the Verdant Thread—and him, the most infamous monster the empire ever unleashed. How could you possibly—?

But the more you try to scoff it away, the more your thoughts slip somewhere you don’t want them to go.

You’ve seen sides of Phainon no one else has.

The man who comes home each evening with sunburnt cheeks and bright eyes, speaking with quiet pride about how many ships they loaded before sundown.

The one who kneels down to play with the dockhands’ children, letting them braid flowers into his hair without complaint, his laughter low and steady and warm.

The one who shows up at your workplace every afternoon without fail, carrying some trinket or treat he thought you would like, as though the port city is something the two of you could make into home.

Right now, he isn’t the Flame Reaver.

He isn’t the butcher cloaked in fire, who reduced cities to ash and hunted people like you down without mercy.

This is just... Phainon.

You don’t know when you stopped being afraid of him. Somewhere along the way, between all the shared wages, quiet dinners, and long walks home, you let him in. And now, sitting here with your heart in your throat, you realize something far more dangerous:

You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to push him back out again.

The first whispers of the Moonlight Festival drift through the city like the scent of jasmine on a summer wind. It seems every other breath carries it now, tucked between dockside gossip and the sing-song voices of vendors in the market.

You’ve heard it mentioned in passing for weeks now. The festival is an old tradition, held once every year, when the sea glows with silver tides and every street from the wharf to the edges of the city is strung with lanterns. A celebration of safe voyages and the moon’s blessing, or so they say.

You hadn’t paid it much mind. You and Phainon had been too busy shouldering your work, too busy making ends meet and ignoring how easily the days had begun to slip by. Besides, you hadn’t expected to stay this long. Every time the festival crept into conversation, you let it drift past like smoke, another thing that didn’t concern you.

Until Mistress Elwen brings it up one late afternoon, as she watches you arrange bundles of rosemary by the window.

“It’s nearly time,” she says, voice light as ever, but her gaze sharp beneath her lashes. “The Moonlight Festival’s only a week away now. You ought to go.”

You glance up, startled, already halfway into shaking your head. But she isn’t finished.

“Take that handsome young man with the blue eyes,” she adds. “The one who keeps bringing you lunch.”

Heat creeps up your neck faster than you can stop it.

“Mistress Elwen,” you mutter, glaring down at the herbs as though they might save you. “We can’t afford that sort of thing.”

“Oh?” Her tone is far too innocent. “Coin troubles again?”

You hesitate for a breath too long.

It isn’t money, of course. You and Phainon have more than enough stashed away by now, tucked in the old clay jug hidden beneath the floorboards of the workshop. Enough to leave tonight, if it came to that.

No, it isn’t coin keeping you away.

It’s the way your skin crawls some nights as you walk through the market, senses pricking at the weight of certain glances. How some people linger too long when they pass you, eyes sharp, watchful, as if they can see through the veil of the Thread when you’re too tired to hold it steady. You’ve grown lax here, lulled by the slow ease of Vherisport and the strange comfort of Phainon’s constant, looming presence. But you know better than to believe it can last.

Mercenaries don’t forget debts. And the empire does not forget its fugitives.

One of these days—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—someone will look too long. Someone will follow too far. And when that happens, you’ll have no choice but to run again, before your throat is slit and your magic burns out in the gutter.

Still, you can’t tell Mistress Elwen that.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” you say, feigning nonchalance. “Best not to get tangled in city festivals when we won’t be here long.”

Mistress Elwen watches you closely, those sharp old eyes of hers missing nothing. She says nothing for a moment, letting the weight of her silence press into the air like another stone on your back.

Then, softly, she says, “You always say that.”

It cuts deeper than you expect.

You busy your hands again, tying rosemary into neat little bundles, but your pulse stumbles as the words settle under your skin.

She’s right. You’ve said it before—said it so often that even you’ve begun to forget whether you truly mean it anymore.

We won’t stay long.

We’ll leave soon.

Just a little longer.

And yet, here you are. Two months deep into Vherisport’s crooked streets, weaving roots into boiling pots, sharing wages by a cold hearth, walking home beneath lamp-lit skies beside the man everyone mistakes for your lover.

Later that night, you find yourself lingering by the window of the workshop, watching the city below.

The festival’s preparations are already well underway. Lanterns being strung across balconies, silk banners stitched in midnight blue and moon-white, fluttering in the sea breeze. Even the vendors have started stocking their carts with honeyed sweets and sugared plums, silverfish charms and painted masks.

You catch sight of Phainon in the distance, his pale hair unmistakable even in the fading light. He’s hauling barrels toward the docks, laughing at something one of the dockhands says. The children dart around him, trailing ribbons and laughter, and he lets them climb him like some great, gentle beast.

You grip the windowsill tighter.

It doesn’t matter what Mistress Elwen says, or what foolishness the city believes. You are not meant for this. You cannot afford to dream of lanterns and festivals when your shadow stretches longer than the streets you walk.

You will leave.

You must.

But as you watch Phainon smile below, bathed in the glow of a thousand hanging lights, you begin to wonder whether you’ll have the strength to go without him.

Come dinner, the scent of roasted fish and spiced rice fills the little workshop. It had been Phainon’s idea, and somehow you’d been foolish enough to agree. A proper meal, he’d said, something more than root stew and yesterday’s bread, since the wages had been good this week and the festival was drawing near.

Now, the three of you sit crowded around the low table in the corner, knees knocking together as you portion out the feast onto chipped plates. Merrow looks half in disbelief, half in delight, as he watches you and Phainon bring out a whole sea bream roasted in citrus and herbs, bowls of saffron rice studded with pine nuts, and flatbread slick with oil and rosemary. A meal far too fine for your station, but Phainon had been insistent, flashing that sun-bright grin of his as he traded coin for spice and sweetness.

Merrow claps his hands together, his leathery face creasing with mirth. “By all the gods,” he says, voice warm and raspy with age. “This is the finest spread I’ve seen in this house since my hair was still black.”

You manage a weak smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

But Merrow only laughs, deep and contented, already helping himself to generous portions. “Ah, let an old man indulge! I’ll eat like a king tonight and die happy tomorrow.”

Dinner passes in a slow, golden haze. The food is good—far better than you expected—and even better when shared in the soft hush of the sea breeze drifting through the cracked windows. You eat until your stomach aches, until the weight of the day begins to loosen from your shoulders.

Strangely, Merrow doesn’t ask for stories tonight.

That alone is enough to set you on edge. Ever since he took you both in, he’s always demanded tales in exchange for your keep. It’s been his only price.

But tonight, he leans back in his chair, cradling his cup of plum wine with a faraway look in his eye, and speaks instead.

“Moonlight Festival’s near,” he murmurs. “Hard to believe it’s come ‘round again.”

You glance at him warily, unsure where this is headed.

“Met my wife at the festival, you know. Many, many years ago, back when I was still a foolish sailor with more luck than sense.” He chuckles softly, lost in the memory. “She was standing beneath the lanterns—gods, I thought she was some sea spirit come to drag me under.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. You’ve only ever known Merrow as a sharp-tongued old dockhand with too many bad jokes and not enough teeth. But he’s different today. He speaks as though he can still see her, standing there in the glow of the lantern lights.

“Never missed the festival after that,” he says, voice turning quieter. “We’d dance every year, right until her last one. Even now, I swear I can feel her waiting for me, somewhere out there.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping your cup until the clay creaks faintly under your fingers.

Merrow’s gaze sharpens, and he grins. “You two ought to go.”

The words drop into the air like stones into still water, rippling outward.

You nearly choke on air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, lifting his cup in mock toast. “The Moonlight Festival. It’s not something to miss, especially not when you’ve got someone to share it with.”

You flush, stammering to find words that don’t sound utterly insane. “We—we can’t just—”

But before you can even form a proper excuse, Phainon’s voice cuts in, calm and maddeningly steady.

“All right,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You whip toward him, staring in disbelief. “What do you mean alright?”

“We’ll go.” He doesn’t even look fazed, casually sipping his wine. 

“But we don’t even have clothes for something like that!”

Phainon only lifts a brow, tilting his head in that infuriating way of his. “Then we’ll go to the boutique tomorrow. You can pick something for us.”

You nearly drop your cup right there.

Merrow lets out a great, bellowing laugh, the sound filling the room like thunder. “That’s the spirit, lad! Go on, let her dress you up proper. You’ll both turn heads, I wager.”

Your heart pounds, caught somewhere between utter mortification and some strange, traitorous fluttering that you refuse to name.

Phainon turns to you then, his gaze steady, his smile soft and warm beneath the lamplight.

As though this is all perfectly normal.

As though he isn’t the monster who once left ashes in his wake.

All you can do is sputter as your fate is sealed yet again by the whims of the man who once stopped at nothing to kill you. The same man who now speaks in the softest voice you’ve ever known, blue eyes brighter than any lantern Vherisport could ever light.

That’s how you know you’re well and truly doomed.

Morning finds you sullen, stiff-limbed, and determined to talk Phainon out of this ridiculous scheme.

You trail behind him through the winding streets of Vherisport, scowling beneath your hood as the first light of day spills golden across the harbor. The market is already stirring to life, stalls creaking open, scent of fresh bread thick in the air, and still he walks with that infuriating ease—like he doesn’t feel the weight of your glower drilling holes into his back.

“This is madness,” you mutter, hurrying to keep pace. “We don’t need to spend coin on nonsense like this.”

Phainon hums as though you’ve complimented him. “It’s not nonsense.”

You nearly trip over a stray cat darting across the cobblestones. “It’s splurging. Lavish, wasteful, unnecessary splurging. Do you know how long we could live on what we’ve earned already? Months. Months, Phainon. We could leave tonight and never have to work for the rest of the season.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, that same easy smile playing on his lips. “And then what? Hide again?”

Your steps stutter, nearly faltering in the middle of the street, but he keeps walking with his hands tucked into his pockets, calm as ever.

You shove past him with a glare sharper than any blade he’s ever carried. “That’s the plan, yes. We’ve stayed too long already.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just follows, quiet and thoughtful as the streets narrow, leaving behind the bustle of the harbor in favor of the artisan quarter, where the scent of the ocean drifts from shaded courtyards. Then—so softly you almost wish you hadn’t heard it—he asks:

“Why do we need to leave anyway?”

You freeze as Phainon’s gaze finds you again, steady and piercing beneath that cloudless sky.

“Isn’t our life here good enough?”

And just like that, something splits wide open inside you.

Because of course he would ask that, in his blissful, maddening ignorance. 

He doesn’t know the name that still haunts you through every border town, passed from mercenary to mercenary, spoken in low voices with sharpened smiles. He doesn’t know the legacy you carry in secret—the reason you’ve never allowed yourself to belong anywhere, never dared to call a place home.

Phainon doesn’t know that every time you laugh with him and let yourself feel safe here, it’s a blade held to your throat.

You’ve never told him.

Not when he first stumbled into your life as that half-dead amnesiac who placed his trust in you with the same thoughtless faith he still wears like a second skin.

Not even now, when he smiles faintly at you as if this city could be yours.

You feel something bitter crawl up your throat—shame, maybe, or something close to it—but you swallow it down with the sharpness of old instinct.

“We can’t afford to stay,” is all you tell him.

Phainon watches you for a long moment, but if he hears what you aren’t saying, he doesn’t press.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, heart pounding beneath your ribs, too tangled in your own thoughts to notice the way he lingers just behind you.

The boutique comes into view before you realize it, its windows bright with morning light and lined with fabrics in every shade imaginable. Velvets, silks, gauzes that shimmer like starlight. Phainon pushes the door open for you, and the bell above the frame chimes sweetly, beckoning you inside.

You hesitate at the threshold, every instinct screaming to turn back.

But when you glance at Phainon, you find yourself stepping forward anyway.

You smell lavender and pressed starch, hear the faint shush of fabric shifting as you’re ushered in by the seamstress herself.

“Oh, you’ve come just in time,” she says, hands already measuring you with a glance. “You’ll want something light for the Moonlight Festival. The evenings get warm by the water.”

You open your mouth to protest, to make some excuse about how you’re only here because he insisted—but Phainon, damn him, simply hums in quiet agreement behind you, too at ease for his own good.

The seamstress clicks her tongue, already rifling through the racks with practiced speed.

“No need to fuss,” she calls over her shoulder, pulling bolts of fabric free. “I’ve dressed enough couples for the festival to know what works.”

Couples.

You nearly choke, but before you can object, she’s pressing a soft bundle of fabric into your arms.

“This will do,” she says, firmly brooking no argument. “For you, something soft and cool-toned—brings out your eyes.” Then she turns to Phainon, utterly unfazed by his towering height or the way he watches her with mild curiosity. “And for you, something clean and tailored. Simple enough to move in, but elegant once the lanterns are lit.”

You glance down at the garments she’s thrust into your hands—fine linen and gauzy layers, silver threaded through soft blue.

“Wait, this is—” You struggle to keep up. “We’re not—”

But the seamstress only waves you toward the fitting rooms with a knowing grin. “Oh, don’t fret so much, love. I’ll have my girls help you dress.”

Before you know it, you’re whisked away by two giggling apprentices, your protests drowned beneath their chatter.

The fitting room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional pin prick as the apprentices fasten the gown around you. You flinch, but one of the girls’ hands pause for just a breath before continuing, gentler this time.

Of course they see them.

The burn scars along your back aren’t easy to miss—not with the way the gown dips low across your shoulders, the fabric barely brushing old wounds etched like ghosted flames across your skin. You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the floor, heart pounding in your throat as you wait for the inevitable gasp or whispered question.

But it never comes.

Instead, one of them quietly steps away, returning a moment later to drape a soft shawl over your shoulders—light as air, cool to the touch, matching the gown perfectly. 

She tucks the fabric in place with steady hands, offering you a small, knowing smile through the mirror.

Somehow, that’s worse than pity.

You can’t look at yourself at first, but when the last lace is cinched and the girls step back with pleased little sighs, you have no choice but to lift your gaze.

The mirror is cruel in its honesty.

You almost don’t recognize yourself.

The gown isn’t anything like the ones you once wore in the gilded courts of Virelya, but it’s beautiful in its own way. Soft, layered fabrics that catch the light like mist over water, delicate without being fragile. The bodice shapes your figure with quiet grace, and the color—pale as moonlight—renders your features almost unearthly.

For a fleeting second, your heart aches.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen yourself like this.

Not a fugitive. Not a healer hunched over boiling herbs. Not a shadow slipping through alleyways with your face veiled in Thread. Just a woman in a lovely dress, standing beneath soft lamplight, gazing at a reflection that feels like it belongs to someone else.

You’re still lingering there, when one of the apprentices nudges you gently toward the door.

“Go on,” she whispers, stifling a grin. “He’s waiting.”

It takes more strength than you’d like to admit, but you manage to steady yourself, smoothing the fabric with clammy fingers before you step out.

Phainon is already in the main hall, standing near the mirrors—and gods above.

The seamstress was right.

His outfit matches yours perfectly—tailored navy linen, silver threading along the cuffs and collar, cut to sharpen his broad frame and lengthen his already impossible height. He’s rolled his sleeves just slightly, revealing strong forearms, and the dark color makes his pale hair gleam brighter than ever beneath the boutique’s soft lights.

But it isn’t just the clothes. It’s the way he looks at you.

Because the instant you step out, his gaze lifts and he stares.

Wide-eyed, utterly silent, every ounce of calm stripped away. His breath catches, his mouth parts slightly, but no words come out—just pure, stunned awe.

And then the seamstress’s voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Well,” she says, clearly entertained, “shall I mark it down for alterations? Or do the two of you plan to run off in those as you are?”

“I—I—this—this must be well out of our budget,” you blurt, clinging to the first excuse you can grasp.

The seamstress only laughs. “Nonsense. You’re the one from Mistress Elwen’s, aren’t you? The healer who brewed that salve for my mother’s joints a fortnight ago?”

You freeze, clearly not expecting that.

“You have a good heart, child.” The older woman grins. “My mother’s walking again because of you. I’ll throw in a discount—call it fair trade.”

You’re too stunned to answer. Phainon, however, recovers faster—still watching you from beneath those summer blue eyes.

“Well then,” he says, voice quiet but warm, “I suppose we have no reason to refuse.”

Never, until now, have you wished so fiercely for the earth to swallow you whole.

The days leading up to the festival slip by in a strange, breathless haze.

Your new outfits hang in quiet accusation in the corner of the room, far too fine for the cramped space you now call home. They’re tucked inside the old wardrobe Merrow lent you weeks ago—the same one Phainon hauled up the stairs himself, shoulders flexing beneath the weight, sweat lining his brow but his grin as bright as ever when he declared it “sturdy enough for two.”

You’d scoffed then, muttering something about how little space you had to begin with, but now… now it feels like the wardrobe itself watches you.

You try not to look at it as you lace your boots each morning, as you tie your apron and slip out before dawn.

Phainon leaves first, as always, off to the docks with that lazy saunter of his The city knows him now as the dockhand with the sharp smile and steadier hands, the man who carries crates like they weigh nothing and teaches the children how to carve little ships from driftwood.

You envy his ease, sometimes.

Your own days at the apothecary grow heavier with each passing hour.

It happens on the third evening after the boutique.

The shop is quiet, the air thick with lavender and mint as you mix a tonic for some merchant’s sickly wife. Mistress Elwen is out back tending the drying racks, leaving you alone at the counter. The bell above the door barely jingles. But when you glance up, you finally notice him.

A stranger, too still and sharp around the eyes. Clearly not a mercenary—they’re far more cunning than this one is—but there’s a wild edge to him. A hungry look, like a hound scenting blood. His hand twitches beneath his cloak, just once, enough for you to spot the glint of metal hidden there.

You don’t flinch.

By the time he lunges, you’ve already moved—grabbing the iron pestle from the counter, sidestepping his clumsy strike with the grace honed by too many nights running through streets darker than these.

You move without thought, the Thread flickering beneath your skin, weaving the faintest shimmer of illusion over your features as you slam the pestle into the side of his head.

He crumples.

It’s almost laughable, how easy it is. A child’s game compared to the hunts you’ve escaped before.

Phainon would have made quick work of him too, you think bitterly, as you drag the unconscious man toward the back door and dump him in the alley with nothing more than a whispered curse to keep him asleep till morning.

You don’t tell Mistress Elwen. She’d only look at you with those knowing eyes of hers and say something infuriatingly calm like “So they’ve caught your scent, have they?”

No, you carry the weight of it yourself, like always.

But it lingers in your chest as you walk home that night, heavy and cold.

You can’t stay. You know that. And yet…

The wardrobe waits for you when you return, its doors shut tight, hiding the fine fabrics inside.

Phainon returns late, as he always does, cheeks flushed from sea air and hands rough with salt, grinning as he sets down the catch he helped haul that day. He doesn’t notice the stiffness in your shoulders.

“Merrow says he’ll cook up a stew tomorrow,” he says, stripping off his boots and tossing them aside without ceremony. “Said we’ve been working too hard to bother with bread and cheese again.”

You nod vaguely, watching him from across the room as he rakes a hand through his silver hair, shaking out the last of the salt. You hate how easy he makes it seem—this life, this fragile peace.

You hate it even more when you realize you’ve started to crave it, too.

The shared quilts you’ve been sleeping under for months feel different now, too. He sleeps warm, always has, radiating heat like an ember banked low—but lately you’ve started drifting closer without realizing it, drawn to the quiet calm of his breathing, to the steady weight of him beside you.

One night, half-asleep, you find yourself curling toward that warmth, your fingers brushing the bare skin of his forearm beneath the blanket.

Phainon stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake, letting you settle against him as if this has always been your place.

You tell yourself it’s just the cold even if it’s the middle of summer.

But deep down, in the part of you that still aches when you catch him smiling at you like the world’s sharp edges don’t exist, you know the truth.

The festival looms closer, its glow already beginning to spread through the city—lanterns strung above every street, laughter spilling from taverns thick with honey wine and spiced cider. Your gown still waits in the wardrobe. Phainon always hums when he catches you staring at it from the doorway, leaning against the frame with that maddeningly soft look in his eyes.

“You’ll look beautiful under the lanterns,” he says, like it’s already been decided.

And gods help you—

You almost want to believe him.

The Moonlight Festival arrives with the sea winds, weaving its magic through every corner of Vherisport.

By sundown, the harbor has transformed.

Lanterns drift like stars along the water, their glow soft and golden, swaying gently with the tide. Silk ribbons ripple in the breeze, strung from mast to mast across the docks and curling down from rooftops in streams of silver and blue. The streets are alive with music while the air is thick with salt, spice, and smoke from festival fires.

It’s the kind of beauty only a port city could conjure, built from all the stories that pass through its gates.

You’ve never seen anything like it.

Phainon waits for you by the door, already dressed, and gods, you wish he didn’t look so effortlessly handsome.

He wears his festival clothes with an ease that should be criminal—navy linen tailored close to his frame, the silver of his cuffs like frostbite kissed across his skin. His hair looks well-kept for the occasion, but a few strands still fall across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his jaw.

“You ready?” he asks, offering you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling faintly as they meet yours.

You hesitate just for a moment before taking it.

The streets swallow you both in their revelry.

You try to keep your wits about you. But it’s hard not to lose yourself in it all: the scent of honeyed wine, the bright laughter of children darting through the crowds with lanterns in their arms, the calls of merchants selling sweets shaped like seashells and candied seafoam spun into delicate curls.

Phainon keeps close to your side, his arm brushing yours with every step, steady as an anchor in the rush of bodies around you. He never strays far—not when you pause to admire the fire dancers or when you stop to watch the sailors lighting candles along the docks.

And under the lantern light, he somehow glows.

You don’t know if it’s the wine or the warmth of the evening, but everything about him feels magnified tonight—the brightness of his laughter, the steady weight of his gaze when he looks at you, like there’s no one else here but the two of you.

They pull you into the dancing before you can stop them—locals and travelers alike joining hands in the streets as the music swells. Phainon laughs when you tug him along, stumbling over his feet as he tries to follow the rhythm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever danced before,” he confesses, breathless, as you spin him around.

“What? Your memories finally coming back or something?”

He shrugs. “Just a gut feeling” 

You grin despite yourself, caught in the thrill of it. “Then you’re lucky I know how.”

And you do.

Some part of you still remembers the old lessons—how to move through the steps like drifting through a dream, how to guide your partner with nothing but a press of your hand and the sway of your hips. You lead him with ease, laughing as he fumbles and trips, his wide grin growing brighter with every turn.

“Like this,” you say, hands steadying his as you draw him close, and he listens, always so eager to follow your lead.

You dance beneath the glow of the lanterns, your skirts spinning like seafoam around you, his hands firm at your waist as he finds his footing at last.

By the time the music slows, your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the dance.

You let him guide you away from the center of the square, both of you breathless and laughing, your cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.

You don’t stray far—only enough to catch your breath, slipping into the quieter fringes of the celebration where the music softens and the lanterns sway gently overhead. Phainon leans back against the worn stone of a fountain, his silver hair shining under the glow of hanging lights as his gaze settles solely on you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glow like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from laughter.

You try to summon a retort, something sharp or dismissive, but it slips through your fingers like sand.

You can’t unsee it now—how easily he fits here, among these people, smiling with the same warmth that drew you to him from the start. How the sailors call to him in passing, offering drinks and hearty slaps to his back, welcoming him without question.

He belongs here.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

Because standing here in your borrowed silks, with his warmth still lingering on your skin and the taste of wine and laughter on your tongue, you feel it stirring in your chest—that awful, fragile thing you’ve spent your whole life smothering.

Hope.

Hope that maybe you could stay. That maybe you could call this place home, live quietly by the harbor with him at your side, share nights like this again and again until you forget what it feels like to run.

For the first time in your life, you let yourself dream.

But the moment you realize what you’re thinking, the weight of it comes crashing down on you.

You can’t stay.

You can’t keep living this lie, letting him pull you deeper into a life that was never yours to claim. You’ve grown soft, even more foolish than your siblings made you out to be. The girl who once slipped through cities like smoke, who outwitted the Flame Reaver himself, now dreams of lanterns and warm hands and laughter shared over wine.

You watch Phainon from across the street, laughing easily with the dockhands—his smile brighter than the festival fires, his eyes finding yours through the crowd, just as they always do—and your heart aches.

Because he’s the first thing you’ve ever wanted to stay for.

But you already know how this story ends.

Before your foolishness becomes your undoing, you’ll have to walk away from all of it.

Even him.

You both stumble back to Merrow’s workshop well past midnight, the streets quieting now that the festival’s peak has passed. Most of the lanterns are still glowing, but the crowds have thinned to scattered laughter and the lingering scent of spice and smoke. The house is already dark—no surprise. The old man likely retired hours ago, leaving the door unlocked for you as promised.

You fumble with the latch, shushing Phainon as he nearly trips over the doorstep.

“Quiet,” you hiss, tugging him inside. “You’ll wake the whole damn street.”

But he only grins as he sways where he stands.

“I am  quiet,” he insists, entirely too loud about it, and lets out a soft, giddy laugh like he’s still caught in the spell of the night.

Gods, he’s a lightweight. You’d suspected as much from the way he flushed after the second cup of wine, but this is something else.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter under your breath, dragging him up the stairs toward the second floor where your shared room waits. He nearly takes both of you down the first few steps, and you tighten your grip, cursing him softly as he giggles again.

“I should gag you with the Thread,” you mutter through gritted teeth, earning yourself another breathless laugh from him.

“Sounds indecent,” he slurs, far too amused for his own good.

By the time you shove him through the door, you’re sweating and thoroughly regretting every decision that led to this.

He collapses onto the edge of the bed in a graceless heap, flushed and fever-warm, eyes half-lidded with the kind of lazy contentment that makes you want to throttle him.

“Off,” you order, gesturing sharply at his festival clothes. “Change before you keel over.”

He hums, clearly only half-listening.

“And don’t look while I change,” you add as you shed off your shawl, tugging at the ribbons of your gown with fumbling fingers as your cheeks burn at the thought of his gaze.

To his credit, he turns away at first, tugging at his sleeves with sluggish movements. But as fate may have it, Phainon when drunk is a menace, even when he’s trying to behave. You hear the soft rustle of his tunic falling to the floor just as you manage to slip out of your gown, the cool air brushing against your bare back. And then—

Silence.

You glance behind you just in time to see him staring—utterly still, his haze of wine-blurred laughter gone in an instant. It takes you only a moment to realize why.

His gaze is fixed on the old scars curling across your back, half-hidden by your loosened underclothes, but unmistakable under the lantern glow. Pale and jagged, the shape of it impossible to forget.

You freeze under the scrutiny. 

When his voice comes again, it’s rough with something that doesn’t sound like drunkenness at all.

“…Who did that to you?”

You spin, but not fast enough. Before you can stop him, his hand is already there—callused and broad, pressing warm and steady over the scarred skin as if trying to shield it.

You should pull away. You should shove him off, curse him, thread his mind into forgetting.

But the heat of his palm seeps into your bones, anchoring you to the spot.

“…Who?” he asks again, almost pleading.

And you—gods, you don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s the remnants of wine in your blood, or the weight of the night still hanging heavy on your chest. Or maybe it’s just the truth you’ve carried too long.

Without thinking, you answer. 

“You did.”

Phainon goes utterly still.

The words hang between you, heavy as iron, impossible to take back.

He stares at you, blinking slow and heavy like the wine hasn’t fully worn off. His thumb brushes over the scar again, tender despite the callouses, as if he thinks he’s misheard. But you’re already drifting far away, too deep inside yourself to notice.

Because the moment his touch found you there, the memory surged back.

The palace had smelled of chrysanthemums that night.

You remember it clearly, how the blooms lingered thick in the air, heavy and cloying, even as the screams began to rise.

You’d heard them before you saw the flames—your people, your city, your home—crackling alive with terror beneath the violet sky. The fire didn’t look real. No ordinary blaze devours stone and marble with such hunger, eating through walls like they were parchment. And at the heart of it all, cloaked in shadows and crowned in black flames was him.

The Flame Reaver.

You remember the way he moved through the halls of your family’s palace, merciless and silent, cutting down every guard foolish enough to cross his path. You remember the heat of his magic, how it seared through the very air as he set the throne room ablaze.

You’d escaped that night, but not without scars.

You could have healed them. You already knew how to weave the Thread into yourself, how to coax flesh and bone back into place, and erase pain with enough time and precision.

But you didn’t.

You let the wound fester, let it burn into you, let it stay—because you needed it.

A reminder of what you lost. Of the home you failed to protect, and the only kingdom you would ever belong to, now reduced to nothing but ash and dust.

Virelya was all you’ve ever had. All you’ve ever been.

And now—now, you stand here with the monster who burned it down, his hands gentle where they once were cruel, his voice soft as he unknowingly tends to the ruin he made of you.

It makes you feel sick.

Because you can’t wrap your head around it.

You can’t reconcile the man who stands behind you now with the killer who razed your world to nothing.

You’re a fool for letting it get this far. For ever dreaming you could keep him close without breaking yourself open in the process.

Because no matter how softly Phainon touches you now, this scar has always been his.

And some wounds aren’t meant to heal.

He doesn’t speak. For all the weight of your words—for all the ruin they should’ve unleashed—Phainon simply… lets it go. His hand lingers only a breath longer, warm and steady over the mark he left, before it falls away, slipping back to his lap with a soft, shuddering breath.

He doesn’t ask again.

Somehow, that mercy hurts worst of all.

You’d expected questions. Rage. Horror. You’d braced yourself for the sharp edges of his voice, for accusations or apologies or something—anything—that would make this easier to bear. But Phainon, only leans back against the worn bedding, eyes heavy-lidded as he settles down, like it’s enough for him to simply know.

You should’ve known better.

Despite his easy laughter and careless charm, he’s never been a fool.

You saved his life that night—dragged him from death’s door with bloodied hands and trembling magic. You bound his wounds, nursed him back to health, sheltered him in the shadows of all the places that should have turned him away. Even without his memories, he must’ve realized what that meant.

That before you ever became his healer, before you were two nameless shadows bound by chance—your paths were already intertwined.

He never asked why you saved him.

He simply lingered in quiet ways you didn’t know you needed—carrying crates too heavy for your hands, fixing the leak in the workshop roof without complaint, dropping by the apothecary to make sure you were eating right. Always steady, always close, but never pressing where he knew it would hurt.

But even so, there’s no place for you here.

Not with him. Not anywhere.

So when Phainon finally succumbs to sleep—his breathing soft and even beneath the patchwork quilt, silver hair spilling across the pillow—you make your choice. The Thread answers your call with quiet familiarity, slipping beneath your fingertips as you weave it through the air, soft as a lullaby, delicate as moonlight. You twist it once, twice, and cast it over him like a veil.

A spell of quiet slumber, just enough to keep him from stirring.

You move quickly after that.

You take only what you need—just a small purse of coin from the jug you’d both filled over the seasons, leaving most behind without a second thought. The gown stays too. You barely spare it a glance as you hang it in the wardrobe, the fabric glimmering faintly in the dark. What use would you have for such a thing? It belonged to a version of you who shouldn’t even exist.

When everything is ready and your cloak is drawn tight around your shoulders, you pause only once.

Phainon sleeps so easily, as if nothing in the world could ever harm him. One hand curled loose near his face, the other resting over the empty space you’re about to leave behind.

You wonder, fleetingly, if he’ll hate you for this. For leaving without a word. For vanishing into the night after everything you shared. Your heart twists violently in your chest as it threatens to drag you down before you can even reach the door. But you’ve run from things worse than heartbreak.

With one last, aching glance at his peaceful form—at the man you should never have dared to love—you slip out into the sleeping streets.

And you do not look back.

⟢ end notes: OH MY GOD. i don't know what came over me lol this has been sitting in the drafts for a while now, but after playing through 3.4, i was struck with phainon disease just like any Completely Normal hsr player out there. amnesiac fics are always such a dear thing to me, and getting to write "who did that to you?" "you did" gave me unparalleled catharsis. they reunite soon, i promise <3 but thank you for reading what i have so far with retrograde! :3c

DIRECTORY: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[bakughoust]

dog hybrid phainon x reader. oral sex, somnophilia, dubcon, minor breeding kink (due to heat/mating instincts). interspecies miscommunication. afab reader, mdni

sequel to this thirst, please read it beforehand!

_

Phainon wants you to be his mate.

He has a hard time remembering when he realised this, knows only that it makes sense that he does. Ever since Aedes Elysiae burned down when he was young—turned Cyrene and her mom and her dad into nothing but ash and bone—Phainon’s always been alone. Bounced from shelter to shelter, home to home, owner to owner. He’s always tried to be good for his humans, to make them happy, but his luck’s just always been bad. He's too expensive or he's too needy or he clashes with other hybrids. He eats too much or gets too rowdy or demands too much time and attention. Or maybe the truth is that no one wants to keep him around after they read about how he couldn't save Cyrene. Who wants a dog that can't protect his keeper, after all? Who wants a dog that can't guard his family?

But then you found him in his latest shelter, and you took him home, and you kept him.

And you love him.

Phainon can tell that you do. He can tell from the way you smile at him and scratch his ears. From the way you figured out, from his expressions alone, all his favourite foods and how you cook them all for him. From the way you read up on Aedes Elysiae for him and found out about all its wheat farms, so now you take him picnicking in the fields nearby and let him rest his head on your lap as he naps. From the way you let him sleep in your bed and curl around you, giggling as he sniffs at you.

Phainon wishes he could talk. He'd say thank you and I love you and I wanna stay with you forever. But he can't do any of that, so instead he smiles at you, licks your face, wags his tail whenever you're around. Cuddles up to you in bed, holds you at every chance, follows you around like he's still a puppy.

And he scents you. He scents you a lot.

He'd done it cautiously the first time, nosing at the crook of your neck where a scent gland would ordinarily be on another hybrid, but feels just as intimate on a human. The place that someone would only let their mate touch. You'd giggled when he’d done it, pulled him close and pressed your mouth against his cheek. You do that a lot to him: “kissing”, you call it, something that Phainon’s pretty sure that humans only do with their mates. With their loved ones.

You love him. He's sure of it. You love him and he’s going to mate you and stay with you forever.

He's going to have a home with you forever.

Phainon’s going to be a good mate to you, after he claims you. He’ll take care of your every need, the way you take care of his. He already tries to do that for you, of course—protecting you from danger when you’re out of the house, holding you when you're sad, licking your face until you're happy and giggling again. He tries to be good for you, because it's what you deserve.

Still, there are some things he can’t do unless he's your mate. Things like helping you through your heats.

Human heats are strange things. Phainon had never observed them up close until moving in with you. They're oddly subtle: you don't get mindless or ill the way that a hybrid of his species would, and he's not sure if you’re even aware of what your body is going through. If you were, then you wouldn't be so insistent on going outside, where any canid can smell the ripe fragrance of your womb and think about mounting you. Phainon has, a few times, caught some lowlife wolf or dog hybrid trailing after you and had to intervene, snarling at them before they could get close enough to touch you.

(You shouldn't get into fights, you always chide him afterward. What if you seriously injure someone and I have to give you up? And Phainon wishes he were capable enough of human speech to say, Don't worry about me. I just want you to be safe.)

But even if your heats are quiet, they’re painfully noticeable to Phainon. You always smell so sweet to him whenever they hit—a tell-tale sign that your body is ready for breeding. And then there's the scent of your arousal, the soft moans you make in your sleep as you dream of being filled, the way you press your thighs together whenever your thoughts wander in your waking hours. A few times you've kicked Phainon out of your room when you've gotten too wet and frustrated from it all, and he's had to spend the night in his own bed trying not to think about how you must be pleasuring yourself.

Phainon used to get shy about it. Tried not to think about how he could calm you with his knot, or how he could fill you up so that your body would stop begging to be bred. He wanted to be good for you, after all.

He didn't want to betray your trust.

But now that it's clear that you want him to be your mate, Phainon finds it agonizing not to touch you. He's scented you over and over and over, kept you indoors with him, held you in bed and comforted you as you ached from being so empty. Can't you tell that he's ready to help you?

And now, as he lays awake beside you, breathing in the scent of your arousal, that's all he can think about: that he should help you.

Phainon is careful about it as he hovers over you in bed. Nearly trembles as he begins to touch you. He's dreamt about this so many times—being close to you, being inside you, being yours—that it scares him now that he's doing it. He doesn't want to mess it up. He doesn't want to scare you by following his instincts—which is to roll you over on your stomach and shove his cock inside you. To rut into you and knot you and pump you full of cum, finally satisfying your heat.

If you were a hybrid, that's what he'd do. But you're a human, and he knows humans need to be handled gently—that you need to be handled gently.

He noses the crook of your neck. Nips at you carefully, listens to the little moan it draws out of you. It's a wonder you don't wake up as his tongue trails over your pulse and down toward your collarbone. He's especially grateful for it when he finally moves down to your thighs and parts them, giving him access to your aching core.

You've soaked through your panties. They're useless now, white fabric doing nothing to hide your leaking cunt. Phainon nearly feels bad when he sees the mess you've made: what a poor mate he’s been, letting you get to this point. He should have laid his claim to you as soon as your heat hit, filled you up and soothed you with his cock.

But he'll make it better, now. He’ll be a proper mate.

Phainon’s never mounted anyone before, so all he knows how to do is to follow instincts when he touches you: puts his head between your trembling thighs, presses his nose into your cunt. He inhales—deeply, greedily—and is briefly overwhelmed. The smell of you is so addictive, and he can't help but want a taste of you for himself. He presses his tongue against you—wet, hot, eager—and he licks.

Your reaction is immediate: your thighs tremble, you give a breathy little sigh. He keeps going then, encouraged—starts to lick you up and down as if you're a treat, drools all over your folds, pants into your cunt. He sucks at you too, trying to taste more of your juices—and happens to find a spot that makes you moan. You gush, a fresh wave of slick soaking his chin, and he starts lapping at the little bud through your panties, making your hips buck.

You wake up like that: pushing your cunt toward his mouth, whimpering as you drip all over his face. It takes you a moment to realise what's happening, for your mind to catch up to the fact that Phainon is licking your needy, empty pussy.

“Wh-what?” Your voice is bleary, dazed. “Phainon, what are you—”

Phainon takes your bud into his mouth again, sucking, and you forget how to speak.

Your moan is loud, blissed out, and your back arches as Phainon licks at you relentlessly. You writhe helplessly as he pushes your panties to the side, no longer unable to hold back, and slides his tongue between your dripping folds. He moans at the taste of your heat, lapping at you hungrily, drooling all over your sweet cunt.

“Ph–phainon,” you say, but he's too drunk on the taste of you to think about it. He takes that swollen little bud into his mouth, sucks again. You're sensitive and needy after being neglected during so many heats, so Phainon’s not surprised when you make the little sweet noise he's heard through the door when you touch yourself—the beautiful cry you give out when you cum.

He pants at the taste, licks at your essence greedily. Wags his tail and feels nothing but bliss—because he's finally helping you, finally fulfilling his duties as a mate, finally going to claim you. And he loves you—loves you so much, wishes once more that he could tell you so in human language. But it's okay that he can't. You'll understand when he knots you and marks you and makes you his. You'll understand him then, and you'll tell him that you love him back.

He looks up at you, beaming—and he stops when he sees your face.

You aren't happy. You’re horrified.

He tilts at you, whines. Tries to reach for you, but you pull away from him, eyes wide and breath erratic, and then you practically stumble out of bed, scrambling to get away. And once you've gotten on your feet, you try to talk to him, but you fumble with your words, stutter between sharp breaths.

All you manage in the end are two pained, broken words: “I’m sorry.”

He doesn't understand. Why are you sorry? he tries to say, but all that comes out of him is a sad little whine, and your eyes get so wide and heartbroken and he panics. Why are you sad? he tries to say. Why are you afraid? Please tell me, please let me help, I'm your mate, I’ll make it better. But he's a dog, not a human, and you can't understand him. Your face twists with pain at the sad, animal noise that comes out of him—and then you run.

Phainon wants to follow. He wants to hold you, lick your face until you're giggling, nuzzle you until you're kissing him and embracing him and loving him again. But you slam the door before he can reach you, and by the time he's outside, you've already thrown on your jacket and run out of the house. Already left him.

And standing all alone in a house that he'd thought he'd stay in forever, but might be as temporary as all the others, Phainon finally realises this:

You don't want to be his mate.

[bakughoust]

⭒ ── SEZON ŁOWIECKI ( HUNTING SEASON )

syn. the adoption papers state that you should allow your guard dog out to hunt every few weeks as a means of enrichment and to keep his senses sharp. but he’s grown tired of his usual pray now, and he’s got some new terms in mind… including a reward.

cw. owner! fem reader x guard dog hybrid! blade. hybrids au. minors do not interact. taboo relationship between owner x pet. pet play. predator x prey kink. knotting. general talk of blade hunting animals etc. animal characteristics ; ear+ tail. he wears a leash+ muzzle at the beginning. most times blade speaks it is in mostly broken sentences. breeding. size kink. rough play. spit+ drool. overstimulation.

word count. 6.7k words. ︵ ⊹ return to masterlist.

It’s not healthy for a dog specifically bred for hunting to be indoors all day. Living a lavish sort of life filled with good work treats and ear scratches will never be able to replace the rush of ripping flesh from bone or stalking prey.

Those were the requirements of Blade’s adoption. You should let him hunt and feed as he likes. Once a month at-least, maybe even every few weeks.

But he quickly got sick of hunting the smaller animals around the greenery near your apartment. He considers them a worthless trophy compared to the prey he used to hunt before you adopted him and you found yourself feeling increasingly more guilty that you weren’t able to meet his needs. To the point of even considering returning him completely.

After all, was it truly fair for you to deny such a loyal guard dog of his basic necessities? Or was it crueler for you to give Blade a life with you before ripping it away so brutally and sending him back to the shelter for selfish reasons.

It’s a decision that keeps you awake at night, and you believe that he can sense something is up too. Often finding him resting his huge palm on your stomach and spreading out his fingers; as if using the weight as a means to soothe you from where he curls up at your side.

Is Blade even truly something you could give up so easily now? Are you capable of living without him?

Thankfully, you didn’t have to ponder on making the right decision for too long. Not before your guard dog himself had given you an ultimatum.

It seemed quite sudden in a way; during another night of unrest, Blade had sat up in his space next to you this time, no doubt tired of your endless tossing and turning himself. His imposing silhouette is nothing more than a dark shadow by your side but despite how others may feel, you aren’t scared.

In the faint moonlight, you can still see the way his ears stand to attention and the blue-ish hue of his fur seems to gleam beautifully beneath it.

“Not sleeping.” His voice seems lower than normal as it disturbs the quiet. You know he’s staring at you but you opt to stare straight ahead instead.

“I’m not.”

“Tell me,” The mattress dips, and as if Blade can smell the tension in your body he leans down to get closer, taking a long inhale over you as he does. Voice trailing off, “Why?”

“Are you truly happy here? In my tiny apartment, protecting me.” You sigh as if it will make you sound less pathetic, but your words pour out of your mouth as if against your will. “Doesn’t it get boring for you?” They are without the weight you expect them to have, they’re almost feeble…. sad, as they drift off into something not unlike smoke.

Blade lets the silence rest following your question. Almost uncomfortably so, still looming over top of you, but when he feels the way you finally begin to shift uncomfortably, he responds.. or at-least tries his best to.

“The hunt.” He pauses, to find words maybe. You see his ear twitch in your peripheral vision. “I yearn for it. True.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

You hear Blade make a sound at that. As if he’s scoffing at you in a way that sounds much less humane and far more canine than it would from anyone else. But it hurts the same way as it usually does.

“Don’t be like that. It matters to me!” Your voice seems to ring as it raises unexpectedly and you feel the way it makes Blade’s body stiffen. As if he’s a stray you’ve backed into a corner, moments away from snapping at your outstretched hand.

You half expect him to growl, bite even. But he doesn’t, instead — his huge body comes to crawl over and press down over top of you, until it all but crushes yours beneath it. And you think this might be worse. It leaves you chest to chest, his lips by your cheek, his teeth too. You think the tension you’re left with is much more terrifying than if he were to strike.

Yet, Blade’s voice remains even when he tries his best to speak.

His breath fans your face, lips against your skin. “You.” A graze of his teeth, “Prey.”

“Are you serious?” If you could snap your body up beneath him, you would. But Blade’s so heavy you can’t move at all. Can’t escape, as you try your best to wriggle free.

“No. Are you insane?” You can’t hide the disbelief in your tone.

That’s when he snarls at you. An incredibly terrifying, low sound that makes goosebumps burst along your skin. As if to challenge you with an unspoken “Am I?” His ears twist out as if he’s listening intently and his nails feel like they’re threatening to sink in deeper to where they rest on your hips.

“No, you’re obviously insane.” You want to scream. His eyes narrow at you.

“I sense distrust...” His words are almost illegible, as if he’s growling instead. Vowels lost to the deep sound. But you can just make out “Fear.” It’s not wise to leave your fate in my jaws of something you seem to be so afraid of.

You know how much your relationship relies on trust and loyalty.

So does he. So you tell yourself you’re not scared. You’re not. You trust him.

And so you decide to respond with a scoff, “You’re talkative tonight.” You were aware Blade could understand orders, but most of what he said himself came out broken and in half-sentences. But this is the clearest he’s sounded since you got him. It makes your brows furrow without realising. “And I’m not afraid of anything. Especially not you, and it’s not distrust either.”

You wriggle beneath him again. As if to challenge him but it takes little of his effort to bare down more of his weight on top of you, making it harder for your next inhale to reach your lungs. It’s even harder to breathe now as his huge body presses you into the mattress.

You hear a growl begin to take shape in his chest again, as if someone is threatening to take his food from him. His teeth trace lower to rest at your throat now and the realisation makes your words almost catch there. As if scared he’ll rip them out himself. But you manage it.

“You forget I’m the one who gave you a home. I wouldn’t house someone I didn’t trust—”

“Fit for a domestic hound.” Blade barks. His voice feels like it carries beneath your skin, the noise slapping your heart still. And then he sounds the clearest he has all night when asks, “How much longer will these chains be able to hold me?” returning to a low, bone-curling drawl and those words, alongside the realisation, sting.

How long will you be able to keep him tame? Happy?

The sheer size of him over you. You can feel it. That fear that his prey are probably so used to. Throat between his jaws, nails in their skin. He’s huge and suffocating, even baring down on you now makes you feel like you’re going to be pushed through the mattress and you’re sure he can smell your fear.

He can feel it.

Your gut knots.

“Fine. But no biting.” The timid edge to your voice dilutes his thickening frustration and despite the ultimatum you give him, you feel Blade’s tail begin to sway side to side by your feet.

“How else.” His voice is far less sharp than it was moments ago as he struggles with his human words. So he says something familiar instead, “Carve victory in flesh.” His teeth bare again, he’s so close you feel him almost drool over your jawline and collarbones.

“No. Bad dog.” You try to sound commanding, but you still reach up to scratch at the favoured spot behind Blade’s ears. He responds to it, naturally as he noses at the space between your jawline. “I’m sure you have other ways.”

That settles him. Tames him for as long as he’ll allow it to and you feel him pull back some of his weight as you allow yourself a full breath of air. The next sound from Blade is no more than a canine huff, a short breath, as he curls back into his spot at your side. He rests his head on your stomach this time as his huge body squeezes itself into the space.

His ears are still upright in the sliver of moonlight through your window and a softer part of you reaches out to pet at the space between them again. Your touch makes them flatten against his head slightly, twitching as you scratch at the shiny dark hair and there’s a shudder to the end of Blade’s tail at the sensation.

You’re suddenly aware that you’ve just become the equivalent of a lamb making a deal with a wolf.

You don’t sleep a wink that night.

—

When the day does come. It starts as any regular day would.

You spend most of your time around the city with Blade on his leash, black leather strapped to the harness that wraps around his chest and goes well with the silver glare to the metal of his muzzle.

Nobody’s any the wiser. Nobody gives you a second look anyway when he’s there. He’s right by your heels with every moment, naturally crowding you from behind as his ears stand tall and twitch at every sound. He growls whenever someone gets too close, the hackles of fur on his tail raising up as if in warning, one of his more dominating behaviours.

Blade’s far past being corrected.

But you’re easily able to calm him down with a soft hush and a pat to his chest. He was obedient, he’s an expertly trained dog after all… and particularly well behaved when he knows he’s going to get what he wants.

The sky around your both seems to darken pretty quickly after that, and there’s something about the change of scenery that makes warmth begin to crawl all over your skin as you begin your journey home.

Blade’s eyes are sharp on you with every step. There’s a tension to his shoulders and body, standing up straight— watching your movements with unnerving precision. It’s like he’s memorising your behaviour more than usual today, though you’re well aware of why that could be, it doesn’t make you feel any more settled.

Only when you both come to stand on the street just short of your apartment do you look at him. Like you haven’t been avoiding his gaze all day.

“Are you ready?” Your voice comes out more feeble than you expect it to, but the way Blade’s body responds to it makes you shiver. You notice his tail begins to sway behind him, a steady back and forth as the air between you both begins to feel stuffy.

He doesn’t answer you. Not with his limited repertoire of human words. But he gives you a look before leaning down to let you toy with the leather straps at his jaw and there’s a pleased sort of huff that follows the movement that you assume is his response.

“Remember, no biting.” Your fingers fidget with the muzzle, stroking against his skin every so often. Eventually you unclip the leather to reveal the muscles that are clenching tight in Blade’s mouth when you pull it back. There’s already drool gathering at the corners of his lips and it makes your hairs stand on edge before your hold on his leash grows lax.

You set the muzzle down in the bushes to your left. You’ll circle back for it later.

Your eyes meet Blade’s again as you go to turn, but then you notice the way his eyes begin to trail down the line of your throat. They sweep along your figure in your dress, all the way down to your sneakers — something comfortable to run in. But then there’s a shift in him, something dangerous.

His gaze is dark and expectant, his huge body beginning to heave as his breathing seems to revert back to somewhat of a pant. It’s like he’s impatient, hungry — a starved dog who has never known a gentle hand.

You swallow down the tinge of anticipation that makes you feel suddenly too hot for your own clothes, even your skin feels like it clings to you. Blade’s gaze follows your hand when you reach it up to scratch at that same spot behind his ear that you know he likes.

“Be good, okay?” Your voice cracks, fingers shaking as you try to centre yourself with your next inhale and as if your guard dog can feel it. He leans into your touch, as if to remind you of his loyalty — of which he’s sworn to you.

It settles you. Even if only slightly and Blade lets you pet him on the side of the street for a few moments.

But then you break your eye contact to look over your shoulder, to have a look at where you’re headed. You see the tree line break a few yards away and it’s quite suddenly that your knees begin to shake.

You’ve been there with Blade a few times already. He’s hunted those grounds before, but not like this… not you. You wonder if this is how it feels.

You can tell your time is up after that, when you feel your dog begin to become restless opposite you. His brooding form grows stiffer — in a way that makes him seem even larger and when you take a step back. You hear him begin to growl.

It’s low, just audible. But it’s guttural and dangerous, urging you to draw your hand back as you take another step. Blade doesn’t follow you, he stands there. Baring his teeth at you, the wag of his tail grows stiff and his ears seem to pin themselves close together.

You don’t say anything else before you suddenly turn on your heels and break away from him.

The electricity rushes through you in a way that’s enough to make you quiver, something in your lower abdomen squeezing as your breathing becomes erratic.

The stride you take is quick and hurried as you rush quickly down the sidewalk, nobody seems to notice your sudden escape from your own pet. The same dog you were being so diligently watched by a moment ago, the same one who’s been glued to your side, now letting you have so much distance.

The wind feels cooling as it rushes over your warm cheeks, it feels like it blows through you but you don’t dare look back. You can still feel the hungry, predatory gaze that’s ensnared you from behind and the rush of adrenaline in your system seems to push you to move faster.

You can see the entrance to the trees as you make your way towards it — it’s a public park, surrounded by a long stretch of woods that tend to be left uninhabited around this time of night. That’s why Blade favoured it so much, why he preferred to hunt late rather than when it was bright.

It’s dark. But you feel the thrill ignite a spark in your nerves as you brush by the dwindling people still left on the street, some even escorted by pets of their own as they make their way home. It’s the hybrids that give you a look, as if they can pick up on your unease, your fear.

You pay it no mind.

Your chest feels tight, it’s barely begun, yet your heart is already pounding — beating at your ribs like it’s trying to climb its way up your throat as you near the entrance to the woods.

You approach the opening before finally, you allow yourself a quick glance over your shoulder. It’s nothing more than a momentary look, but it’s enough to make something sharp shoot down your spine when you notice the looming figure in the crowd.

Blade’s eyes are still locked in your direction. Despite the distance, he sees you. His chest is heaving now, teeth on show, drool dripping down his chin. His hackles are noticeably raised now, he can still feel you from so far away as you finally decide to put whatever adrenaline you have to good use and he raises his chin to sniff at the air. Locking onto your scent.

Your next step pushes you into a jog and you take off running.

By the one after that, you don’t notice the huge silhouette you appear to be so afraid of has already vanished from the crowd.

The woods are eerily quiet, they seem to swallow you whole. It leaves you with only the sound of your own breathing and your footsteps as you drink up and channel the response your body seems to have to this, to him, into your stride.

Your heart is racing as you run, but the air does wonders for your overheating skin. It’s fanning over your features and blowing your dress behind you as you push yourself deeper through the shadows.

You push yourself through a sprouting bush, until suddenly your head twitches instinctively at a noise to your left and you swear you see it. Him. The quick flash of blue-hued fur that bleeds into red, Blade’s gaze almost glows as he stands a few feet away and it makes you gasp.

But then suddenly he’s gone again, like he’s toying with you and you feel the sudden urge to go faster.

You hear it as an echo first. That deep rumble of a growl that you’ve become so familiar with, it travels through the trees around you, like something haunting as you almost lose your footing. It feels like Blade’s everywhere at once, you know he’s watching you, he only shows himself to you in quick flashes out of the corner of your peripheral vision.

A snapped branch. A rustle of leaves. A low, garbled growl that seems eerily similar to a laugh. You hear him in the trees above you, the bushes to your side, in the direction you’re heading towards.

He wants you scared.

“You’re slow.” His tone is different, more uneven. “For prey.” Blade growls out the word in a way that’s much more feral and ragged sounding than you’re used to. It makes your whole body twitch significantly before you find yourself ducking into a heavier oak tree to your right for breath.

You can barely hear anything with how loud your own heartbeat sounds in your ears. Not to mention, there’s an insistent throb between your thighs that you can only blame on the lick of fear that follows the next crunch of the grass behind you. You shouldn’t feel like this for your own guard dog, but then you hear him growl in the distance and the way your body responds to it betrays what you know is right.

“Hiding?” Drawls in the distance. A dangerous sound as you try to suck in quick breathes, feeling your lungs quake with each exhale before you try to catch a glance behind you. You’re eager to know his location, but you need to keep yourself moving.

“Futile.”

You shriek when the exhale against your neck causes your head to snap back around to see Blade already in front of you. His teeth are bared to you, drool dripping down his throat as he looms over you, as if moments away from ripping the flesh from your bones. On his hands and knees to be at your level, terrifying and feral. He looks more wolf than dog right now. His ears are standing up so sharp they resemble two blades peeking through his dark hair.

You now understand what they mean when they refer to fight or flight, because you don’t even think about it at all before you push past him to set off again. He’s gone from his position by the time you even blink, leaving you with your heart in your throat and the echo of his voice again, left to only listen for his next location.

You feel like you could cry.

You feel like you’re caught in his web, thrown into a cage with a beast. Every movement only tangles you further, it makes you look even more appetising to a starved hound. But you can’t deny the flicker of controversial lust that tangles itself around the base of your spine.

You can’t run from that either.

It’s quiet again for a few moments except from the rush of your own feet, it’s like he’s taunting you with the taste of an escape, like he’s gotten bored of the chase and let you go. That is, until you hear it. For the first time, you hear him.

His footsteps.

You try to steal a look into the darkness behind you. The same one that feels like it’s threatening to swallow you entirely, and that’s when you actually see him. The way Blade’s huge form seems to rip its way from the shadows to chase you, like he’s finally grown tired of toying with his food. He’s chasing you, with something uncaged and wild in his eyes as he gains on you alarmingly quick.

He could’ve caught you already, all this time, but that’s not what the hunt is about. Your heart is throbbing as you gasp at the sight of him, hearing the heavy footsteps as he sprints after you, the distance he’s closing quickly filling your mind as you make a break into the trees.

You hear Blade make a familiar sound, a bark— a growl. It scares you with how close it sounds. You’ve never run as fast as you’re running right now, every thud from behind you feels like it kicks your legs out from underneath you but you can’t stop.

You can hear him breathing, savagely panting. This is what it means to be prey, to be hunted. This is the rush that your guard dog has been chasing as he watches you twist desperately for an escape, you play the role of the lamb so perfectly.

“Too slow.” Blade’s words ravage their way through your nerves. You swear you feel his long, sharp fingers reach for you in the way the hairs on the back of your neck stand up to attention, atoms drawn into him like you’re about to be snared in a trap… his jaws.

Yet you still feel so lured in by your dog’s touch as he gains on your figure.

You almost stumble at the realisation, your feet slipping beneath you on the foliage and the fumble gives you a few more seconds as Blade’s highly honed senses respond to it. It halts his movements momentarily, enough for you to make a last ditch effort to escape as you skid on your feet and turn, making a break for the slight opening in the trees just down by the river.

“Clever prey.” You hear your guard dog snarl behind you as you keep moving, and the sound for some reason tempts you into casting a glance over your shoulder. As if drawn to it, before you realise he’s already right there. It only takes him a few strides of his huge legs to be on you.

You can’t help but scream at the sudden contact of Blade’s hand on your skin. Instinct yells at you to push him away but when you try, his grip is tight and it pulls you back into him so quickly you get knocked off balance before he’s taking you down hard onto the cool grass beneath you.

The impact of landing on your chest leaves you dizzy and disoriented as you catch your breath, but Blade’s own panting sets off the sound. You feel like the air has been knocked out of you as you try to drag yourself away from where he has you pinned between him and the earth, claiming and caging you.

“To claim.” The dog’s voice sounds, far from humane in tone as his chest crushes you from behind. Driven by his lust and hunger as he watches you struggle beneath him, clawing at the dirt as he presses you down so hard it almost hurts. His teeth tease your spine, threatening to bite. “What’s mine.”

“Blade, y-you’re hurting me.” You feel him smear drool along your clothes and his tail wags in long, clapping sways over top of you. His excitement is evident in the movement, his instinct too.

Then Blade’s hand reaches down to clamp harshly around your waist before the other is reaching around your front and between your breasts to wrap around your throat. With little effort he’s able to drag you back the few measly inches you had escaped, until you’re back against his chest, enough for him to nose and drool along the back of your neck as he crowds you in.

“More than just ripping flesh.” Your lashes flutter at the way he presses down all of his weight on top of your back. But now he’s close enough for you to feel him rub his clothed cock against your ass as-well and it makes you shake beneath him.

“Blade?” Your voice breaks.

“Breed.” He responds. A garbled sound. A growl that leaves you wide eyed as Blade allows you to feel the impressive strain of him through his clothes when he all but ruts you into the dirt beneath him like an animal.

“W-what?” You stop struggling at that, collapsing beneath Blade’s weight as you squeeze your eyes closed. You know it’s taboo — you shouldn’t be enjoying your guard dog mounting you like this, claiming you as a reward after you let him hunt you for sport. But you become so pliant beneath him, the hard press of him so close to being between your legs doing wonders for you too.

You’re already dripping with the adrenaline that courses through you and your cheek turns to rest against the cool grass.

Blade pants, trying to speak in broken growls and garbled words of. “Breed.” “Claim.” “Flesh and bone.” “Soft.”

“Please.” Your voice breaks his rhythm, tone tight with need as you try to rock your hips back into his. As if to give him an order, but it translates as more of a plea.

Yet Blade listens, it makes his ears pinch together as he curls over you and he only pulls away enough to twist you onto your back to face him.

That’s when you’re finally able to see him, to remind you of what’s transpired in the moments leading up to this. The disheveled look on Blade’s fur is gorgeous in this lighting, you can see the way the blue bleeds into the red from here, his ears standing up tall and turned out and he’s all but soaked himself in his own drool and pre-cum from the hunt.

There’s something dark in his gaze, but it still glows when he watches you, the leather of his harness is still snagging his chest and you can’t help but reach and hold onto it when he begins to shove your dress up your quivering legs.

Your feet kick out, as if to stop him but Blade makes quick work of shoving them out of his way. He wraps your thighs around his waist instead before his huge body pushes between them and he leans down to lap and lick at your face.

You try to meet him, as if to kiss him but it’s never been an affection that dogs like him are capable of. He drools into your open mouth instead, licking at you with his tongue, curling it around your molars as he snarls between your lips. It’s filthy and messy, as expected when an owner feeds into their guard like this — letting him mount you like a beast as he humps you into the ground.

You feel his fangs graze your lips and you remind him of your earlier agreement with a short “No biting!” but he’s gone completely. His tongue breaks from your lips to lap at your cheeks and then your jawline — taking long licks of your salty skin from your efforts and it makes you squeeze your legs tight around his hips as his shaft presses up against your clothed folds.

Your hands shake as they reach up to scratch at the usual spot between his ears and Blade’s tail begins to clap loudly behind him at the sensation.

“Enough.” He pants, “Waiting.” His teeth show again as he pulls away from you to stuff his mouth near your throat, disobediently suckling and biting at the skin as you arch up into him. It’s not enough to kill you, he’s still obedient and loyal in that regard.

Maybe it’s the taboo of it all that is making it feel so good; that’s making you pant out sweet, choked off Good Dogs and Good Boys as Blade humps you. He pants raggedly through his clenched teeth at the praise. He’s soaked all the way through his clothes and his knot aches hard, throbbing for him to finally take what he’s earned. He can smell your arousal and how wet you are already.

So he mercilessly tears through your underwear with his hands and his pants follow next before you can complain about it. You need him so badly you can feel tears begin to bead at your lashes, you don’t care about what others may think about you letting your guard dog mount and hump you like this.

You don’t care at all. You can’t wait any longer.

You catch a glimpse of Blade’s cock before he’s on you again and it makes you gasp when your eyes sweep over the thick curve of him. The base is so swollen it almost looks painful, but he doesn’t give you much time to admire him before his chest is back close to you.

Your hair tangles in the earth behind you with how fiercely he takes you beneath him.

“Be a good boy, okay?” You try to rush Blade, growing impatient yourself as you feel the weight of his cock split through your folds. It makes your praise stutter as he rubs himself up against you and his ears twitch at every little thing you give him. “You did so good, you h-hunted well.”

Even the little friction you’re offered feels like it burns and sizzles as he begins to rut himself into you, the weight of his body almost slams you into the ground with every roll of his hips and it feels so good it makes your toes curl.

But it’s not enough, you can tell Blade’s movements are clumsy and canine, so you offer him a glance before reaching down to grab his cock for yourself. Humming as you speak to him in a soft, dreamy tone.

“Here, let me okay? Good dog.” His tongue is on you again, as if tasting your words while you line the thick head of his cock up with your pussy. And you’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline, the chase or the anticipation that makes it so easy for him to press all the way into you with one stroke. But you’re absolutely soaked, and he reaches so deep it has you seeing white for a few moments after at the stretch.

Blade’s back to drooling now, tail swaying back and forth as his hips press up against yours and his tongue continues to lick at your pleasure-stricken expression.

“Tight.” “Soft.” Your guard dog grits his teeth against your cheek before his hands reach forward to fist your hair, and he shoves your head back so hard it makes your back arch. This opens more of you up for him in a way that makes you feel lightheaded, your lips part in an O and Blade laps into it. You’re left to tremble as he begins a pace that’s completely ruthless and animalistic, but your pussy squeezes around him so intoxicatingly it’s almost begging him not to stop.

He’s panting loud again. Like an excited dog about to get treats or the reality that is a dog humping his cock into his owner’s pussy as he hunches over you. You can’t hold back the way it makes you moan.

“Good.” Blade huffs, smearing drool along your jawline now. You’re so tight and barely prepped as he drags you along the grass beneath you both, rutting himself into the warm hug of your walls with every intent to give you his knot.

You don’t think about it, you can’t think about anything actually as you desperately try to chase the feeling of your guard dog’s mouth on yours, letting him lap at your tongue as it rolls out from between your lips. Every wet withdrawal of Blade’s hips is loud, but the slap back is even louder as it echoes around the shadows — he’s fucking you with such weight that your body almost folds in on itself.

He’s like a feral mutt. Completely unhinged. Never known a gentle hand a day in his life as his hips smack so mercilessly into yours it burns, forcing your walls to stretch and mould for him as your hands curl in his hair to hold on.

But you’re already so close, Blade can feel it— smell it, as your slick soaks the fur along the base of his cock. So he presses even deeper into your body, losing himself in the reward of your cunt that he’s earned. “Breed.” “More.” “Soft.” Echos again, louder as you claw at his shoulders for any sort of relief and his ears flatten against the top of his head as he feels you begin to squeeze tighter.

“Good boy! J-just like that.” Your words gasp, broken by the feeling of his pelvis rubbing up against your clit and Blade feeds into it, his knot throbbing as you shriek out “Keep going.”

He wants to call you greedy. Chastisise your impatience. But your pussy feels so good around him that any human thoughts or words are lost to the brutal animal instinct that he fucks you with. Your body jolts, folding in on itself as you feel him begin to lap at the skin over your pulse and it only takes a few more deep, long thrusts of his cock before you grow rigid beneath him.

Even as you cum around Blade’s cock, he doesn’t give you any sort of relief. His jaw tightens between each hammered thrust of his frantic hips, leaving you so easily splayed out as he wants, as he pins your head back onto the ground beneath you.

It leaves you in a way that satiates his deep desire to breed and breed and breed. There’s no time for him to even consider slowing down before he’s already cumming himself with a loud snarl, grinding his teeth against one another as he bites back the insistent ache to sink them into your flesh and he hears the way taking all of him makes you shriek at the stretch.

But you’re just so good, your pussy sucks Blade in so well and it milks him of all of his cum as he feels you squeeze around the width of his knot. He continues to slide in and out of you with a burning fervor, displacing any thought of it being too much as he drools more spit into your open waiting mouth and along your lips.

He continues to grind himself into your cunt until you’re shaking and whimpering, the overstimulation settling into the ache of his muscles as his movements begin to slow and Blade noses himself up against your cheek as the haze settles. His ears are perked up, watchful of you as every slow thrust of his sticky hips displaces the cum plugged up inside of you.

He stays like that. Until the quiet of the night begins to come back to the ringing in your ears and your shaky fingers return to their usual place on his head. You pet him, as an owner would when their dog does a particularly good trick. He seems to like it.

“Good boy. You didn’t kill me.” You joke lightheartedly, but all it earns you from Blade is a canine Hmph.

You’d assume him to be quite displeased, but you can feel the rhythmic tap of his tail from on top of you and you think this is the most pleased you’ve seen him following a hunt in a while.

“Was it fun? For you I mean?” You ask, in a moment of quiet solitude and insecurity. You bite on your lower lip with the question, as if not sure you even want to know the answer.

But as if Blade can pick up on your unease, he knocks his head against the side of your face, almost as a means of comfort. “You make good prey.” He licks at the side of your cheek with a long lap, it makes you feel even stickier than you already are. But there’s a strange comfort to his growled out “Amusing.”

Your back begins to ache from where you are beneath him, and you’re suddenly aware of the earth that you were basically tackled into as you feel it dig into your skin. No doubt ruining the back of your dress as well.

But considering how full you still feel about now, you have a feeling you’re going to be stuck like this for a while longer. Blade seems aware of that too as he begins to nose at your pulse point, lapping at the sensitive skin there as his cock rests buried in your walls and despite how weird it may seem to some…

You can’t help but tilt your head to allow him more space to lick at you.

You let your hand trace along the shape of Blade’s ear next and you feel the way it makes his huge body curl at the soft sensation. There’s a throb to his cock too that makes you look at him.

“Well. Maybe we can make a routine of it… But you’re still not allowed to bite.”

You still hear that rhythmic tap as his tail wags at your feet.

[bakughoust]

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. 

[bakughoust]

a temporary reprieve | aki hayakawa

"Promise me something." He squints, his mouth open just enough that you see the lick of his tongue behind his teeth as he tilts his head. "Promise what, exactly?" "Please don't be mad at me." He huffs a short laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Depends on what you're going to tell me."

a/n: dead dove, do not eat. major character death, unexpected pregnancy, mention of abortion, childbirth, vomiting/nausea, blood and injury, hurt/no comfort. repost.

Aki is angry when you tell him.

You knew he wouldn't be happy; to be frank, you weren't exactly thrilled. You'd been together long enough that it had certainly come up in conversations about your future, but it was never a discussion. You both agreed that it wasn't what you wanted out of life. Aki had his own reasons, you had yours, and that was that. There was never any need to revisit the matter because you'd made your choice together. It should have been cut and dry. 

The universe apparently has other plans, however, and the longer you stare at those two little pink lines, the more you realize you are only delaying the inevitable. You have to tell him.

"You okay in there?" His voice is muffled from the other side of the bathroom door, but it still makes your head spin with panic. You turn on the water and flush the toilet, hands trembling.

"Fine!" you lie. "Be out in a sec."

Not tonight, you think. You need time to process it yourself. Maybe there are other options you could consider. Maybe it's a false positive. Maybe this is a bad, bad dream and you'd wake up in a few hours and nothing would be any different than it was before you went to bed. Maybe…

"Hey, we're gonna be late. Not trying to be a dick, but–"

You open the door and smile brightly at him– too brightly, you fear– and your boyfriend raises a brow in a look you know so well, the one that tells you he knows you're hiding something from him and he thinks you're stubborn for even trying. "Ready!" You say, clapping your hands and brushing past him to grab your shawl off the back of the couch. "Sorry for taking so long. I just wanted to look nice tonight."

Aki softens and leans forward to kiss your temple as you bend to strap on your shoes. "You always look nice." He's so sincere that it makes you feel bad for lying to him. You keep your head lowered a few seconds longer than you need, makkng sure the buckle is secure.

"Let's go," you say, threading your arm through his. "I'm sure everyone's waiting for us."

The restaurant is one of Makima's favorites: upscale, swanky, suit and tie required. Bone china, polished silver, crystal and linen as far as the eye can see. You feel Aki stiffen at your side when you enter and you squeeze his hand to quietly reassure him. His thin, strained smile says it all when he looks at you– let's make this quick. You nod in understanding just as Makima comes to greet you.

She's dressed to the nines in an outfit  that must be worth a year of your salary, hair in a perfectly coiffed updo that accentuates her long neck and diamond teardrop earrings. Her smile is syrupy and almost too sweet when she bids you good evening and offers her hand to Aki. He hesitates, then lifts her knuckles to kiss them lightly.

"Good boy," she says, looking directly at you; for some reason, it makes your face feel hot and you duck your head. "Our table is in the back. Come with me, won't you?"

The entirety of Division Four is present. You hear Denji and Power before you see them, half expecting them to be throwing food across the table at each other. You feel like a proud aunt when you see them sitting next to each other, chatting excitedly about their latest kill. When they see you, Aki, and Makima, they straighten up in their chairs and smile. You can't help but wave and smile back. 

A waiter comes to ask what you'd like to drink. Aki orders himself a whisky, then nudges you gently when he sees your nose buried in the menu.

"Hm?"

"What do you want to drink?" 

"Oh– oh! Um, water's fine."

You lift the menu back up to your face and pretend to be deeply engrossed in the selections. 

"Babe? You're sure you don't want something else?" Aki asks quietly. It's not like you to endure these outings without an alcoholic beverage.

You nod. "Mm-hm! Water's fine, thanks," you confirm, hoping that no one is watching too closely. You have a terrible poker face.

At your side, Aki shrugs and lifts his eyes to Makima, who sits directly across from him. She's been watching the entire exchange with scrutinizing eyes, but decides that now isn't the time to bring up your strange behavior. First, she'd like to have a pleasant dinner.

Division Four is smaller these days; devil hunters with balls and brains are hard to come by, and Makima seems to keep those who have stayed with her even closer now. Tonight is a celebration of a month of work without casualties. It's a bittersweet get-together, and almost everyone ends up eating their fill and probably drinking more than they should. You're uncharacteristically quiet; so much so that Aki keeps a reassuring hand on your thigh and gives you a squeeze now and then. He's worried about you, but he engages in conversation with others just the same.

Makima says your name, and you look her directly in the eye, your lips quivering into an uncertain smile. "Are you feeling alright?" she asks. To the naked eye and unwavering ear, it’s an innocent question. But the way she studies you creates a bubbling sense of unease in the pit of your stomach. You take a long sip of your water while maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with her, then use the linen napkin from your lap to wipe your mouth.

“Just fine,” you lie. You know she sees right through it. Makima isn’t someone you normally want to be dishonest with, but this is not the time nor the place to reveal what’s really going on.You swallow again and rub your cheek, the intensity of her gaze making you the one who looks away first. “A little tired tonight, that’s all.”

She rests her chin in her hand and narrows her eyes a little, her painted lips turning down into a deep frown. “Mmm. Maybe you and Aki should call it a night. I’d hate for you to feel worse if you stayed out too late.”

Aki hears his name and is suddenly a part of your conversation with Makima. “What’s that? I didn’t catch it.”

“It’s nothing, Aki, I–”

“I was just telling her that maybe you ought to leave a little early if she isn’t feeling well. You should take her home, Aki. She looks a little pale.” She looks smug, and you reach under the table to squeeze Aki’s hand that’s still resting on your leg.

If the situation gets any more awkward, you’ll crack and just blurt it out. You have a brief, lucid daydream where you stand up and shout I’M PREGNANT WITH AKI’S CHILD! And everyone in the entire restaurant turns to stare at you and you give birth right there on the expensive, white tablecloth. You shake your head to shatter the image and find Aki’s face close to yours, a crooked finger lifting your chin so that he can get a better look at you.

“Makima’s right. You okay? We can go, if you want.”

You look around the table to find that it's fallen silent, and everyone watches you with bated breath. Power has even paused mid-bite with her jaw open, waiting on your answer. So you nod and push your chair out, standing a little too quickly. Your fork chatters to the floor and shatters the deafening silence. "You're probably right," you concede. "Thank you for dinner, Makima. It's been a pleasure."

The drive home is just as awkward. You insist on driving, as Aki took advantage of the free drinks, and you spend most of the drive biting your tongue and contemplating the best way to tell him the news.

Aki isn't an idiot. Your silence speaks volumes; he lights a cigarette and rolls his window halfway down to ease the tension. The smell– which normally doesn't bother you– makes your nose itch and your stomach lurch. You roll your own window down to let the cool night air refresh you.

"What's going on?" he asks, his eyes trained on you under the glow of a stoplight. Fat drops of rain start to fall on the windshield of your car, distorting your view. You watch them streak across the glass instead of looking at Aki. "Did I do something to make you mad?"

He's holding back his anger, his confusion, but it spills over in the tone of his voice. There's a quiet strain, as if there are more words caught in his tongue and he doesn't quite know how to form them in a way that won't upset you further, if indeed you are angry at him. He's painstakingly combing over details of the last few days in his mind, trying to pinpoint the moment when you might have been offended, but he genuinely can't recall anything. 

The light turns green and you make a turn toward home. "You didn't do anything, Aki. I swear." 

He's quiet for a few seconds, dragging on the last of his cigarette. "Then what is it? Did something upset your stomach at dinner? Are you in pain?"

His concern brings tears to your eyes and you shake your head, focusing on your grip on the steering wheel. You shift in your seat and fidget with your seat belt. "I'm a little sick, yeah. Started before dinner though."

"Why didn't you say something then? We could have stayed home if I'd known." He sounds annoyed. "This wasn't a required thing, you know? Makima would understand–"

"No, Aki, I don't think she would have," you retort, snapping at him far more angrily than you meant to. Both of you know you're right, and you let it sink in for a few seconds. You snap your lips shut and turn them into a deep frown, the shame washing over you in a cold, uncomfortable wave. "Sorry- I didn't mean to snap at you."

When you arrive home, he reaches over to grab your hand just as you unfasten your seat belt. His grip is strong, but not forceful. "Please," he says in the darkness. "Please tell me what it is."

"Upstairs," you say, pulling your hand away. "I'll tell you upstairs."

The walk to your shared apartment is too short. Aki walks behind you, step by step, and your keys jingle in your hand. Your heels feel too tight, the pins you put in your hair pressing too hard against your scalp. When you reach the door, you take a deep breath and turn to face Aki, meeting his hardened gaze for the first time in at least a couple of hours. 

"Promise me something."

He squints, his mouth open just enough that you see the lick of his tongue behind his teeth as he tilts his head. "Promise what, exactly?"

"Please don't be mad at me."

He huffs a short laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Depends on what you're going to tell me."

You start to protest, but decide that he's right. You have no business telling him how he's supposed to feel, so you open the door and immediately unbuckle your shoes upon entry. Aki sheds his jacket and follows you to the kitchen, where you brace yourself against the counter to gather courage. The clock above the sink ticks away the seconds, and Aki stands before you, an arm's length away, but doesn't touch you. 

"It's not good news," you whisper. 

Aki’s lip curls a little and he crosses his arms. "Yeah. I figured it wasn't." 

"I, um." You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I was late. And I took a test, and…uh…" You look at him with a mixture of hope and fear. You don't want to have to say the word– somehow it feels less scary if you don't.

Aki's eyes haven't left your face, but as he mulls over your clumsy confession, his breathing grows more labored and his cheeks flush bright pink. He steps back and lifts a trembling finger. "No…no no no no." His voice raises in volume and intensity. "We said that wasn't going to happen. You were supposed to be on the pill. We've been careful. You– I…" He shakes his head in disbelief and backs up further as if it will soften the blow. 

You reach for him, but your hand falls lifeless to your side when he takes another step back. "Can we talk about it?" 

He laughs, incredulous, pushing his hand through his bangs. "Talk about what? What's there to talk about? You wanna talk about how fucked up this is? About how we agreed to fucking be careful and prevent something like this from happening in the first place?" He opens the sliding glass door to the balcony and steps outside. You follow, tentative and quiet, watching as he lights another cigarette. "What the fuck are we going to do? This- this isn't…" 

Now Aki is the one who won't look at you.

It pains you to even consider, but you know there are options. You lean against the open door, pushing away tears with the heel of your hand. "I mean, I don't have to…" You trail off, looking down at your toes. "I haven't been to the doctor yet, so I don't even know how far along I am, but I could find out, and we can talk about what to do then."

He doesn't say a word. You can feel the ire boiling, rolling off the stiffness of his shoulders and the way he exhales the smoke with impatient force. You don't prod him for a response. With Aki, you've learned that he likes to choose his words carefully and not speak from a place of impulsive emotion. Instead, you step back inside with a deep, wavering sigh.

By the time he comes back inside, you've changed into your pajamas, removed your makeup and jewelry, and crawled under the covers. You're lucid enough to sense when he comes into the bedroom and quietly shuts the door, but you don't make a sound. Instead, you lie still and pretend to be asleep as he goes to shower. When he finally climbs into bed with you, he lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

When you wake up in the morning, he’s gone.

You don’t panic at first, though morning sickness hits you like a freight train as soon as you sit up. The room spins and you break out in a cold sweat, the wave of nausea washing over you and making your skin crawl. Thankfully it’s only a few steps to the bathroom, where you fall on your knees in front of the toilet and heave until there's nothing left but bile. You stand and brush your teeth, but gag on the bristles of your toothbrush on your tongue and end up vomiting again. It takes you several minutes to feel capable of standing without feeling too wobbly, but once you're okay, you go to the kitchen to heat up the kettle.

You're used to occasional mornings alone when Aki works. You try to tell yourself that he got called out on a mission, but this feels different. Usually, there's an air of expectation when he's at work and you know he'll be home, almost always by the time it gets dark. This morning, there's a finality to his departure. You don't recall if he kissed you goodbye like he usually does, or if he told you he loves you in the dark stillness of the early morning. He hasn't taken any additional belongings that you can see, and you try to reassure yourself that he'll be back this evening, but your gut tells you otherwise. Most of the day is spent dozing on the couch, nibbling on saltines and sipping peppermint tea to keep your nausea at bay. It's mundane and routine, but it comforts you to do a load of laundry, to sweep the rug, to add a little birdseed to the feeder on the balcony. The life you've built with Aki–  despite the imminent danger he's in every time he goes to work– is, by contrast, quietly domestic. It's almost picturesque what you've built together.

Now, there's another life to consider. 

Somehow you muster up the courage to call your doctor's office to schedule an appointment. They tell you at first that the only available time won't be for another three weeks, and you panic. If you're to consider termination, you need to find out exactly how far along you are now so that you can decide how to proceed. Without explicitly saying as much, you tell the receptionist that you've been having a terrible time with morning sickness (it's not a total bluff) and you'd like to have a sooner consultation. She sighs heavily and miraculously finds an appointment for you two days from now.

Two days. You hope Aki comes home to go with you. The thought of him leaving for good is one you just can't shake. It's so out of character for him, but considering the way he reacted when you told him the news last night, it’s not totally impossible to fathom. 

It turns out your gut wasn’t wrong, after all. You don’t sleep a wink the first night.

You’re due at work the following morning, but you’re so nauseous and exhausted that you call in sick. Your boss is understanding and tells you to take it easy, but she doesn’t know the extent of what’s happening. Next, you try Aki’s cell. He usually only carries it for work, and since the charger is still plugged into the kitchen counter outlet, you don’t figure you’ll have any luck. When it goes straight to voicemail without even one ring, your fears are confirmed. Though Makima is the last person on earth you want to talk to right now, you know she’s also the first person who might be able to give you a clue as to Aki’s whereabouts. 

“Public Safety, Makima speaking.” Her voice is crystal clear and cuts through your courage like a hot knife, splitting you in two. You stammer into the speaker, and her laugh lilts down the line. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I can’t understand you.”

You take a deep breath and tell her who’s calling. “Have you seen Aki?” you ask– hopeful, tearful, palm clasped over your mouth to quiet your sobs.

“He’s out on a mission right now. May I leave him a message for you?” She’s cold and detached, just as you knew she’d be. You’ve never been able to crack her, and you’re not sure you even want to. There’s something about her that leaves you feeling unsettled and exposed every time you’re around her, as if she knows all of your secrets but won’t tell you which ones she’s thinking about the most.

“Do you know when he’ll be back? Like, even an estimate? Or where he is?”

“I’m sorry, that information is classified. As soon as he’s back in the office, I’ll have him call you.”

“Wait, Makima, I–!” 

She sighs softly. “What is it?”

You hesitate, lowering your head in defeat. “It’s nothing. Thanks anyway.”

“Give him time,” she says.

“I’m sorry?”

The line goes dead before she responds, and you’re left to wonder if she knows. And if she does…is it because Aki told her, or because she figured it out at dinner the other night? Or perhaps she has another way of knowing, and that’s why you felt so uncomfortable in her presence that night.

When Aki doesn’t return home for the second night in a row, you worry more about his safety than what lies between you. If he was injured or killed on the job, surely someone would have reached out to you by now. Although you’re not married, you’re the closest thing to family that he has. It’s tempting to call the Public Safety office again, but you know who will answer and what she’ll say. So you shower, you dress in Aki’s pajamas, and you crawl to his side of the bed where you try to catch a little bit of sleep.

You've been sleeping so lightly that any small sound is apt to rouse you, so it's no surprise that you'd be keenly aware of the front door opening. The clock at your bedside indicates that it's past three in the morning, and you sit up just as Aki's shadow appears in the doorway to your bedroom.

You hold your breath, waiting to hear him say something– anything. But he's quiet and still, hands pushed into the pockets of his pants, shoulder leaning into the doorframe. Moments pass between you, and he sighs.

"Hi," you whisper, tentative and unsure. 

It's his signal to move. He sits down on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on your knee, studying your face. He looks like he's falling apart. Angry, purple crescents beneath his eyes tell you he hasn't slept. He's dirty– old blood streaked across his cheek, under his fingernails. Now that he's closer, you smell the booze, the stale smoke, the acrid coppery scent of blood and sweat and struggle. Your stomach lurches and try to breathe through your mouth instead of your nose. You won't let it ruin this reunion.

"I'm sorry," he offers. "I got a call, and I had to go. There wasn't time to–" He chokes, inhaling sharply and pressing his hand to his mouth to hold back his sobs.

"Oh, Aki…" You sit up fully and wrap him in your arms, tucking your head between his neck and shoulder. He stiffens at first, confused and overwhelmed with your affection, but soon you feel the tension in his body melt away and he allows himself to be held.

He does lift his arms to fold them around you, eventually. There are a million and one things you could both say, but the silence speaks volumes. The fact that he's here with you, that he came back, that he hasn't made the decision to run is relief enough. You know him well enough to know that he wouldn't have the heart to abandon you, but the overwhelming fear of not knowing his whereabouts for the last two days had you thinking all sorts of horrible things. You know his past, you're living in his present right alongside him. But you can't read his mind.

There's a ritual when he comes home from missions, and though he doesn't expect you to help him this time, you do so anyway. You peel his jacket from his shoulders, you take out the knot in his tie and undo the buttons on his shirt, all while the shower runs and steam begins to waft toward the ceiling, creating a warm haze in the confines of your small bathroom. You carefully pull the elastic from his hair and run your fingers through the soft, black strands while he slips his thumbs into the waistband of your pants (his pants, he notes, and his heart swells with guilt) and helps you step out of them.

The water washes away his tension, but the resulting fatigue overwhelms both of you. He's not wounded this time apart from a few small scratches on his face and a larger one on his left shoulder, but the bruises you find tell you that this mission was no small struggle. Aki follows the path of your fingers with tired eyes as you gently circle each blemish on his tender skin.

"What's it like?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

You furrow your brow, wrinkling your nose to keep the tears at bay. "What's what like?" You think you know, but you ask anyway.

Aki places a trembling hand on your abdomen and looks at you meaningfully. "This."

Despite your best efforts, the tears fall anyway and mingle with the water that's misted over your cheeks. You cover his hand with yours. "I don't really know yet. I don't feel any different except for being sick to my stomach all the time."

He frowns a little, then trains his eyes down to where your hands meet. "Do you think the…" He pauses and swallows thickly. "The baby…will have my eyes?"

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant, but the hope that blooms warm in your chest is hard to deny. "Maybe. There's only one way to find out." You look at him expectantly. "I have an appointment today... Do you–"

"I'll come with you," he says. It's resolute and determined, and you know in your heart that he's already decided what the outcome will be. 

Before you can say another word, he's kissing you. It tastes of melancholy, of longing, of long nights of missing you and worrying that you've already made up your mind. You wind your arms around his neck and he turns, pressing you against the shower wall with his body hard and slick against your own. His kisses take a desperate turn, and his hands knead and grab your flesh as if it's the first and last time he'll be able to touch you like this. You kiss him back with equal intensity, the taste of him mingling with the saltiness of tears– yours or his, you're not sure. 

His kisses fall to your jaw, to your neck, tongue tracing over your skin as one hand falls between your legs. You grip him tight around the shoulders with one arm and brace yourself against the wall with your other as he works his fingers just inside, flicking them softly over your clit until your quiet moans fall on his ear.

"I'm sorry I disappeared," he says again, lips grazing the shell of your ear. You feel his hardness pressing just under your belly button and you widen your stance, eyes shut tight against the deluge of water and the desperate need for him to be inside you. You can't bring yourself to care much beyond this moment– past or future, it doesn't matter. He's here now, and he's all you need.

"It's okay," you say, earnestly, your voice climbing a few notes when he grips the back of your thighs to lift you. Back against the wall, arms still wrapped snug around his shoulders, your body welcomes him with practiced ease. Aki takes a moment to steady himself, to feel the warmth of your sex envelop him, before he begins rolling his hips up against yours. You gently scratch your nails through his hair and across the back of his neck and lick your way into his mouth in a deep and dirty kiss. He groans low and gritty, his breath hot and heavy on your tongue. 

It isn't long before the intensity builds for both of you. Within minutes, he's moving at a near frantic pace, fucking into you as hard as he can manage without slipping from his position on the slick tub floor. Your legs are wrapped tight around him as he moves, each thrust making your back slide along the wall to create an angry sounding squeak of skin against vinyl. Neither of you are in any state to care or even notice.  When Aki comes, he pushes hard up inside, staying there without moving to feel the way he pulses, the way your pussy flutters and spasms around him, accepting all that he's giving to you. 

Panting, he helps you lower one leg as he slips out of you, then replaces his cock with gentle fingers. "Got carried away," he says with a quiet, breathless chuckle, kissing his way up from your collarbone to just under your jaw before capturing your mouth in a kiss again. He knows just where to touch and how to kiss you to bring you to the brink quickly, and you're soon falling apart around him, a quivering, wet mess at the hand of your very own devil hunter.

According to blood work and an ultrasound exam, you're seven weeks along. The doctor's report is positive, and you're given medicine to help with morning sickness, which they say should be manageable by the end of your first trimester. Aki listens carefully from the chair beside the examination table where you sit, absorbing all the information until his head spins. It's overwhelming for both of you, but there's no denying the little, flickering flame of excitement when it comes to imagining the future. 

The months fly by. Your morning sickness is replaced by a voracious appetite for noodles and dumplings and almond tofu. Quiet moments are spent with Aki's hand on your swollen abdomen, your feet in his lap, and a tiny human who seems to enjoy practicing somersaults against the warmth of her father's palm. The quiet domesticity you've built together over the last couple of years has a new intensity to it now, and it's increasingly difficult for you to face the reality of Aki’s devil contracts. You don't want to think about it, because ultimately you know that he isn't going to see your child grow up. 

Two years, the Curse Devil had proclaimed after Himeno had passed. You'd met him a few months prior, and at the time you were blissfully unaware of his occupation. He didn't want to have feelings for you, but the more he tried to deny them, the stronger they became. He was honest with you only when he realized how serious you were about pursuing a relationship with him, and he fully expected you to run.

You loved him, though. And you told him as much one evening after you'd drug him to your favorite hangout, drunk on cheap spirits and his warm hands under the hem of your shirt. And for the first time, Aki thought that maybe there was something in this world worth living for beyond revenge. 

It wasn't until you told him you were pregnant that he even considered retiring from Devil hunting, though. Working for public safety had been what he thought was meant for him. Nothing else made sense. Though it could prove fatal for him to even consider abandoning his contracts, he did consider going private. 

Makima's cold, hard gaze makes him feel small and insignificant, and he shifts uncomfortably from where he stands in front of her desk, hands clasped behind his back. His courage wanes the longer she stares, and he knows exactly what she's going to say before the words even leave her mouth.

"You can resign from Public Safety, Aki Hayakawa. But the devils you employ have nothing to do with your paycheck or your conscience."

He bows his head. "Yes, Miss Makima. I understand."

"Hm. Do you also understand that the life you've created will not have any bearing on the length of said contracts? That devils do not care for such trivial human matters?"

Aki grits his teeth, fingernails digging into the fat of his thumbs. "I do."

"And that doesn't change your mind about staying with Public Safety? Public or private, Aki Hayakawa, you'll still be required to call on them from time to time in order to keep fighting."

"I understand, ma'am. Respectfully, I'd like to think that going private might buy me a little more time."

She sits back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest, tilting her head. "Is that so?"

He nods. "If I can choose when I fight, and how much, I can preserve what's left of the time I still have."

"What about money? You won't be paid regularly, or fairly for that matter. Don't you want to be able to take care of this child responsibly in what little time you have remaining?"

"I've been saving. And I have an insurance policy. Even years after I'm gone, she'll be comfortable." There's a solid lump in his throat, and he swallows around it before he continues. "Ma'am, I appreciate your concern, but I've made my decision. I'd like to ask that you respect it, and accept my resignation, effective today."

Makima stands and walks from behind her desk, smooth fingertips trailing over the mahogany surface. She steps, inches away from Aki’s face, and turns her lips into a derisive grin. "Have it your way, then. Though it's sad to see you give up so easily on the one thing that's given you purpose for all these years."

Aki holds her gaze, determined and steadfast. "I'm not giving up. If anything? For the first time, I give a shit about something other than vengeance. There's someone who needs me for who I am, not what I can do for them. And it's restored a faith in humanity that I once thought was hopelessly lost. And if you can't understand that, then I'm not sure we ever understood each other at all, ma'am."

He knows that when he turns and leaves her office, it won't be the last time he sees her.

You go into labor on a late afternoon in March. The previous days you'd been filled with an inexplicable energy to organize the bedroom closet and get every bit of lint out of the dryer vent. Aki watched you with curious fascination, ready to chide you into resting when your breathing became labored and your face began to shine with sweat. The nurse at your doctor's office called it "nesting", and while the term seemed funny to you at first, you soon realized that it came with a primitive purpose.

You were preparing for the birth of your daughter.

Within hours upon your arrival at the hospital, your daughter makes her bloody, messy, screaming entrance into the world. Aki watches from your bedside–  fascinated, disgusted, terrified, enchanted, enthralled– as you give life to her with firm coaching from the swarm of nurses and the doctor who guides her out of your womb and into your aching arms. 

There's a flurry of activity around your bed, but you only see her. Still covered in blood and fluid, little patches of vernix behind her ears and on her shoulders, you think she's the most amazing person you've ever laid eyes on. Ten tiny fingers and ten little toes– you count them one by one while she curls against your chest and Aki kneels at your side with a trembling hand laid atop your head. You coo at her when she looks at you and swipe your finger across her cheek to wipe away the tear that had fallen from your chin.

She has his eyes.

"Mamma, mamma! Look at me!" 

It's a sweltering summer afternoon in the middle of July. There's a playground near your house that's become one of your favorite spots. There's a slide that your daughter swears is as tall as the skyscrapers downtown, and she stands at the top now, waving her little arm in an attempt to garner your attention. You look up from your book and shield your eyes from the sun that burns hot over her shoulder and smile to acknowledge her bravery. No matter that she's done it twenty times this afternoon– each climb is worth celebrating to her.

"I see you, baby! Go ahead! Show me how fast you can go!"

Her giggle is infectious, and she sits down at the edge. "Three…two…one!" Her squeal on the way down makes you throw your head back and laugh, and she nails the landing with her arms thrown in the air.

"Ta-daa!" 

You applaud her bravery and showmanship, and she runs over to reward you with a hug that knocks the wind out of you when she throws her tiny body against yours and climbs into your lap. You stroke her silky black hair and hold her tight, despite the oppressive heat of the humid summer air and try not to think about the fact that Aki’s been missing for the last three days. The last time you’d seen him, he kissed you and his daughter goodbye in the wee hours of the morning, and you felt the familiar– albeit bitter– sense of dread wash over you that you felt every time he left on a mission. He’d kept true to his promise and only went out on calls that were deemed low-risk, fighting only in the private sector. 

Your daughter had just turned three years old that spring. You celebrated her birthday with a trip to the bowling alley and a cake far too big for the three of you, but it didn’t matter. It was cause for celebration for more than one reason, and you knew it as well as he.

There wasn’t much time left. But you hadn’t realized just how little until you see Denji approaching where you and your daughter embrace on the park bench. He lifts a hand in greeting, but he doesn’t smile. His eyes waver, unsure of where to focus, and he takes a deep breath in through his open mouth while slowing his step as he approaches.

“Been a long time,” he says, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk; your vision blurred with tears, you watch as it lands in a soft patch of grass. 

You cover your daughter’s ear with your hand and keep her head pressed against your chest. “Is he dead?” you whisper, searching Denji’s face for the answers you so desperately need.

Denji looks at you, and your head spins, your heart lurches into a frantic rhythm. You kiss your daughter and send her off to play; she happily obliges, and Denji sits beside you, scratching at the back of his neck. “She looks a lot like him, doesn’t she?”

“Identical,” you agree.

“I’m real sorry.”

“I knew it was coming.” It doesn’t soften the blow, however. You’d known that his time was short since before your daughter was born. But no amount of prior knowledge could have prepared you for the way you felt in this moment. The day is too beautiful. The sun is too bright, your daughter is too bubbly. It was supposed to happen on a rainy afternoon when you had nowhere else to be but home, inside and warm and comforted by the quiet stillness of your living room. It wasn’t supposed to be Denji who had to deliver the news. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t–

“Miss Makima said to give you this,” Denji says. It quiets your thoughts when he speaks, and he lays a small yellow envelope in your hand. You know immediately what it is, and though in reality it weighs mere grams, it feels like the weight of the world in the palm of your hand. Suddenly, the world stops spinning, and you don’t hear anything beyond the thrum of your pulse inside your ears, steady and insistent and frustratingly loud; it demands to be heard, to serve as indisputable evidence that you’re alive and Aki is dead, that you’ve outlived him just as you and he both knew you would. You lift the flap of the envelope and dump the contents into your hand.

The ring has been cleaned and polished. A simple circle of plain gold; you’re immediately thrown back to the day you married him under the canopy of trees, just beyond the very playground where your daughter runs with her friends. He’d asked you not long after she was born, and you’d happily agreed. You didn’t want to think about how much time you had as Mrs. Hayakawa, you only wanted to enjoy knowing that you were his and he was yours. That was enough for you. Your vows were simple, your honeymoon modest. You hadn’t told anyone of your decision– you married quietly and happily, despite it all.

“Denji,” you say, tears streaking endlessly down your cheeks as you turn the ring over and over between your fingers. “Were you there?” Was he alone?

“I was called in at the last minute. I–” He hesitates, drumming his fingers on his knees. “He was gone before I got there. But I killed that devil! I tore his ass up, man! For you, for Aki, for your baby, for all of us!”

You smile through your grief, despite your pain. Denji’s energy is exuberant and exactly what you’d expect from him– it’s exactly what you need, and as you wipe your tears with the heel of your hands, you thank him. You thank him for being the one to deliver the news. You thank him for being Denji, for being such a frustratingly perfect coworker for Aki. You thank him and hug him until he’s tomato red and folded in your arms, unsure of whether or not he should touch you. 

“Aw, man. I don’t even know what to say!” he says. 

“Uncle Denji!” Your daughter runs over and you tuck the ring into your pocket and dry your tears. “Uncle Denji, did ya see me on the slide? Wanna watch?”

“Watch?!” he says, turning to give you a conspiratorial wink. “You’re looking at the slide master, little lady! Come with me!” He lifts her onto his shoulders and runs through the grass, her laughter ringing clear and pure.

You pull Aki’s ring from your pocket and fit it down over your thumb. It’s loose, but it’s warm and it’s comforting and it’s a piece of him that you can carry with you throughout the rest of your life. 

You’ll break the news to your daughter tonight. You’ll figure out the rest later.

It’s all temporary, anyway.

[bakughoust]

Brooklyn Baby

art in the banner is by @e0308r on X

pairings - dad's best friend! Satoru x F! reader

summary - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up and offers you to stay in his suite since he's in town on business. But there's two big problems - one, you've wanted him since you can remember, and two, he can't stand how fucking pretty you are. He can't want you - and nothing can come from it - imagine what your dad Suguru would do if anything ever happened between you!? So nothing will happen - right?

warnings- MDNI- taboo tropes, age gap (Satoru is 41, reader is 22) reader is Suguru's daughter, forbidden relationships, obsessive Satoru, mutual pining, sexual tension, explicit smut and light angst- this chap - masturbation (Satoru) a fuck ton of tension, reader having a lifelong crush on him, mentions of past relationships, self loathing as they both want each other, drinking and kissing -WC- 8.3k

This will be Four parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!

part two>>>

part one

Satoru Gojo has never had his cock twitch from just looking at someone's back, not even your ass - though fuck that was nice - but something about the bare back in the slinky little dress was fucking him mentally. The gentle curve of your spine, a little birth mark along your shoulder blades has him - a man who's in his early forties and very experienced - leaking precum.

The fuck was that?

He clears his mind, blinking a bit then, he's checking into his favorite suite as he does every couple of months for various business events that he has to attend. Running the Gojo corporation is a never ending list of bullshit he's got to do, and events and speeches were just one of the many.

He sighs as he takes in the immaculate bustling lobby, trying to divert his attention from this girl's back and look like some creep when he's literally Satoru Gojo. He brushes his silken white locks back, walking up to the tall counter then with an easy smile, as the three receptionists rush to him, and leave the girl with the pretty spine behind.

"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.

"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -

Suguru Geto's only daughter.

Fuck.

He swallows just a bit nervous, how does he explain he just leaked pre looking at his best friend's daughter's spine exactly!? About the ways he would have to explain how your instagram photos haunt him at night, and how he can't help but have glimpses of you in your bikini when he cums.

There's a big reason he's avoided Suguru as of late, and that's because he can't handle how beautiful you are - it's like you fucking just do something, and he refuses to accept it or acknowledge it consciously. Now you're smiling up at him, before you come over and hug him tightly around the waist, your breasts pressed against him.

It takes everything not to either shove you off or give in and pick you up and prop you right on this fucking counter. It's some miracle he just pats your back instead - your bare pretty back that he shouldn't touch because it makes it worse.

"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"

"They gave my room away, and I have the audition for Julliard this week! Everything is booked except shit way out of my price range. I don't wanna bug dad about it." He sighs then, remembering Suguru telling him about your opportunity, he'd been so proud every time he watched you play piano.

It's originally why he followed your IG, but whatever happened your junior year of college made you start posting those damn pictures in your bikini or slutty little outfits. He shoves that all back, focusing on your worry, and then eyes one of the receptionists, backing away from you just a bit.

Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.

You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."

"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.

"It's nothing," he pats your head and smiles down at you, and you try to ignore just how fucking good Satoru Gojo looks then. Try to ignore his cologne in your senses, ignore how the man just gets more attractive every fucking year, a little crinkle on the sides of each eye the only lines on his face.

You have been trying to ignore your crush on your dad's best friend for as long as you can remember - fuck they're so close too, and you hoped it was some childhood idolization. But as a twenty two year old woman, it's as bad as fucking day one - worse maybe, when you study the way his hands move as he speaks, long fingers that give you the worst thoughts you wish would go away.

"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.

"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."

"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.

He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?

"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.

"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.

And there's just one problem.

Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."

"It's nothing, kid."

"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.

Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.

Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.

Until you got older.

You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?

You’d been insanely jealous.

You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.

Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.

“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.

The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”

“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.

Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.

You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.

Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.

No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.

Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”

“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”

“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.

You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.

It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”

“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.

The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.

Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.

Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.

He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.

You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.

His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.

He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”

“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.

“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”

“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”

“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.

“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”

“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.

He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.

*****

“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”

“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”

“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.

It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”

He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.

“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.

You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.

He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.

He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.

He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.

You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”

“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”

“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”

You love him.

Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.

He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.

“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

tags- @valentinegab3 @vinnababy @sakisworld @satorupied @lolliibunny @coralbae @lnette04 @delightfulstay @zephyairies @flowerymenendez @yomama2089 @chocoyanchan @hargun-s @ic-slxt @lovelytwixx @lily-bisque @sirencholia @etosh0e @yesdere @luciferlikesducks @frankoceanfan9911 @sukunaslilsocks @dientesdefresa @maah-sama @amesenseii @lem-hhn @keiiate @ttrinity @monster-effer @coffinboy666 @neliislost @thequeenofcurses @inzanekillian @gojoswaterbottle @melotter @buckturd @artbligh @msniks @shibataimu @macchianikato @neohoestechnology @levislug @trsh-kitty @satsattoru @erisfayred @gh0stgirl333 @silverfangmarks @smashlyn89 @hwngez

[bakughoust]

— WORLD ALONE ⟢

when you make a living in the bowels of the eternal holy city, nothing is ever personal. until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that kremnoan prince actually bears.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 40.6k words (i'm sorry.....)

★ tags; canon compliant, red light district, prostitution, doomed relationship, yearning, heavy angst (like,,, this is not an exaggeration i swear), implied/referenced past abuse, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ notes; the very first mydei fic i've written, coming to you on tumblr dot com! i was wondering if the character limit is going to permit the existence of a monster wall of text like this, but surprisingly, it did! on ao3, this is actually a trilogy of fics, but part of me thought it really would have been better if it was posted in one go AJSJDHFSHD so here we are!!!! the title is also from lorde's world alone <3

★ header art cr; chongguolyb on x

READ ON AO3

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, emotional sex, wall sex, really every smut scene is just so tender and melancholic

Despite its reputation as the city dearly loved by the sun, Okhema has its own share of misgivings.  You’ve known since you first set foot within the borders of the Holy City that you have no place here.  Even if it prides itself as a sanctuary for those whose homes were ravaged by the Black Tide, the reception for refugees offers none of the hospitality once promised to you.  Perhaps those born and raised in the capital—far from the city states that have fallen prey to the eternal night—would rather not involve themselves with people like you. People that have seen the worst of what the impending calamity has in store. People who only wish to find some place to call home. But you don’t condemn them from feeling the way they do. Okhemans treat all outsiders with an equal amount of disdain: the Kremnoans, the Dolosians, even the Aidonians. Then again, if your hometown suddenly has an influx of strangers pouring in from every part of the world, you would be alarmed by it as well. That’s why you try your best to stay in their good graces. Always. “Big Sis Thalia? Someone’s looking for you.” Your session of early morning tea is quietly interrupted by a child named Nikolas. He peeks through the curtain of seashells separating your quarters from the rest of The House, eyes closed just to make sure he’s not intruding on anything. The boy’s discretion makes you laugh.  “Nik, it’s alright. Come in,” you insist and ever-so shyly, he does. Nikolas has been inside here before, but the bedazzled look in his eyes whenever he takes in the trinkets you’ve decorated your space with is nothing short of amusing. You give him some time to gawk around as you finish the rest of your tea.  “Sorry,” he mumbles once he snaps out of it. “Mother wanted me to tell you that the swordsman is here again. The one with the white hair?”  You shake your head. “Nik, Lord Phainon has done enough for the undercity that you should at least remember his name.”  “Y-Yes, him! Lord Phainon.”  “Okay, did Elena tell you what he wants?” you ask, despite already hazarding a couple of reasons for his visit. “I doubt he’s here to avail of my services.”  Unlike most boys his age, Nikolas doesn’t get flustered by casual mentions of your line of work. After all, he was born in this very brothel. His mother raised him to treat all his big sisters with love and respect, and it’s hard not to dote on him because of it. “She didn’t say,” he sighs. “Should I tell the other big sisters to let him up here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Shortly after, another person parts the curtain of glittering shells by the entryway. Phainon lets himself inside with a polite look on his face, as if he’s walking into the Pantheon’s grand hall and not some common whore’s quarters.  “Lord Phainon,” you address him with an inquisitive smile. “What brings you here?”

Phainon’s lips crack into a handsome smile. “Lady Thalia—”

That makes you groan. “Please, you don’t have to address me with that name. You’re a friend.” 

“But it’s only proper if I’m here on the prospect of business, isn’t it?” 

“...Forgive me, but the mere idea of doing business with you feels horrendously wrong. I’m afraid I must decline—”

Phainon says your real name as a matter of throwing you off, and your face contorts with mild vexation. But now that he has your attention, he says, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to seek the paradise that The House offers to all willing patrons. It’s more like…a referral of sorts.” You take in his words slowly, making sure there’s no underlying wordplay. But you suppose the man is as direct as he can be with what he’s trying to say. 

“A referral?” you echo with a snort. “Now, who could a Chrysos Heir like you be referring to a shoddy place like this? Your mere presence here is already enough to send Lady Aglaea into a fit of rage, you know. What more if you endorse our services to someone else?”

“If that's the case, then I’m afraid that you gravely misunderstand her,” Phainon chuckles softly. “But I digress. I think it would be best for you to meet this person face-to-face rather than have me put in a word for him.”

“So you’re basically asking if I’m willing to accommodate whoever this is?” is your deadpan retort. “Lord Phainon, when you work here in the undercity, making ends meet is difficult if you don’t pull enough strings. Someone like me has no business refusing clients—”

“Yet you refused me?” he sighs dramatically.

“You just said you’re not here for that! Can you please make up your mind?”

Phainon lets out a laugh he pulls straight from the pit of his stomach, and it makes you think that maybe you would have fallen for someone like him if your life had been more different, if fate had been kinder to you. But this is the reality you live in; a reality where you’d rather drown in the Black Tide than put your friendship with Phainon to the test.  “Anyway,” he interjects once he’s done guffawing. “I take it that you’re agreeing to meet this friend of mine? I don’t usually bring up The House to just anyone, but I think he might need the distraction. And the company.” Heaving a sigh, you fold your arms together. “I take it that you have no plans to even tell me your friend’s name?”

“If I did that, you would probably decline in an instant,” Phainon laughs again, “which is perfectly fine in any case. I just want you to give him a chance first.”

“...Your description alone is already making me second guess.”

Placing a hand over his chest, he bows. “I swear on Kephale’s name that this man will bring neither you nor the other residents of The House any harm. If he does, I’ll personally end him for you.”

That makes you arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying he has the capacity to do that?”

“Yes, but apart from free will, intellect is another one of Kephale’s greatest gifts to mankind.” Phainon rises back to his full height, eyes brimming with optimism as usual. “Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. Amphoreus is past the age of barbaric violence, after all.” 

There’s something infuriating in how cheeky Phainon’s reasoning is, but he’s always been gifted with words. You suppose it’s alright to do him this favor, given that he’s the reason The House has yet to be cracked down on by the Council of Elders. If it weren’t for Phainon, you and the other girls would have been forced back into the streets of the Holy City, with those Okhemans who seem to despise foreigners more than the Black Tide itself. 

“...Fine. When is he coming?” you relent eventually, much to your dismay. “I don’t have any patrons to accommodate this evening, so your timing is actually impeccable—suspiciously so.”

The subtle jab does not go unnoticed. “Why, I have nothing to do with that at all. But I’ll let him know. Thank you for your kind consideration, Lady Thalia.”

“If you call me that one more time…”

Phainon eventually bids his farewell, not just to you but the rest of the girls in The House. Of course, they practically swoon from his unintentional charm. Everyone here loves that man to varying degrees, after all. 

“Big Sister, should I help draw a bath for you?” 

The third person who crosses your seashell curtain today is a girl named Iris. Her voice is meek, as is her countenance, and you’re convinced that, whatever hell she escaped from, she must not be used to being able to speak as freely as she does now. “Iris,” you sigh. “I’m not your master or anything like that. You don’t have to draw me a bath.”

“B-But Lady Elena mentioned you were accommodating someone tonight,” she squeaks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks with warmth. “I just wanted to help you out, just like you did for me back then…” Her thoughtfulness makes you smile candidly. “Alright. If you insist.”

The straight affirmation makes her face light up, and the sight warms your heart. Iris constantly stammers with her words as she helps you prepare for the arrival of Phainon’s friend, but her nervousness is compensated for by her sincerity—something you’ve come to enjoy as a staple ever since you started living at The House. Why live amongst the vicious Okhemans when not even the Dawn Device can light up their obscured view of foreigners like you? It’s much better to stay with your newfound sisters here in the shadows. Even if you’re lifetimes away from the vast ocean you once called home, what you found here is the closest thing.

You’d be a fool to trade it for anything else.

Evenings have always been long in Okhema’s red light district. 

It’s a place devoid of the usual rules they follow up there on the surface. Absolutely anything goes in the undercity, and the promise of secrecy is enticing enough even for the overworlders to come crawling down into the darkness. You know it’s hypocritical of those Okhemans to shun outsiders whenever they feel like riding their moral high horses, only to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh when it’s convenient for them. But it’s even more hypocritical of you to despise them in equal measure, just for you to accept their money as if it’s your only lifeline. Debauchery is only second to the stench of hypocrisy that lingers in the stale air of the undercity. But the only way to survive here is to never take anything to heart.

Much like the fact that Phainon’s friend still hasn’t shown up past midnight. 

You’re no stranger to missed appointments—if you can even call them that to begin with. While there are some depraved men who would do anything for a minute of your time, there are also others who don’t think you’re worth a moment of theirs. At the end of the day, you’re just some prostitute they can do as they please with.  Iris waits with you out of courtesy. Even if the poor girl is better off resting in bed—given that her last client did quite a number on her—she insisted on keeping you company. But when the fourth hour ticks past with no sign of Phainon’s friend, she gives up and obeys when you plead with her to get some sleep. 

Eventually, the ruckus you’ve grown accustomed to hearing around The House dulls into shared whispers between your sisters who are thoughtful enough to keep their voices down. The location of the red light district allows for the illusion of night without the threat of the Black Tide. Here, anyone can fall into a deep sleep without the sun razing their eyes.

“I didn’t think you would agree.”

Elena’s voice is soft like thunder rumbling in the distance, strangely comforting to hear. She joins you in the room you’ve reserved for tonight’s tryst. Titans know you’d never bring patrons to your own quarters. Still, as the head of The House, it’s only natural for her to make a place meant for sinners to feel like home for girls with nowhere else to go. “To what?” you ask, deciding to play along.

She smiles before taking a seat next to you on the bed. “To Lord Phainon’s outrageous request. You seem like you’d do anything but take anyone associated with him as a patron.” 

“That’s what I thought, too. But you know how convincing he can be.”

“Very much so.” The two of you share a laugh in the dim lights of the lanterns. If there are any people who know how much Phainon has helped The House, it’s you and Elena. 

“That boy is a bit of a gray character, isn’t he? A hero of the people, telling his friend to relieve some tension at a place like this?” Elena shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d understand why that friend of his is a no-show. Phainon is the only overworlder crazy enough to not have a bone to pick with us bottom dwellers.”

You hum. “Not so sure about that. I heard that Penelope’s client for tonight is a wealthy merchant that has no problem with her dominating him into oblivion.” 

“Do me a favor and exclude the nymphomaniacs from the conversation, please?”

Despite his status as both an overworlder and a Chrysos Heir, the main reason why Phainon even involves himself with the undercity is Elena. The two of them came from the same small village at the edge of the world—long forgotten, long burned to ashes.  Aedes Elysiae is a place you’ve only learned about when Elena took you in. While you don’t bother with the specifics, it’s comforting to know that Phainon is well aware of the gripes that come with being a foreigner. You’d call him a hypocrite too, for cozying up to the overworlders, but he’s much too kind to everyone he encounters. Coupled with the fact that he helped save you and Elena from the clutches of the old master of The House, you suppose he deserves your respect. “Did he tell you who it is though?” To be fair, curiosity is starting to eat at you. “I can’t think of a single soul that would even consider Phainon’s suggestion. It’s as you said: no one is as crazy as he is.”  Though Elena is good at masking her thoughts from the others, you can read her like an open book. Even if she only hums in response, that’s already an answer on its own. “Fine. Keep your secrets then,” you grumble. “So can I wash off my makeup now? Though I feel a bit bad since Iris helped out. She even did my nails.”  “You know, that girl has taken a liking to you the same way you did with me back in the day.” “You wish.”  Elena shakes her head endearingly. “No need to wish for something that’s already true. Oh, but I suggest you wait just a while longer.” That warrants an immediate groan. “Why? The entire district’s asleep by now.” “Exactly.” Like she always does, Elena gets up without elaborating further. She makes a beeline toward the entrance with a knowing look on her face and, without so much as another word, the head of The House leaves you to your own devices. Great. Speaking with Elena isn’t so different from speaking with Phainon. You wonder if they have a shared trait where they can rile you up without trying. Is it something exclusive to Aedes Elysians? Thank Titans, her son Nikolas hasn’t manifested anything similar. You wouldn’t be able to handle three troublemakers.  In the midst of your musing, you hear the sound of footsteps down the hall. You typically wouldn’t mind the noise, given that this brothel houses about a dozen and a half of your sisters. But each step sounds deliberate—strong and sure, like a person who knows the value of their presence. You initially assume it’s Elena, but have an inkling that the footsteps are much too heavy to be hers. Just when you decide to get up and check who it is, you come face-to-face with the perpetrator the moment you parted the velvet curtains. The man that stands before you is more of a legend than anything else. You’ve heard about him from tall tales that Kremnoan patrons have shared out of the blue. The Last Prince. The Immortal Lion. While the reputation of those who hail from Castrum Kremnos precedes them, you didn’t think they’d be so devoted to their Prince until that day. Your patron spoke about him as if he was a Titan himself. But now that you’re faced with none other than Mydeimos in the flesh, everything has started to make sense.  He towers over you with ease, his presence effortlessly domineering. The placid look on his face as he sizes you up makes you feel like you’re on opposite sides of the battlefield, and you’d rather not fight a seasoned warrior who’s nearly twice your size— “Hello,” he greets surprisingly…normally. “My name is Mydeimos, but I’d rather you call me Mydei. You are?”  His directness makes you blink up at him. You didn’t think he was the type to introduce himself. He seems like someone who expects every person he crosses paths with to know his name. After all, Mydeimos made waves when he brought the Kremnoan Detachment in Okhema and helped defend the city against the mad Titan, Nikador, among other feats. “Thalia,” you tell him your working name while keeping a straight face, trying not to let him see just how befuddled you are. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The Deliverer has told me about you a couple of times in passing,” he tells you, all while taking in the interior of the dimly lit room. “While I was initially against his proposal, one thing led to another and I’ve found myself right where he wants me.” It takes you a moment to figure out who this Deliverer is. “Oh. Lord Phainon can be quite persuasive.”  “Persuasive is an understatement,” the blond huffs before affixing you with that golden-eyed stare. “So, how will this go? I’m afraid I am wholly unfamiliar with how you operate in the undercity. I…don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” That only serves to confuse you even more. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that men are disgusting scoundrels one way or another. Most of them would just pay to use your body and not even say a word when they’re done. They’d never even think twice about you since you’re working for them at that moment, after all.  It’s a lifestyle you’re not proud of. You’ve never felt more empty than when a man pumps you full of his seed with no regard for your wellbeing. But this is all you know. All you’re good for. And you love Elena and your sisters too much to leave The House behind. Then this man walks into the room with overstepping boundaries as his main concern instead of getting impatient to fuck you against the closest solid surface. Still, you tread carefully.  “Before anything else, I’d like to clarify what exactly it is you came here for,” you say, proud of how firm you sound in spite of how anxious you are. “We can’t work on anything if I don’t know where to start, Lord Mydeimos.”  He sighs. “As I said, just Mydei is fine. And didn't the Deliverer already tell you?” You cast him a pointed look. “Lo— Mydei, we both know Lord Phainon well enough to know that he tends to exaggerate certain details. He’s not the one paying for my services—you are. So I ask you again…” In a show of confidence, you step closer to him, eyes drifting to the ornate necklace sitting across his throat. It was a band of dark metal inlaid with gilded sapphires gleaming in the waning light. You muster enough courage to curl your fingers around it and tug. He yields disarmingly easily, grunting in contempt but with no signs of protest. For some reason, it fills you with a strange sense of accomplishment.

“What are you here for?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.  His jaw clenches for a moment, as if biting something down. Though you try your best to keep your eyes focused on his gaze of molten fire, you can’t help but notice the way his posture shifts to accommodate the compromising position you forced him into.  Mydei’s body is as flawless as people say it is—not a single scar denting his strong, rippled flesh. This is the physique of a man who has gone to war far more times than you can imagine. There is no blade in the world sharp enough to cut him down, and you quietly revel in the detail that Kephale personally took to mold this statue of a man.  “I…”  He starts, but hesitates still. Feeling emboldened, you caress Mydei’s face gently—tracing the bright red marks that bleed from his right eye before swirling in deliberate patterns across the rest of his body. He shudders at your touch and you flash him a lopsided smile.  Then and there, you pull up a mental catalogue of every single thing you’ve heard about Mydei in passing. What the people love about him, what they hate, what they wish they could emulate for themselves—all of it. Because your line of work requires you to deduce what will make your patrons unravel at the seams in a mere glance. That’s how you decide to play your cards: out of a plethora of guesses about their character. From the way Mydei has acted in the five minutes you’ve been together, it’s painstakingly obvious that he bears the weight of a crown he does not even want. Which makes things much easier for you.  “Go on,” you murmur, letting your breath fan across his face. “There’s no need for hesitation here. When you’re with me… “You don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  While it always works on your more eager patrons, saying something so intrepid to a Chrysos Heir is near-unthinkable. A shot in the dark. You aren’t even sure if Mydei is into being addressed that way by a complete stranger, but you see it again—that not-so subtle click of his jaw, which tells you more than enough. The tension hangs heavy in the air. You can barely breathe without feeling your heart race erratically. There’s an unspoken fervor in Mydei’s gaze as his lips quiver like he has something to say.

But you quickly realize that there is little need for words when it comes to someone like him. Mydei’s intentions translate much better when he puts them into action. He barely gives you any time to process what was happening. All you know is that there’s nothing sweeter than the moment the distance between you disappears, and his warm lips slant across yours. The kiss catches you off-guard for only a moment. Most of your patrons don’t bother. In the red light district, kissing is far too intimate for most of them. Yet Mydei doesn’t even think twice about it. His warmth permeates into you as Mydei holds you as close as he can—pressing you flush against his rigid body. It’s a dizzying feeling, but one you can’t dwell on for long when you feel his tongue prodding at your lips. You grant Mydei entrance far too easily, letting him map the cavern of your mouth with the slick appendage. He pulls a moan out of you, and in turn, you feel a strong hand firmly pushing your head further into the kiss.  The feel of his cold gauntlet in your hair should have scared you, or at least, made you wary. But his armor is of little consequence when Mydei holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world. You don’t recall the last time you’ve felt so lightheaded from a patron’s kiss. You don’t even remember the last time any of them even kissed you. That’s how you know that this encounter with Mydei will cement itself into your memory whether or not you want it to. Not just because he’s a Prince, but because he makes it a point to remind you that things like this are supposed to feel good. You gasp his name against his lips, but Mydei devours the words before you can get them out. That simple show of dominance already has you clenching your thighs—a reaction that isn’t lost on the perpetrator himself. In another attempt to catch you completely by surprise, Mydei’s armor-clad hands travel to your thighs, where the high slits of your skirt conveniently part to accommodate the intrusion. Your doughy flesh is hot against his gauntlets and you nearly whimper when he grabs the meat of your ass—the sharp tips digging into your sensitive skin.  Despite your mind being thrown into a haze, you still catch on to what he wants. You curl one of your thighs around his hips—lips still melded together as Mydei helps hoist you up. Once he’s balanced your weight sufficiently, you’re able to cage him between your legs. Still, the both of you know who truly holds the reins. Mydei traces a path of flames along the hollow of your throat, murmuring words in a language you can’t understand. When he presses you against the nearest wall and takes full advantage of the leverage, you can’t ever hope to resist. He doesn’t say anything more, content with swathing your skin in reds and blues from each bruising kiss. The man hasn’t even done much, but you’re already this willing to let him do as he pleases. It’s difficult to miss just how much slick has pooled between your thighs, and the anticipation makes you shiver. When was the last time you were this eager to let a patron have his way with you? “Hold on,” he whispers before gently nibbling on your bottom lip. “I need to feel you.” Head still fuzzy from his ministrations, you barely notice when Mydei maneuvers you to the bed, setting you down as gently as he can. The cool sheets are a stark contrast to your fever-pitched skin. But you barely pay attention when you notice Mydei pressing a knee onto the bed, molten gold irises entirely transfixed on you as he unlatches the gauntlets from his arms. 

His words only begin to dawn on you then.  I need to feel you.  Did you excite a reaction so intense that Mydei felt such a carnal need to touch you with his bare hands—skin to skin, and nothing in between? You don’t care if his armor clatters uselessly onto the floor. Not when Mydei surges forward to capture your lips again and nudges your legs apart. Saliva trickles past the corner of your mouth as another moan is lost to his fervent kiss.   Contrary to your initial beliefs, Mydei is not the legend many think he is. In fact, he is just as human as anyone else—those large, hot hands of his are proof of that. Mydei spreads you apart before him like he wants to take in every inch of you—to devour you with his gaze.

He’s not much of a talker, which poses no problem, as you’ve been with enough men who think far too much of themselves. Fools often compensate for their poor performance with senseless talk. But there’s none of that with Mydei, whose gaze alone can melt you into nothingness.  (You hope he knows that you're all too willing to surrender all that you have for a taste of him.) When Mydei leans closer, you expect another kiss—even pucker up in sheer anticipation. But his first display of petulance comes in a small smirk that plays at his lips. The Prince quickly evades you to nose at your collarbone, licking at the motley of bruises he left in his wake. Almost like a quiet apology despite himself. His discretion makes you squirm, and it distracts you from the fact that he’s undoing the laces holding your dress together. When the fabric comes apart, he’s granted a generous view of your breasts, and the noise that escapes him would make you think he’s unearthed some holy relic from a past gone by. Mydei wastes no time peppering your chest with the degree of affection he’s lathered along the column of your neck. It’s like he means for every biting kiss to leave a mark, a lasting reminder of your time with him for days to come. The moment he takes one of your pert nipples into his mouth, you barely contain your own sounds, and you wonder if you’ll lose yourself completely once he’s gone all the way. Unlike the cold bite of his gauntlets, Mydei’s bare hands are warmer than the unsetting sun on the surface. He touches you with the intention of committing each dip and crevice of your body to memory. You feel him pawing at your breasts, his nails digging into the curve of your ass, and when those wandering hands settle along the curve of your hips, you involuntarily buck up into him. It’s a reaction that makes him pause, those golden eyes like gilded lanterns in the night flickering to yours in a heartbeat. Your breath hitches as your gazes meet. Strange enough, you find the eye contact much more intimate than whatever he’s doing to your body. Wordlessly, Mydei stops suckling at your breasts to sink lower on the bed. The man doesn’t even bother removing your skirt, content with nudging it out of the way before settling himself between your lovely thighs.

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you tense up for all the wrong reasons. You know what people say about the whores of The House. No matter how many times you cleanse yourselves with Phagousa’s blessing of the stream, your bodies will remain tainted by the touch of all the men you’ve let inside of you. You should know better. The Titan of the Sea is much closer to you than meets the eye, but if you stay in Okhema for far too long, you start to forget what you’ve been taught at home—your real home. “Your mind is wandering.” Mydei’s quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie, making your face flush. But he quickly dispels the lingering shame when his soft fingers prod at your mound. He spreads your lips apart with caution, like he doesn’t wish to hurt you. And when he has a firsthand look of how drenched you are, he barely stifles a groan. He doesn’t comment on your momentary distraction again, thank Titans. However, he momentarily robs you of your capacity to speak when he hoists your thighs up his broad shoulders, not even thinking twice before licking a long, deliberate stripe across your dripping cunt. Your nerves are set alight every which way. Mydei repeats the motions of his tongue in dizzying succession, even taking the time to trace tight circles around your sensitive nub. It has you gushing in an instant, and Mydei is all too eager to lap up every drop of your essence.  So tender in the way he pleases you, you can’t help but tangle your fingers into his fiery blond hair—pressing his face even closer to your sopping heat. Mydei licks and slurps at you cunt like some mere mortal gifted ambrosia for the first time. Nothing makes sense about the passion he’s exhibiting for a complete stranger, but you’re too intoxicated from pleasure to deny yourself his devotion.  You know you’re doomed the moment those thick fingers start to gather the slick that’s collected along your seam—working in tandem with his sinful tongue as he presses the lone digit inside your tight cunt. Your toes curl at the blissful intrusion, and you’re certain you’ve pulled at his hair enough for it to hurt. Mydei doesn’t exhibit any signs that he particularly minds. In fact, he even moans into your wet heat, making come hither motions with his finger that stimulates your walls in all the right ways. The premise of foreplay has been lost on you for a long time, and getting someone like him to do all of this without a second thought makes you wonder if this is all a dream. But then the Prince slides in another of his thick digits inside you, anchoring you to the shores of reality as he fucks you on his fingers and feasts on you with his mouth. The way he grips harshly onto your thighs ought to hurt, but the only thing that spills from your lips is pure ecstasy. Mydei doesn’t lick between your folds with reckless abandon. He makes sure each flick of his tongue is slow, dragging, purposeful—enough to render you squirming beneath his touch.  He builds up that steady burn flickering in the pit of your stomach. The more he tongues at your clit, fishes for that patch of spongy flesh that makes you keen just right, the closer he brings you to the precipice. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, but when you start feeling that blissful release starting to boil beneath your skin, Mydei noticeably amps up the effort.  His fingers barely retract from your cunt, in favor of driving those thick digits even deeper into you. That unfairly talented mouth latches onto your nub and Mydei concentrates all his attention to helping you reach that high you don’t always see with most patrons. The stimulation is too good, too much.

You’re not used to this, not used to him.  You thought that the stars had left Amphoreus when Aquila closed their eyes. But all you see are a dozen constellations dancing across your blurry vision when you come apart on Mydei’s tongue. He holds your hips down as you ride out that blissful high—making sure you feel it course through your veins and shoot straight through your skull. From his hedonistic stare alone, you would know he’s far from done with you. When the dust settles, you catch your breath in short gasps, pulse thundering in the confine of your ribs. You don’t immediately realize that Mydei is in the process of taking off the rest of his armor. Though you can’t help the soft giggle you make when you hear him curse out the offending garments when they refuse to yield to him. So, despite having little to no feeling in your legs, you scoot closer to the edge of the bed—undoing the latches that hold his belt and leg plates in place. Mydei awkwardly steps out of them, and you try your best to stifle your laughter; really, you do! “I don’t understand why this is so amusing for you,” he grumbles. All you can offer him is a grin. “You’re just not…the person I expected.” “Hm? Care to elaborate?”  “I think you would enjoy it more if we pick up where we left off.” The Prince doesn’t protest. Instead, he lets you pull him back to the bed not without stealing another kiss that grows more heated, more desperate with each passing second. Even if you’re still feeling the tingling sensation in the wake of your last orgasm, you’re eager to return the favor. Mydei doesn’t object when you undo the clasp of his trousers. The fabric feels expensive—befitting of a man of royal lineage. But the way he sheds the rest of his clothes makes their value feel inconsequential when he has eyes on one thing only. You. There’s a teasing edge to the way you kiss him as you grasp his throbbing length. He feels hot and heavy in your hand, thick veins jutting along the underside. The girth of him troubles you for a moment, making you consider retrieving that jar of lubricant safety stashed in one of the nearby drawers.  Before you can voice out the suggestion, however, Mydei rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily as you pump his cock in your feeble little hands. The show of vulnerability startles you a bit. Is he so deprived of relief that he crumbles the moment it’s given to him? Normally, this is when you would crawl between a patron’s legs and suck him off before letting him fuck you. But this entire session with Mydei is anything but normal. No man has ever gone down on you the way he has, and from the way he shudders so adorably from your hands alone tells you he needs release much more than he lets on. So, you plant both of your knees on either side of his hips to straddle him comfortably, and with all the strength you can muster, you push the Prince onto his back. Although you do fail to account for the man’s rapid reflexes. The moment he feels the extra force, his hand is quick to seize your wrist—tight enough that it actually hurts.  “M-Mydei…?”  The hint of fear in your voice seems to snap him out of it, and his ironclad grip loosens. Mydei stares up at you apologetically. “Forgive me. It’s…a force of habit.”

Oh, right. First and foremost, he is a warrior. A Kremnoan Prince. And though he has no business floating inside of your head at the moment, the conversation you had with Phainon earlier resurfaces in your head.  Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. The dissonance between what you know about the battle-hungry spirit of Kremnoans and the tenderness that Mydei has shown you so far only serves to puzzle you even more. Phainon was right to assume you would turn him down if he told you that the friend in question is Mydeimos of all people.  Because…what else would you expect from a man who’s known war more than he’s ever known love? You’ve lied with warriors before, and soldiers, and even some city guards. None of the people who have tasted what it’s like to stand on the battlefield have ever been kind to someone they only think of as a hole to fuck—a source of relief and none else. But Mydei? In the short time you’ve known him, he’s convinced you that no harm will come to you as long as you’re in his company. Instead of fearing for your life, you feel…safe. Something you consider a luxury for someone in your line of work. You feel like there’s something twisted in the fact that you’re relieved just from the thought that he isn’t here to kill you. But too many of your sisters have lost their lives to pigs who want to silence them for good. Unfaithful husbands that didn’t want their wives to find out about their infidelity. Important societal figures that wanted no trace of their illicit activities. After all, anything goes in the undercity. Even the death of a prostitute—a foreigner, at that.  “You’re thinking too deeply again.” Count on Mydei to catch on to your little tells. Another thing you didn’t expect about him is how easily he can read you. Or maybe you’ve always been an open book. It’s just that your patrons don’t usually give as much of a damn as Mydei does.  “It’s nothing,” you chuckle, mentally chiding yourself for being so distracted today. “You’re just… I can’t even put it into words. I might just be a bit overwhelmed is all.” You can’t tell him that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re servicing a Chrysos Heir. It feels all sorts of inappropriate. Mydei studies you for only a moment before he rises back into a sitting position. You’re about to protest—to let him let you please him this time. But he doesn’t seem interested in heeding your quiet request. 

He manhandles you in a way that swiftly switches your positions and you find yourself back beneath him. The lanterns cast a faint halo around his muscular glory. Even in the dim light, the red marks on Mydei’s skin glow like veins of fire beneath the earth. He pins you in place not only with his strong hands, but also with eyes like liquid sunlight. “It’s as you said before,” he murmurs quietly before leaning closer to your ear. The warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and you shudder as he presses a soft, chaste kiss on your temple.  “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  The fact that he just used your words against you makes heat shoot straight to your core. Mydei makes the crude yet attractive motion of spitting into his hand before lathering his cock with saliva. Your mind whispers a reminder about that lubricant you were just thinking about, but there’s something more carnal in the thought that he’s going to loosen you up with his spit alone. Yet despite the need burning in his eyes, each movement he makes is weighted with caution. You feel as if he’s compensating for that knee-jerk reaction from earlier—something you’d tell him is past you, and that he doesn’t have to treat you like fragile glass. But again, the words evaporate on your tongue when you feel the head of his thick cock by your entrance.  Mydei lets out another shuddering breath, nudging your knees apart before rubbing his length along the seam of your cunt. It glistens with spit and slick, and you pull him even closer to let him know what it is that you want. The abrupt tug you make on his arm disrupts his center of gravity, and Mydei nearly topples into you. But of course his reflexes work in time yet again and suddenly your faces are but a hair’s breadth apart. You’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: eye contact is a thousand times more intimate than the act of sex itself.  He breathes out a word from that unfamiliar language yet again. The way it rolls off his tongue is soft, tender in a way that it almost hurts. Like something meant to be heard by a person close to his heart—not some whore he’ll probably never see again. You close your eyes and his lips find yours. Ever-so gently, he pushes himself in.  Everything about Mydei is difficult to process. From his presence to his attitude to the sheer girth of him—you had to take a moment to recalibrate yourself to every single one. You clutch the sheets tight enough that they start to pull off the edge of the bed.  The intrusion is sharp, but not uncomfortable. Not when he eases inch by delicious inch into you with the patience of a saint. While he doesn’t coo and coddle you, his eyes are expressive enough to let you know of his concern. You even feel him start to withdraw, possibly out of fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, but you hold on to his forearm to keep him in place.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Mydei whispers. You shake your head vigorously. “You’re doing everything but.” That doesn’t immediately quell the doubt on his face, but Mydei presses forward—slowly, slowly until his hips are flush against yours.  All of a sudden, you forget how to breathe. He’s… huge inside you. Spreading your walls so far apart, you wonder how you were even able to accommodate his size. You’ve never been so filled to the brim that tears nearly well in your eyes because of how good he feels— “Fuck…” Hearing him voice his own blissed out delight and seeing the euphoric look on his face makes you involuntarily clench around him. It’s a reaction met with a snarl from the man currently eclipsing your smaller frame. Mydei makes the motions to pull out slowly, only to buck his hips with unforgiving force. The switch-up blindsides you for a moment, lips gaping from a soundless moan. When the Prince catches on to how much you like it, he hammers into you relentlessly—pushing his fat cock desperately deeper into your slick sex.  Your arms curl around his broad shoulders, fingers seeking purchase along the rippling flesh of his muscles. The sinew of his back shifts with each thrust, making you mewl his name pathetically as Mydei drowns you in the heat of him. There are no words shared between you. Only gasps and moans lost in the wet squelch of flesh. You’re mindful enough to keep it down, and so is he. But even if the red light district is fast asleep, you and Mydei are only getting started.  He doesn’t quite fuck into you the way you’re used to. The intensity is there, but so is the unbridled passion. It feels like something that isn't yours, but Mydei gives it to you again and again and again until you have no choice but to claim it as your own.  To take him as yours. (Even just for tonight.)

Your nails dig in sharply into his rigid skin, but the fact that he has an indestructible body makes you throw all caution to the wind. Where other men would bleed, he would only use it as a means to push ever-so deeply. As if Mydei isn’t already pounding you into the bed, he grasps your chin and meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He spreads you on his cock like he was made for you, and you alone. You can feel him so far inside of you that you fear it’ll take days to sweat him out.  The nature of your work requires you to never get too attached to any of your clients, which used to be as easy as breathing. None of the men you encounter are worth remembering and you thought that none of them ever will be. But when it’s a prince who kisses you like a lover and holds you like his queen, how are you supposed to put up a fight? Mydei’s pace eventually starts to lose its sound rhythm. From the sharp breaths he takes to the fact that his eyes seem to be going in and out of focus, you can tell that he’s close to the edge. Who are you to deny him that? Your fingers tangle in his hair yet again and you whisper every sort of expletive in the book. You fuck me so good. Can feel you throbbing inside me. Come on, Mydeimos, I know you’re almost there. Please, please, please— That does just the trick. Mydei reaches the apex of bliss with a sharp hiss. But instead of finishing inside you, he musters up the strength to pull out and lets his white hot emission coat the sheets instead. You don't realize right away, but when you see the pearlescent essence of his cum on the sheets, your heart sinks.  “W-Why did you…?” 

You don’t know why you sound so miserable at the idea of his seed not being deep inside of you. The mere thought of a man’s spend dripping from your cunt repulsed you to no end. But Mydei has a knack for being the sole exception to many things. He’s quick to wipe the tears that trickle across your face, thumb swiping gently across your soft cheek. “I… I do not wish to burden you with having to bear my child. And I have my own reasons for not wanting to sire an heir at this point in time.” “But…” Mydei continues, having not heard you protest. “Kremnoan children are also difficult to bear, according to many mothers I’ve spoken to before. The last thing I want is for you to—” “Mydeimos,” you sigh in exasperation, grabbing his face so that he would pay attention. “I’ve been sterilized long before I met you, so you needn’t fret about any children growing inside me.”  The silence that follows is deafening, and it makes you want to bury your head in sand. Mydei is too baffled to speak right away, and you don't fault him for it. The rumors about women at The House have been floating around for a while, but none of you didn't want to sow any more conflicts than there already are. Instinctively, you trail your fingers along your navel. Though the scars have long been healed by Phagousa’s blessing, you remember what you lost like it was just yesterday.  “We can’t bear any children because the previous head of The House took that away from us,” you murmur—memories, old but still painful flashing in the forefront of your mind. “So please don’t concern yourself with trivial things like that. I only want to provide the most out of your experience.” Your chest aches at your own words. It’s not that you’re dying to have children of your own. Nikolas being the first and last child to be born here is more than enough for you. Children should never have to grow up in the darkness anyways. Mydei frowns. “Why do you speak of yourself like you’re nothing but an object made for my enjoyment?” “Am I not?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you upright—anger glowing in his golden eyes. It doesn’t scare you. Somehow, you know the ire in his gaze is not directed at you.  But despite the obvious shift in his mood, Mydei kisses you again with nothing but passion imbued in his lips. He quickly melts away the bitterness dredged up by those memories he unknowingly dug up into the surface. The faith you’ve put in him tonight is phenomenal, especially when you allow him back between your thighs despite what you just discussed. You don’t understand how he’s still hard after releasing so much of his emission earlier. But if there’s one thing you know about Kremnoans, it’s that their stamina is unparalleled. Unlike the first time, Mydei doesn’t rut into you hard and fast. Everything about this is slow and sensual, as if he wants to mold your cunt into the shape of him. He presses your thighs into your chest, tilting your body at just the right angle so he can let his cock hit even deeper.  “Mydei…” His name sounds strained, like you’re choking on your own voice. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. You don’t know what you even want at this point. But Mydei heeds your unspoken wishes anyway. He folds you further into the bed in a way that makes you feel like his desire for you is inescapable. The position you’re in is meant for lovers trying for a child, to make sure the seed takes and bears fruit. You two are nothing but strangers basking in each other’s bodies deep in the darkness of the undercity. 

But even if you can never have children of your own, there’s something oddly comforting in the fact that Mydei fucks into you like this anyway. Like you’re worth more than a bottom dweller lost to the shadows.  Your orgasm crests without much bravado either. It’s straightforward, having been exacerbated by the Prince rubbing your clit as he nearly breaches a place inside of you that has never been reached by anyone else. It feels intrusive at first, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand in instinctive wariness. But as the head of his cock continues to drag along your spongy flesh, as he keeps hitting that sinfully sweet spot, your caution begins to fray at the seams. You embrace him with a quiet sob, tight walls squeezing his cock for all he’s worth.  And then you fall off the edge of ecstasy itself. It’s much different from when you came undone from his mouth. That felt like you were reaching for stars that burst in the back of your eyelids. This feels like coming back home.

Mydei murmurs yet another string of words that are beyond your range of understanding, each one sounding more vulnerable than the last. And with one last, stuttering thrust, he bursts—coating your walls in the warmth of his release.  He fills you to the brim, pumping you full of his seed until it drips out of your cunt with his cock still flush inside you. The sensation is filthy but not in a way that you despise. You even move your hips to let him fuck his cum deeper inside you. When Mydei notices, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t think…you’d still be this eager.” You don’t say anything in return—or more like, you can’t. The sensation of him filling you up has rendered you into a mindless deviant. Only his cock can stoke the fire still raging inside you. So you do your best to entice him. While you loathe the idea at first, you slip his cock out of your soiled cunt. Mydei watches your every move with rapt attention and a growl nearly tears through his chest when you get on your knees, facing away from him before presenting your ass for the taking. His seed trickles out of you and onto the sheets. No man would be sane enough to resist the same display of seduction. “Are you sure you want to provoke me like this?” he warns. “The woman in charge of this place told me I should be gone by sunrise.”  Your mind doesn’t quite register the fact that Elena herself imposed that restriction—too desperate to be speared on his cock once more. The sun doesn’t even rise in a place like this.  “I don’t care,” you whimper, tugging him closer to you. “Mydei, fuck me more.”  Mydei looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some sort of deliverance. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fortunately for you, the Prince surrenders far too easily to the desires of the flesh. The two of you go at it with no end in sight. Mydei proves to live up to the Kremnoan stamina that’s grown recently popular amongst your sisters. And despite the room smelling of sex and depravity alike, he doesn’t relent—committed to fulfilling your desires until you’re completely spent.  You’re the first one to tap out, as expected. Mydei didn’t seem finished with you at first, but when he finally notices the mess he’s made of your body, his rationality comes back to the surface.  He lays your head on the pillow gently, positioning the rest of your body upright once he’s done wiping down the evidence of his time with you. Mydei knows you’re not quite asleep when your eyes slowly flutter in confusion, and he sighs before leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I ask something?” “Hmm…?” Hopefully, that translates to a yes. “What’s your name? Your real name.”  “Mmmh…” On a regular day, you would think twice before giving that information out so freely. Your line of work is more dangerous than it seems, and the most basic precaution is to never give patrons your real name. But you don’t usually get your brains fucked into mush on regular days either, so you suppose Elena can forgive you for the lapse in judgement.  Mydei repeats your name with a hint of fondness in his voice. You don’t quite hear it, given that you’re halfway to the land of slumber.

“Thank you… Your… has been… splendid.” What was that…? You’re too far gone to give his words another conscious thought.  Instead, you dream of a man with eyes hewn from pure starlight. Of a life you could have with him if only you hadn’t been born with the lives you had.  But like all dreams do, they cease to exist the moment you open your eyes. 

“B-Big Sister, how do you make this much in one night?” This is the first thing Iris asks when you step into the pavilion. Well, you’re not sure if it’s even morning. It’s difficult to tell here in the undercity. Still feeling the lasting throb of a headache, you gaze at Iris with a befuddled look. “What are you talking about?”  It’s only then that you realize a handful of your other sisters have gathered around the large table in the middle of the room, where bags upon bags of gold overflow on the marble surface. You stare at them with a nonplussed expression, not sure why they think all this finery belongs to you— Mydei. “Alright, girls, give poor Thalia some space.” Sometimes, you’re grateful for Elena’s timely interventions. While some of your sisters bemoan the lack of an explanation for this…massive influx of currency, they all have enough courtesy to step out when it’s needed. Shortly after, you enjoy a meal that Elena already prepared for you beforehand—one glass of pomegranate juice and a plate of golden honeycakes.  “I’ve never seen you that spent before,” the head of The House snickers to herself. “That man did a number on you now, did he?”  You would have glared at her, if only her cooking wasn’t so good. “Elena, shouldn’t we practice the art of minding our own business?” “Technically, you’re working for my business, yes?” This woman can really be insufferable sometimes. 

Thankfully, Elena gives you enough grace for the next several minutes. You get to finish your food without so much as a quip on her end. But just when you think she’s let you off the hook, she has the gall to ask: “And you’re sure you haven’t fallen in love with that Prince?” Elena’s preposterous words nearly make you choke on your drink. “If I start falling for every man that shows me an ounce of kindness, then I would’ve been long dead, Elena. You know that men who mask their intentions are worse than those who are outright scoundrels.” “But is he?” “...What?” “A man who masks his intentions?” Her question is met with a puzzled stare. “Of course not—” “Then why not let yourself fall for the kind man?” Elena chuckles. 

“Because he’s a Chrysos Heir? He has much more pressing concerns than some random woman in the red light district. If the lesser men that have had me never even thought twice about me, why would he?” Elena shrugs. “Only you can answer that, I’m afraid.” Eventually, one of your sisters ends up calling Elena for an urgent matter. You don’t quite hear what it’s about, but the head of The House steps out of the pavilion to leave you to your devices… Or to your heaps of gold, in this case.  You still don’t know what you’re supposed to do with all of this, but you might give half of the money to Elena to help with the much needed repairs around The House, and the other half to Phainon so he can give it to the less fortunate citizens up on the surface. Though you immediately scratch the latter off the list since the chance of Mydei finding out is fairly high. The moment your thoughts drift back to him, your face heats up with embarrassment.

You were not yourself last night. You don’t know what drove you to go such lengths just to please him, and where you even got the courage to keep going. But when you recall the warmth of Mydei’s golden eyes, the tenderness weighted beneath his touch, and the fire that seemed to burn behind those marks on his body… You spend the rest of your day ruminating about your time with Mydei. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Phainon to ask all your pressing questions just to sate your biting curiosity. Why did he come here? Did he need reprieve from his princely duties so badly?  No. You shouldn’t think of him anymore.  Mydei is nothing but a client. You’ve rendered your services. He’s paid his dues. That should be the end of the transaction, and nothing else. Time and time again, you tell yourself the same thing: When you make a living in the bowels of the Eternal Holy City, nothing is ever personal. Until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that Kremnoan Prince actually bears. “Big Sister? A customer is asking for you.” Nikolas peeks through the curtain of seashells dangling by the entrance of your room again. He doesn’t wait long for your answer because the speed in which you burst into a sprint is somewhat embarrassing. “Who is it?” you ask, eyes wide and pulse roaring in your ears. “Did you see?” “Umm, I think it’s just one of the bartenders working down the street. Why?” You visibly deflate at the news, and you know that despite being fairly young, Nikolas doesn’t miss the disappointment on your face.

In the end, you decline to see any potential clients for the next few days. Your official statement is that you’re still recuperating from your last session. The only reason your sisters don’t nose in on the matter is the fact that you brought so much revenue to The House in just one session, they’re fully convinced that you deserve all the rest you can get. But the truth is that you spend most of your time lost in thought, daydreaming of a man with fiery hair and molten gold eyes.  You wonder if he’ll ever come back.

In the seaside state of Lethe, it’s fairly easy to forget about one’s problems.

Wine and song filled every street and back-alley, as the land is loved by the Titan of honey brews and banquets. Tales of the neverending festivities reached far and wide in Amphoreus, and that word-of-mouth alone was enough to attract visitors from across the land. 

It’s for this reason that Lethians are as hospitable as they are. Phagousa taught them how to cultivate the sweetest wine from mere grapes; taught them the art of music and how it brings life to the darkest of nights. 

For thousands of years, your people simply dedicated their toasts and sang their shanties to honor the Ocean Mother’s kindness. When others hailing from places near and far started to gravitate towards such a profound relationship between a Titan and their people, you welcomed them with open arms. 

After all, Phagousa’s benevolence is meant to be shared, not kept. 

Your mother has been bringing you into the jovial streets since you were ten years old—singing and dancing amongst drunken sailors and tourists who wanted a quick getaway. It was easy to let loose in a place meant for you to forget about life’s worries. But on some days, you preferred basking in the comfort of waves lapping gently across the shore. The stars were much easier to see along the coastline, far from the entertainment district that robbed a person’s attention of the vast sky that stretched above their heads. Though Phagousa exists in every goblet overflowing with drink, Their presence is most captivating when you’re out here at sea. 

The spot you’ve chosen was a ways away from the wharf that received and sent off ships. Which is why one bothers to encroach on this safe haven of yours. Not even your own mother. But apart from the privacy the secluded shore offered, there was another reason why you liked to sit here and observe in your lonesome. 

A reason that might get you in trouble. 

Several miles east of Lethe is the stronghold of the Titan of Death: the city state of Styxia. Legend has it, Lethians used to live there a long time ago—before the end of Era Chrysea, when Thanatos was born. The god’s presence was a plague that spread throughout the land. Not even Phagousa could protect Their people from Death’s inviting fingertips.

But since the lost city state isn’t too far from here, sometimes, fragments of the Nether Realm end up leaking into the open sea.

There, you often see things that others would deem impossible. 

Souls—by the hundreds, sometimes even by the thousands. They all drift aimlessly across the ocean like luminescent creatures you’d normally find deep underwater. The first time you witnessed this happening, you simply thought that it was migration season for the crystal jellyfish. Lethians even have a festival dedicated to that specific phenomenon.

But that only ever happens during the Month of Joy, which was over five months ago. 

Instead of spiraling into a panic and alerting the entire island of what you saw, you chose to linger—observing as each soul meandered across the moonlit ocean and into the unknown. The sight reminded you of a tale about the Sea of Souls, and how you would inevitably make the journey towards it once you pass.  You wondered if these souls have simply lost their way to their supposed destination. Though you’ve never heard of this happening before, it wasn’t such a farfetched ordeal. Perhaps even the dead long for Phagousa’s promise of gratification and delight.

Every day since the first, you began visiting the secluded shore in hopes of getting a glimpse of that literal sea of souls. Sometimes, they light up the sea like specters bathed in moonlight, but most of the time, it’s just you. 

Always just you. 

“Big Sister? You’re dozing off again.”

You’re not sure how exactly your mind managed to register the fact that you’re being scolded, but you jolt awake anyways. Eyes darting around, you grasp at the information available—who are you with, what are you doing, what’s going on—and visibly relax when you remember that you’re with your sisters in the pavilion, feasting on today’s breakfast after a rather long night.

Iris stares at you with a concerned look. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Of course not!” you insist before shoveling a spoonful of eggs into your mouth and biting down on a piece of flatbread. “Breakfast is especially appetizing when you’re the one making it for me.”

“So it’s not the case if I’m the one cooking?” 

At the sound of Elena's sulking, you have to stifle a groan. The head of the House could be such a child at times, despite already being a mother herself. But then again her petulance knows no bounds. Elena joins you and the rest of your sisters at the dining table, depositing some of Iris’ cooking onto a plate before taking a seat. Though you try your best to avoid her gaze, it’s a bit difficult when the person in question is quite literally next to you.

You’ve been with Elena for so long that you don’t even have to look at her to know whenever she’s scheming something. 

“I’ll be heading up to the overworld today,” she imparts the information casually before popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Nikolas has been meaning to join the Academy that trains the Holy City’s guards. Unfortunately, those scoundrels have rubbed off on my boy.” 

Despite your caution, you let slip a soft laugh. “Well, whenever we take some guards as clients, they have no one to talk to in the lobby apart from other patrons and Nik. You trained him to be too good of a conversationalist for a fourteen year-old.” 

“This is what we get for those god-awful waiting times we subject them to,” Penelope chuckles. “But look at the bright side: the city guards are the least rotten of the bunch. Nik at least chooses his heroes wisely.”

“I wouldn’t call Officer Theodorus a hero,” snorts Alexandria. “He has a wife and two children yet he goes down here to ask for me at least once a fortnight! Men are all the same, no matter what job they have.”

You don’t blame your sisters for feeling the way they do. Working as prostitutes in the underground had little benefits. But people with nowhere else to go don’t have much of a choice. It’s just nice to be able to air all these frustrations out as freely as you all do now. 

Unlike before…

All of a sudden, Lyra pops into the discussion, snapping her fingers. “Remember that man who pretended to be an envoy from the Grove? I still wonder why he thought doing that to curry Elena’s favor would give him any discounts. Not even Chrysos Heirs can haggle with her.” 

At the mere mention of that title, you feel several eyes on you at once. Just great.

“I thought we all agreed not to bring him up again?” you groan.

“Bring who up?” Elena muses with a whimsical tone that annoys you a little. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about that fake scholar, Thalia.”

You know damn well it’s not about that impostor!

“U-Um, would you like some more juice, Big Sister?” Iris, ever the last to play the devil’s advocate, offers with a wobbly smile. You nod all too quickly before she refills your cup with enough pomegranate juice to last you until the end of your meal. Still, the sweet drink doesn’t stop you from glaring daggers at Elena and your other sniveling sisters. 

After breakfast, you all do your share of the housework. Elena wasn’t very strict, but she did have a rule that you should all have at least one designated chore for each day.

Today, you’re in charge of the dishes.

For some reason, it’s everyone’s least favorite. Most of your sisters didn’t like it when their fingers pruned up after washing over twenty sets of plates and silverware after every meal. But fortunately for you, you grew up in a place that requires more than just your hands to get wet for prolonged periods of time. 

“Are you coming along?”

Cue Elena’s timely entrance once again. Sighing, you cast her a sidelong glance as you finish up rinsing the cups you all used for breakfast. “Do I want to know what this is about?” 

“I already told you this morning.” She smiles. “I’m enrolling Nikolas into the Academy. I haven’t been to that part of the city, so I would appreciate some company.”

“Elena, you know I don’t like coming up to the surface,” you grumble. 

“Yes, and I also know it’s high time we broke you out of that shell of yours,” the older woman encourages. “The Okhemans aren’t as bad as you think they are, Thalia—”

“Maybe to you, they aren’t,” you snip back curtly. “But me? They know where I’m from, Elena. They know the face of the girl that Agamemnon stole from the Island of Debauchery.” 

Your voice still trembles with each word, but you find peace in the fact that uttering that man’s name no longer strikes fear into your heart. From the soft set of Elena’s brow, you know she notices this as well. The faucet creaks when you twist it to turn off the water. You hear nothing over the sound over your heart pounding in your ears. 

“But Agamemnon is no longer with us,” Elena reminds you quietly. “I’m not telling you to forgive the man who ruined our lives, but you shouldn’t let the ghost of him dictate the course of your life. If he found out how much of a hold he still has on you, that monster would be coming in his own grave.” 

As twisted as it is, you find comfort in the way she speaks of the old head of The House with as much disdain as you do. It’s been a while since he’s been taken care of, but the scars he left will never really fade. 

No matter how badly you want them to.

“Nik and I will leave in half an hour,” she continues after a few moments of silence. “Come with us to the surface, please? I promise that if your experience is anything less than stellar, I’ll never ask you the same thing again.”

The sincerity in her plea is far from Elena’s usual cheekiness, which makes you think that she might be getting a bit desperate to get you to agree. At that moment, you parse through dozens of possibilities as to why Elena thinks it’s such a good idea to bring you to the surface on such short notice. The other girls might be more amiable to the idea, whereas you are perfectly content with your life here in the undercity with other outcasts just trying to make a living. 

…Sure, you kind of want to visit the cafes at the Marmoreal Palace that Phainon told you about whenever he visits, but that’s besides the point!

When you first set foot in Okhema as the newest addition to Agamemnon’s collection, you weren’t gazed at with disgust because you were a prostitute. It was because you were Lethian—people widely known as swindlers who used Phagousa in their blasphemous schemes to sap people of their hard-earned money. Those revolted stares haunted you well into your dreams for months. So even if the person who dragged you across the ocean under the false pretense of protection is gone, there are some things that you cannot move past so easily.

“Big Sis Thalia? Are you— oh! Mother, hello.” 

Just your luck, Nikolas chose the perfect time to pop into the kitchen. You notice that he’s all dressed up—robes all pinned in place, brass wrist bands and other pieces of jewelry glinting in the light of the lanterns. You can’t help but gush about how proper he looks. 

“Stop,” he groans, cheeks all dusted pink as you ruffle his hair. “Mother told me to make myself presentable…whatever that means. I must’ve done a good job if you’re doting on me like this.”

“You sure did,” you coo. 

“So you’re coming along with us then?” Nikolas segues with raised brows. “Mother said she’ll try her best to convince you to go to the surface. Did she?”

From the expectant twinkle in the boy’s eyes, you figure that he must’ve been really looking forward to you chaperoning them to the Academy. You heave a deep sigh before your gaze flickers to Elena, who simply grins at you like the angel she is. 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready.” You force out a smile of your own before pinching the tip of Nikolas’ nose. “I might need some sunlight after all this scuttling in the dark.”

Nikolas stares at you with his mouth agape, then at his mother, and back at you again in mere seconds. “W-What? Really?”

“ Really ,” you say, hoping you sound as sure as you hoped. “I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

The grin that stretches across his chubby little face is so wide, it makes your heart hurt. How in the world are you supposed to say no to him? 

When you head up to your quarters, the curtain of seashells parts at your entrance with a characteristic clinking sound. You don’t usually rush inside this fast, but time is of the essence when you agree to go to the surface even if you only planned on finishing a novel today.  You’ve never been as particular with what you wanted to wear as you are now. Most of the dresses in your wardrobe are meant for work—meaning, they’re far too revealing to wear in the streets of the Eternal Holy City. The last thing you want is to get arrested for public indecency.

Thankfully, you manage to spot some rather pristine robes that probably won’t get you kicked out of the Academy in the back of your closet. You try it on without another thought, smiling to yourself in the mirror when you find that it’s still a perfect fit. The rest follows swiftly after. Minimal makeup. Nothing too extravagant for jewelry. Comfortable sandals. You’re pretty much all set. 

But then you make the mistake of thinking, I wonder if I’ll run into Phainon today, which then makes you think about him. 

Mydeimos.

Truth be told, the thought of that name incites an even more volatile reaction out of you than that of Agamemnon’s. Even if he’s a prince, he should be nothing but another name on your neverending list of clientele. 

Before meeting him, you never quite understood prostitutes who hanker for certain patrons more than others, who even go as far as to fall in love with them. The next thing you know, their rooms in The House have been emptied and news of them being bought out by said patrons starts to spread. You’re happy for them, of course. But the thought of having any sort of affection for a man who only used you for your body was near-unfathomable for you for a long, long time. 

Until you met Mydei. 

“Big Sis, are you ready?” 

The sound of Nikolas calling out for you down the hall dispels any and all thoughts of a certain Kremonan Prince. You shake your head, staring at yourself hard in the mirror as if wanting to remind you of your place. What’s done is done. They say you need countless lifetimes of fate to meet a person even once in this life. If you miss it when it brushes past, that's the end.

Right?

“I’ll be down in a minute!” you shout back. “Sorry for the wait!”

With that, you set off for your first excursion to the surface in a good while—praying to the heavens above. You’re not even asking for a good day. You just need to be able to get through this without getting traumatized into hiding again.

Please. Just this once. 

There are no gods left that would heed your plea, but it costs nothing to hope. 

The air in Okhema feels different today. 

Maybe because it’s been months, maybe longer, since you last walked these streets. Yet the weight of it all—the towering marble spires, the golden banners, the bustling crowds—clings to you like a second skin. You feel alien in a place that should have welcomed you. But instead, it’s the echo of past insults, cold stares, and harsh judgment that rises to the surface. It threatens to choke you, but you do your best to overcome it. You can’t afford to lose face where Nikolas can see. 

As you walk through the city’s grand streets, the young boy skips ahead, eagerly pointing out the towering buildings and guards marching in formation. Elena walks beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as she smiles proudly at her son. There’s a quiet confidence in Elena’s step, the kind of strength that you find yourself envying. Despite claiming otherwise, she knows this city well, knows how to navigate it, and how to move among the people. But for you, every step feels foreign, like an outsider trying to be something she’s not.

You eventually reach the Academy without much spoken word. Nikolas is excited, tugging Elena’s arm, eager to begin his training, while his mother smiles, giving him a gentle nudge toward the entrance. You linger a few paces behind, staring at the stone-carved doors before feeling a slight knot in your stomach as the reality sets in. This is where Nikolas will learn to become something great, something noble. And here you are, a shadow in the background, caught between worlds.

Elena turns to you, her smile faltering slightly. “Thalia,” she says, voice soft but firm, “Are you all right?”

You blink, as if snapping out of a daze and before attempting to force a smile that only feels hollow. The words you’re looking for stick in your throat, tangled with the memories of your time in Okhema—the judgment, the whispers, the pain of feeling like you didn’t belong here, like you were nothing more than an outcast.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel like a lie. You can’t bring yourself to say more. 

The city around you feels suffocating, its beauty just a façade for all the ugly truths beneath. Your gaze drifts toward the golden banners fluttering in the wind, the bright, polished marble reflecting the sun. It all feels too perfect, too pristine. But there’s no life in it, no warmth. Just cold, glittering stone.

Nikolas notices the quiet tension between you. His youthful face scrunches in confusion, then concern. “Big Sis Thalia, you look sad.”

You’re quick to shake your head, as if to push the feeling away. “It’s nothing, Nikolas. Just…” A pause. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Elena watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she can see right through the carefully constructed farce. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to come again if it was too much, didn’t I?”

The offer hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown your way, but you refuse it with a sigh. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you two.”

Elena gives you a thoughtful look but doesn’t press further. She turns back to Nikolas, her voice warming as she speaks to him again. “Come on, Nikolas. Let’s get you settled in.”

You watch them go, feeling like an outsider once more. 

Eventually, you find yourself leaning against a nearby stone pillar, trying to push away the gnawing unease. As the sounds of the city swirl around you—laughter, the distant clatter of metal, the hum of conversation—you find yourself yearning for the stillness of the undercity. For the quiet comfort of familiarity, even if it was painful. 

Here, in Okhema, there’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and the weight of expectations. The city feels too big, too cold, too far removed from everything you’ve known.

Your eyes catch the glitter of the golden sun off a nearby building, and you swallow hard. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this is what you should want. This is where Nikolas will build a better future. This is the world of the privileged, the elite.

And yet, all you can think of is Lethe—the island you came from, where the waves washed away the weight of the world for a time. Where you could drown your worries in song and drink, forgetting the ugliness of life. But even there, you were no stranger to suffering.

You blink back the feeling of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to escape the shadows of the past—if you can even reconcile the girl who once wanted more with the woman who knows she’ll never have it all. The silence between you and the world around you stretches on, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the bustling crowds of Okhema, feeling the chill of being far from home—far from Lethe. The sharp, rich laughter of the city mocks your uncertainty.

But just as you’re about to let yourself drown in it, a voice cuts through the air, low and familiar.

“Lady Thalia?”

You jerk upright, eyes snapping toward the source. Standing a few paces away, tall and unruffled, is Phainon. His wide shoulders are relaxed, his posture easy, yet there's something about him—his unwavering calm in this sea of chaos—that makes him seem like an anchor in this storm of unfamiliar faces.

"Phainon!" you breathe, voice laced with surprise. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here. He’s usually a fixture in The House, checking in on you, Elena and the others. But here? In the heart of Okhema? It’s a little too much to process.

Phainon smiles, his eyes soft with something between surprise and delight. “I didn’t expect to find you in the overworld, let alone at the Academy of all places. This is a first.”

You laugh quietly, though it’s a hollow sound, like the air leaving a balloon. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect to be here either,” you tell him, gaze flicking to the Academy’s entrance. You can feel the weight of the city press against you once more, but Phainon’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, grounding you in the moment.

He tilts his head, a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eyes. “So what brings you here? Nothing bad, I hope?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m waiting for Elena and Nikolas. They’re just finishing up inside. Little Nik has been accepted into the Academy, and I’m just here to provide some moral support.”

For a moment, you pause, gaze wandering again to the grand doors of the Academy—the same door Nikolas will walk through everyday. It feels like the world is turning a page, and you’re left on the outside, watching it all happen.

Phainon studies you, sensing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment,” he says, his tone warm, though his voice drops a little, as though trying to lighten the mood. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way around the city in time. Okhema isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

You offer up half a smile, though the sentiment doesn’t quite ease the discomfort curling in your chest. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s just... I’m not sure I fit in here.”

Phainon’s expression softens, the playful energy draining from his face. “You don’t have to fit in, Lady Thalia,” he says simply. “This city doesn’t get to dictate who you are. You’re the one who decides that.”

Before you can respond, the doors of the Academy finally open, and Elena and Nikolas step out. The former beams at you and Phainon, her proud smile lighting up her face. On the other hand, Nikolas is glued to her side—his eyes wide with excitement.

“I still can’t believe it,” he exclaims, his youthful energy spilling over. “I’m going to be trained to fight! I’m going to be a guard just like the ones we saw earlier!”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’ll be great, Nik. You’ll make us all proud.”

Elena looks over at Phainon, offering a warm smile as well. “I see we have company.”

Phainon grins back at her. “You could say that. And what a pleasant surprise it is. I didn’t expect to find Lady Thalia in Okhema, let alone in the Academy district.”

That makes you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth that you haven't felt since you set foot in this city. “I didn’t expect it either,” you mutter, though there’s something almost comforting in Phainon’s presence.

“Well,” Phainon continues, his voice taking on a playful note, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make the most of it? I was just on my way to the Overflowing Bath, and I’d be more than happy to invite you all for a little dip.”

Your expression shifts, surprised by the offer. “The Overflowing Bath?” 

Phainon’s mention of it stirs something in you—a memory of tales passed among your sisters, of how the bath is rumored to have healing waters, soothing both body and spirit. The waters, blessed by Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean, have long been a comfort to those who sought solace in their depths. 

It was in those very waters that you had found a semblance of peace after all those years you spent with Agamemnon, your scars slowly healing under the gentle flow of the blessed stream. That was the closest you’ve been to the Titan who you used to believe in. Yet, despite the healing they offered your body, the scars of your heart have never quite mended.

Phainon notices the faraway look in your eyes and softens his tone. “The Overflowing Bath is a place of peace,” he says, “blessed by Phagousa herself. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a place where you can leave your burdens behind, even for just a little while.”

You nod slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact, that’s where Elena brought us first after you freed us from…”

The thought trails off, but the rest of them catch the unsaid message regardless. Elena smiles gently before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know the bath has helped you heal before,” she says softly. “You’ve earned some time for yourself.”

Phainon’s grin is wide and inviting. “Come with me, then. There’s no rush, and no need to worry about anything for a while. I had the bath reserved for the morning if being in the company of strangers bothers you.”

That makes you scowl. “You booked an entire bath for yourself?” 

“...More or less.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing lightly. “As much as I’d love to join, Nikolas still has to get his uniform made, and that will take some time. But you two go ahead. This one deserves the break she needs.”

Nikolas pouts. “Aww, we can’t go?” 

“I’ll take good care of her, Elena,” Phainon assures, his voice light yet sincere. “I swear it in the name of the Flamechase Journey.” 

“What a tall oath,” the head of the House chuckles before egging you on. “Go ahead, Thalia. It’s a rare moment of peace. Take it.”

You look between them with evident hesitation, a quiet thanks in your eyes as you finally nod in agreement.

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadier than it has been in a while. “I’ll go.”

Phainon’s grin widens as he leads the way, the sunlight glinting off the gold-tinted streets of Okhema. The city fades behind you as you walk, the towering structures and polished marble giving way to the softer, more tranquil atmosphere of the Overflowing Bath. Phainon’s presence, calming and steady, makes you feel like you can breathe again, if only for a moment.

When you reach the specific area that Phainon reserved, he pushes open the ornate doors with a flourish. The sweet scent of warm water and incense wafts out, drawing you inside. Your eyes search the steamy, serene atmosphere, until your gaze catches on a figure lounging on one of the ledges of the bath.

You freeze in place, breath catching in your throat. Mydei, who you haven’t seen or heard from in weeks is here. Of all the places. Of all the times.

Phainon, oblivious to the shock written on your face, smiles warmly. “Ah, Mydei, I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Mydei looks up, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought I’d get a head start.” His gaze shifts towards you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—a softness that immediately makes your heart flutter.

“Thalia,” he greets, his voice low but warm.

You don't know what to say. How do you speak to someone you tried so hard to forget, but whose presence still calls to you in ways you can’t ignore? Sure you’d only seen Mydei once during that fateful encounter, but your sisters can attest to the fact that the Prince has affected you in ways no man has ever done before.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” you murmurs, your voice betraying the swirl of emotions you’ve been hiding for so long.

Mydei’s smile deepens, though it holds a trace of sadness. “I didn’t expect to be, either.”

As the water of the Overflowing Bath beckons, you can’t help but feel like the healing waters won’t just soothe your body this time—but perhaps, for better or worse, it will stir your heart once again.

The soft murmur of the stream fills the gaps in between your conversations. Phainon has settled into the pool with his usual ease, splashing the water lightly as he leans back with a relaxed grin. You, however, feel every drop against your skin as if it's a reminder of your discomfort. Coupled with Mydei’s presence, it’s difficult to maintain your composure.  You lower yourself into the water slowly, trying not to meet the prince’s gaze. His figure is hard to ignore—his chiseled form outlined in the glow of the bath’s warm light. He’s right there, and yet, the space between you feels as vast as the ocean.

“What compelled you to rent out an entire bath?” you ask more to settle your nerves than anything else. You then turn your eyes to Phainon, finding something familiar in his carefree demeanor. 

The Chrysos Heir lounging with his eyes half-closed, simply shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a tendency to pull off stuff that others least expect. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

You try to laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Mydei, on the other hand, remains quiet, his gaze shifting from Phainon to you, his expression unreadable.

“I... didn’t think I’d find you both here, together,” you add, fingers trailing lazily through the water, finding solace in its movement.

Phainon glances over at you, his eyes sparkling with his usual wit. “Well, you know Mydei. He’s always full of surprises.”

Mydei shifts slightly but doesn’t respond, his silence more eloquent than any words could be. You are acutely aware of the space between you—how small, yet how loaded it feels. It’s not the first time you’ve felt something unsaid lingering in the air, but somehow this time feels different. More fragile. You find yourself stealing a glance at The Prince as he speaks with Phainon about some uproar in the Marmoreal Market. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his wet hair framing his face in a way that, for a moment, makes you forget the tension in the air. You quickly avert your eyes, ashamed of the way your heart flutters, even now.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” 

The sound of Mydei’s voice startles you, low and deep—like the distant rumbling of thunder. You know he’s talking to you because his words carry a characteristic softness that you don’t really hear when he’s conversing with Phainon.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmurs, trying to fill the silence with anything. “I’m just...passing the time.”

Mydei gives a low hum of acknowledgement, but it’s clear he’s not about to press you for more. Instead, he turns to you with an almost imperceptible nod. “This place... it’s been known to heal more than just wounds,” he says casually, his voice laced with a tone you can’t quite place. “If you’ve been carrying scars... the water here helps.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, voice low enough to be a whisper. “When I first arrived here... I thought it was too good to be true.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softer than it has been before, but still guarded. “It’s true. The waters here have a way of healing what’s broken. And they don’t ask for anything in return.”

You dip your hand further into the water, feeling the warmth seep into your skin, almost as though it could wash away everything you’ve tried to forget. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this peace until you found it, in this strange, blessed space.

“I think I’m used to broken things,” you tell him quietly, unsure whether you mean it for either of them to hear. “But maybe... some things can be fixed.”

Mydei, still sitting near the edge of the bath, shifts slightly, but doesn’t respond. There’s a weight in his eyes as they meet yours, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the world outside of the bath has ceased to exist. There are no words for the thoughts passing between you—only the water’s gentle rhythm and the faint echo of an old song neither of you dares to sing aloud. Just as the silence begins to feel suffocating, Phainon rises from the water. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says with a grin, clearly not fooled by the unspoken tension. He starts moving toward the exit, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder as he passes. “Enjoy the waters. Don’t forget, you two—rest is as important as duty. You’ve earned it.”

You watch him leave, feeling an inexplicable weight lift off your shoulders. Alone now, you’re left with the gentle pull of the water and the quiet, watchful presence of Mydei. The space between you has become an almost tangible thing—fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.

When he speaks again, it’s only after several moments have passed, as if he’s still choosing his words carefully. 

“Does it get easier?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, your tone matching his. “It doesn’t.”

And with that, the silence returns, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don't know how long you sit like that—still, silent, steeped in the warmth of the water and the ache of unspoken words. Around you, the sacred scent of herbs mingled with steam rises from the surface, curling in the air like incense in a forgotten temple. Somewhere beneath the hush of the baths, you can almost hear the pulse of the city—distant bells, murmured prayers, the echo of footsteps beyond the marble walls. You shift slightly, drawing your knees closer to your chest beneath the water. Mydei remains at the other end of the pool, his arms draped over the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was asleep. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, soft but sudden. “What you said... about the water not asking for anything in return.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at you right away. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Not everything here is like the rest of the city.”

You let that sit for a while. “That’s rare,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the surface of the water. “Things that don’t take something from you.”

At that, Mydei deigns to look at you. His gaze isn’t sharp or probing—it’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s trying to read a page you haven't decided to turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “For what you were put through.”

The words catch you off guard—not because of what they are, but because of how gently he says them. Not as a prince, or a warrior, or a man trying to soothe his conscience. Just...a person who sees your pain. You don't respond right away. You can’t. Your throat tightens in that way it sometimes does, where it feels like if you say anything at all, the mask you’ve carefully kept in place will crumble.

Instead, you swallow it down with a minute nod.

“I know,” you finally say. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t carry it.”

The water laps quietly between you as you close your eyes. You’re not supposed to be kind, you think bitterly. You’re not supposed to see me.

But he does. You know he does.

Just then, Nikolas’ laugh echoes faintly from the corridor beyond the marble walls. Elena must have found something to delight him on their way here—his joy is unmistakable, pure and bright. It makes something ache deep in your chest. A reminder of why you’re still here. Why you’re trying, even if you haven’t figured out how to start healing yet.

You open your eyes and let your gaze sweep across the bath. Mydei is watching you again, but there’s no expectation in his molten gold irises. In spite of this, you manage a small, wry smile. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He gives a faint, sheepish shrug. “I talk less when I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought princes were trained to always know what to say.”

He huffs softly—more breath than laughter, but it’s genuine. “Maybe I missed that lesson.”

You surprise yourself by laughing too, and for a moment, it’s easy. Light and fleeting as it is, it lifts something heavy off your chest. The two of you don’t speak again after that—not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because silence feels safer now. More honest.

When you finally step out of the bath, wrapping yourself in one of the palace’s pale linen towels, you feel... lighter. The pain hasn’t gone. The past hasn’t changed. But for a moment, the weight is a little easier to carry. Mydei stands as well, quiet and respectful, and doesn’t look at you until you turn to him.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him. Not a question, not a promise—just something that hangs in the space between maybe and someday.

Mydei nods. “You will.”

And then, as they part ways, the steam rises behind them, curling upward toward the sky where the temple windows open wide, letting in the late morning light. Lethe’s daughter walks beneath it.

And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

That night, sleep finds you gently in your room at The House.

It’s quiet—unusually so. The murmurs and laughter from the halls have faded, and even the candlelight flickers soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb you. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and mineral salts still clinging to your skin. For the first time in a long while, your body feels light. Almost whole. But the moment your eyes close, the world begins to shift and suddenly, you’re in Lethe again.

The air smells like salt and fruit wine. Music drifts down cobbled streets, bright and winding, and laughter spills from open balconies. The sun dips low, spilling honey-colored light over everything. You remember this part—how beautiful it always looked from the outside. A paradise that asked nothing of you but to smile, to dance, to forget. You tried so hard to forget.

The tide starts to rise.

Your bare feet slap against wet stone. The cobblestones fade beneath a creeping tide of black water. The music warps, slows, becomes something hollow. You try to run, but the water climbs higher, dark and cold, and from its depths emerge faces.

Wandering souls. Pale, half-formed, drifting just beneath the surface. Eyes like moons, wide and lost. You saw them once—back on the shores of Lethe, before Agamemnon took you away. Now they’re reaching for you. Calling for you like sirens. But before you can answer, the dream fractures again.

You’re in the undercity.

A lantern swings overhead, casting jagged light along damp stone walls. You hear sobbing from behind closed doors, moans of pain, the dull thud of fists against flesh. You know these sounds. They followed you for years.

He is here.

Agamemnon’s voice slithers through the dark, oil-slick and indulgent. 

“You’re lucky,” he says, “A beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted in some seaside slum.”

“You’ll be taken care of. Treasured.”

“You’re mine.”

You see him again—his eyes devouring, hands like shackles dressed in gold. He touches your chin. You want to spit. You try to scream.

And then—light.

Like a blade cleaving darkness, you see Elena. Bent over, cradling a crying baby, shielding him from a world that wants nothing but to unmake him. Her eyes—tired, fierce, filled with love. Nikolas. His cries cut through the dream like a signal fire.

You run.

Through water, through shadow, through screams and shattered laughter. You don’t know if you’re chasing something or fleeing from it. But the sea rises. The souls call. The walls bleed gold. And then—

You gasp awake, heart jackhammering in your chest. Sweat clings to your back, and the cool, sacred air of the overworld feels far too still. For a moment, you forget where you are.

Then you remember the bath. The light. The gentle way Phainon laughed. The quiet look Mydei gave you, unreadable and tender. You remember the promise of healing, the way the blessed water wrapped around your wounds like a whisper. But even the kindest waters cannot drown what lives inside you.

You wipe your face with trembling fingers. The night is silent, but your pulse is loud in your ears. Though the blessed water may have healed your body, the scars inside you still sing.

The ghosts are quiet now.

But not gone.

The sun never sets in Okhema.

By late afternoon, the light should have softened, dipping into that gentle hush before dusk—but here, under the watch of Kephale’s Dawn Device, the city remains suspended in a perpetual golden hour. 

It’s beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl if you think about it too long. The warmth feels artificial, borrowed. Like the heavens forgot to turn the page. You step onto the polished stone streets, the hem of your cloak catching faint glimmers of light. The satchel you carry is light, barely filled with anything but a half-eaten persimmon and a cloth to wipe Nikolas’ ever-sticky hands. Still, its strap rests against your shoulder like something heavier—something earned.

The walk to the Academy winds through quieter neighborhoods, far from the towering temples and the chatter of merchants. The air smells like crushed citrus and dust. You keep your head down. You always do, even now, even when people don’t seem to look at you with the same venom they once did. 

It’s been some time since Agamemnon fell, but his ghost lingers in certain corners of your mind, like mildew that clings no matter how many times you scrub.

At the gates of the Academy, you pause, eyes tracing the archways carved with symbols of Kephale’s divine mind—logic, clarity, vision. It’s meant to inspire discipline. You’ve never been particularly fond of order, but something about Nikolas in this place makes a strange kind of sense. He deserves more than survival. The gates creak open and children spill out like laughter, sharp and careless. Your eyes scan for him.

And there he is—Nikolas, his hair a wild crown of dark curls, cheeks smudged with ink, a leather-bound workbook clutched to his chest like a badge of honor. His smile is wide when he spots you.

"Big Sis Thalia!" he calls, breaking into a run. He nearly barrels into your legs, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, brushing ink from his cheek. “Elena’s going to think I dragged you through the gutters.”

“She always says that,” he shrugs, then looks up with that disarming earnestness only children possess. “Did you wait long?”

You shake your head. “Only a little. Come on. Let’s head home.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Nikolas digs his heels into the stone, tilting his head back with a grin that already spells trouble. “Wait—Thalia, can we go to the Hall of Respite? Just real quick? Please?”

You raise a brow. “Why so suddenly?”

He bobs his head eagerly. “They have those honey-glazed flatcakes I like—the really soft ones! And I got a perfect score today. Ask anyone. Master Irenas even patted my head. That never happens!”

You blink. “A perfect score?”

He puffs out his chest, smug in the way only little boys who’ve just conquered the world can be. “I studied really hard. Even Lord Phainon said I should treat myself more. He did!”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “I doubt he meant ‘bribe your guardian into feeding your sweet tooth.’”

Nikolas clasps his hands together dramatically. “Please? I’ll even save you a bite.”

You glance down at him—the sunlight caught in his lashes, the pink blooming across his cheeks from too much running, the way he’s still slightly out of breath and doesn’t care at all. The kind of breathless you used to be, back when days were filled with sea spray and laughter and song.

“Alright,” you sigh again, and this time it’s gentler. “But only one. And don’t think this means I’ll cover for you if you throw up before dinner.”

He whoops with victory, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the Hall of Respite, where the scents of warm milk, nutmeg, and golden syrup linger in the air like an embrace.

You follow, the goldlight casting your shadows long behind you—but for now, you don’t look back.

The Hall of Respite is a marvel in gold and gentle laughter. Soft harp strings hum in the background, accompanied by the distant trickle of a fountain somewhere beyond the marble colonnades. You and Nikolas sit tucked near one of the arched windows, bathed in dappled light as he gleefully tears into his honey-glazed flatcake, cheeks sticky with syrup and joy. He talks between bites—fast and animated—his voice barely able to keep up with his thoughts.

“—and then he flipped Cassander over with just one arm! Just one! Like this!” Nikolas throws his arms out, nearly knocking over your cup of mulled cider. “And he made us practice breakfall drills until our backs hurt. But he said it was so we wouldn't crack our heads open later, which makes sense, right?”

You blink at him, smiling despite yourself. “What happened to that gentle etiquette instructor you said reminded you of a housecat?”

“Oh, Master Aetius?” Nikolas waves him off. “He’s still there. But this new guy—they say he was a real warrior! Like, a real real one. He's a little scary. But… he’s kind too. He taught me how to breathe when I'm scared.”

Your smile falters just a little.

“You’re scared?”

“Sometimes,” he says plainly. “But not with him around. Master Mydei’s really strong. Like Lord Phainon—but sharper. And he never talks down to us. Even if he looks tired sometimes.”

The name settles in your chest like a dropped stone. Your cup stills in your hands, forgotten. You’re about to ask—Master Mydei?—but before the words even leave your mouth, Nikolas is already wriggling around in his seat, eyes lit with recognition.

“He’s over there! Hey! Master Mydei!” he shouts, waving one syrup-slicked hand in the air.

You nearly choke.

Across the hall, seated near a towering ficus and sipping from a ceramic cup with a journal open beside him, a figure turns his head. And the moment your eyes meet—those same sunlit-gold irises now caught in the warm light of the Hall—time slips. Your breath stutters. He doesn’t look surprised.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across his face before his mouth curves into a small, polite smile. He closes the journal softly and stands.

Nikolas is already halfway out of his seat, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the one I was telling you about! He—he taught us how to roll without breaking our necks! And he gave me a second try when I tripped the first time!”

You, however, are frozen.

Of all the faces to find in the afterglow of a sun that never sets, it had to be his.

“Master Mydei, this is Big Sis Thalia!” Nikolas beams, tugging on the hem of your sleeve like he’s about to introduce a treasured friend to a local god. “She picks me up after class now!”

You feel your heart thrum a little too hard at that name spoken aloud. Mydei is already making his way toward your table, each step measured and unhurried. He moves like he always does—like someone born of silence and gravity, like someone who’s learned the value of taking up just enough space. He stops just beside the table, gaze dipping to meet yours.

“It’s good to see you again, Thalia.” His voice is smooth and composed, but not cold. There’s a flicker of something warmer under the surface—familiarity, perhaps. Or curiosity.

You rise a little from your seat, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a nod. You settle for a soft, polite greeting. “Likewise, Lord Mydei.”

He waves the title away. “I’m only ‘Master’ here in the Academy halls, and only because the instructors insisted.”

Nikolas clambers back onto his seat, already patting the bench beside him. “Come sit! You’re not gonna leave already, are you?”

Mydei glances once at you, as if gauging your comfort, then back at the boy. “Only if your guardian doesn’t mind.”

Your mouth feels dry, but you manage a nod. “Please. We were just having a small treat before heading home.”

“Then I’ll join you for a moment.” He lowers himself gracefully onto the bench beside Nikolas, placing his journal aside, hands folded neatly on the table. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

Nikolas puffs out his chest. “Got a perfect score on our formations quiz. Even the scary second-year instructor said so.”

“Impressive,” Mydei says, tone light but sincere. “Maybe you’ll be teaching me something before long.”

The boy snickers proudly, and conversation carries on easily enough—for him, at least. You sit across from them, quietly, sipping from your cooling cider and watching the exchange. But before you can get lost in your thoughts, Nikolas looks between you both, his brows furrowing with curiosity.

“Wait... Do you two know each other?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious, as if he’s stumbled onto something important.

You freeze for a split second, unsure of how to answer, but Mydei simply smiles—an easy, natural smile that doesn’t reach too far into anything personal.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mydei says smoothly, his eyes flicking over to you briefly before returning to Nikolas. “Mostly through your mother’s good work.”

Nikolas’s eyes narrow as he looks between you both. His lips quirk, understanding settling in like a quiet revelation. He’s been around enough to know the weight of that phrase, to know what it means when someone mentions meeting through his mother’s “good work”.

A subtle, knowing look passes between the two of you, and you can see Nikolas’s mind working. He doesn’t press it, though; instead, he just nods as if he’s pieced things together in that young, perceptive way of his.

“Got it,” Nikolas says with a slight grin, his voice dropping to something quieter. “Well, anyway... Master Mydei’s pretty cool, right?” He sounds more casual now, as if the conversation’s already shifted away from anything that’s uncomfortable for him. But he’s not blind—he knows.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, and for just a moment, the question lingers in the air between the two of you. But for Nikolas, it’s already passed. He’s not going to make things harder for you. He’s just glad to have his perfect score to boast about.

Nikolas chatters on beside you, still glowing with excitement from his day at the Academy, especially now that he’s seen his new instructor outside the training halls. You try to listen, but your eyes keep drifting toward the man standing before you—Mydei, now dressed in a much more practical outfit than when you last saw him, though no less composed. His gaze doesn’t linger on you long, but when it does, it feels as if he sees far too much.

“Well,” he says at last, with a polite nod toward Nikolas, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your treat.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone, but something in the weight of those words sticks with you, and you find yourself offering a small nod in return, though your chest tightens.

Nikolas, thankfully, doesn’t notice the shift. He keeps talking, something about how Master Mydei demonstrated a maneuver with a practice spear earlier. You murmur something in response, but before you can fully catch your breath, Mydei is at your side again. You feel the brush of his hand—light, fleeting—guiding you a few paces away from Nikolas and the noisy crowd of the Hall. You don’t resist. The moment feels suspended in air. He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“I’ll see you again tonight,” he whispers, his voice low, meant for you and you alone.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure what you expected—if you expected anything at all—but that wasn’t it. Before you can gather a reply, he’s already stepping away, his touch gone, his presence retreating with effortless grace. You stand there, the din of the Hall slowly returning around you, and wonder if he knows just how much weight his words now carry.

Nikolas tugs at your sleeve, oblivious. “Are you okay?”

You manage a soft smile, though your thoughts are still chasing after the shadow of a prince disappearing into the golden light.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s finish that snack.”

You shouldn’t be fussing this much.

You tell yourself that as you smooth the silken sheets for the third time, as you adjust the folds of your robe for the third time, as you dab perfume just under your jaw, though it’s not the kind you ever wore for clients. It’s subtle, something like rosewater clinging to the memory of seafoam.

Your sisters have noticed. Of course they have. Fewer and fewer names on your ledger, fewer nights where you let your hair down for anyone but him. They don’t say it outright, but you catch the glances. The knowing smirks. A gentle elbow here, a raised brow there. Elena says nothing, bless her, but there’s a glint of worry behind her eyes.

Because girls like you are not meant to hope.

The fourth hour comes, quiet as a whisper. Mydei doesn’t knock. You just know when he’s arrived. The door creaks open, and there he is—bathed in the low amber light of your chamber, looking more god than man. His hair is like a flame pulled taut into a low tie at his nape, loose strands catching the light like cinders. His golden eyes find yours, but they don't linger in lust—they search. For what, you aren’t sure. Answers, maybe. Or something you’ve tucked too deep to name.

Red markings glisten faintly across his skin, crawling down the ridges of his arms, over the firm landscape of his torso. Not painted. Not cosmetic. They pulse faintly with some inner rhythm, as if alive with meaning. You’ve traced them before. With fingers. With lips. But you’ve never asked about them. And he’s never offered.

You rise from the bed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice level. “I said I would.” He closes the door behind him. He walks with the silence of someone used to being watched. Every step deliberate—quiet, measured. “I didn’t want to disturb the others.”

You nod, heart beating like a drum. For a moment, you hesitate. This is the part where he usually takes off his cloak. Where hands meet skin. Where everything unravels into motion. But instead, Mydei says, “I don’t want that tonight.”

“...You don’t?”

He shakes his head, steps closer, his expression unreadable—but not cold. “I just want to sit. With you.”

Your body stills, breath catching. No man’s ever said that before. Not in this room. Not with that look in their eyes.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks past you and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes watching the floor like it might swallow him whole. “When I’m with you,” he says at last, “I remember I’m still human. That I haven’t been swallowed yet by the weight of everything waiting outside.”

You take a slow breath, and then, you join him.

Silence stretches between you for a while, warm but unfamiliar. You’ve never had to fill it before. Not like this. Not with someone like him. So when you speak again, your voice is careful, hushed. “What did you want to talk about?” You look down at your hands as you say it, suddenly aware of how tightly you’re wringing the fabric of your robe. “I’m… not very good at small talk.”

He glances your way, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Gentler. “Neither am I.”

There’s a pause—he leans back slightly, gaze on the ceiling for a heartbeat, as if weighing the shape of the question he’s about to ask. Then, softly: “Phainon.”

You blink. “What about him?”

“I was just… wondering,” Mydei says, his voice measured but curious, “why he’s always around. Why he’s so close to everyone here. It’s unusual.”

You study his expression. There’s no accusation behind it, no jealousy or condescension. Just a quiet sort of puzzlement. You suppose that makes sense. Mydei walks through the world like a figure carved of duty and divine weight—philos, strategos, prince. A man raised in marble halls where power is either taken or inherited, never simply given away.

So you exhale and say, “Can I tell you a story?”

He nods once.

“There was a man,” you begin, fingers tracing invisible lines along the embroidered edge of your sleeve. “A wicked man. Not in the way people always expect—he didn’t shout, didn’t strike in public, didn’t bare his teeth. He wore silks. Spoke softly. Promised the world.”

You glance up, briefly, and find Mydei’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

“They said he had a collection. Not of art, or relics, or trinkets. But of little dolls. Girls, mostly. Women from across the land. He wandered far—coastal villages, mountain towns, the wine-soaked islands. He’d find the ones with songs in their hearts and stars in their eyes. The beautiful ones. The dreamers. The desperate.”

Your voice drops. “He would say, ‘Come with me. I’ll give you a place to shine. A home. A future. A better life.’”

“But the moment they stepped into his palace, they were no longer people. Just property. Stripped of name, of will, of voice. He dressed them up. Painted them pretty. Locked them behind velvet doors, and called them his treasures.

“And if they cried, he’d say they were ungrateful. If they fought, he’d punish them. But if they stayed quiet—if they obeyed—he’d smile and say they were his favorite.”

You fall silent then, and the memory of it coils like smoke in your throat. The sweet, rotting scent of those early days in Okhema. The illusion before the trap snapped shut.

Mydei doesn’t interrupt. But when you look at him again, there’s a new sharpness in his gaze, tempered only by a sadness you didn’t expect to see. Like the weight of your story has settled somewhere behind his ribs. “And what became of the wicked man?” he asks softly.

You offer the ghost of a smile. “A good man drove a sword to his chest.”

The corners of Mydei’s lips twitch ever-so slightly. You like to think that he was proud. You go on, voice low but even. “When the wicked man still ruled the undercity, we weren’t anything more than possessions. Broken things, caged and bruised, prettied up for those who could afford cruelty. He was cruelest of all.”

The words are flat, almost clinical. It’s easier that way.

“Phainon was sent to take him—dead or alive. I don’t know who gave the order. But when he found us, locked behind his velvet curtains, we weren’t his mission. Just… collateral.” You draw in a breath, remembering the blood, the broken door hinges, the weight of Agamemnon’s silence as it fell to the floor.

“But Phainon didn’t walk past. He stayed. He broke every lock. Carried the ones who couldn’t walk. He helped bury what was left.”

You glance at Mydei now, his golden gaze unwavering.

“That’s why he’s always around. Because even after that day, he never left. Never once tried to collect on our gratitude. He just… checks in. Makes sure the water still runs. The food still comes. That we’re still whole.”

A silence settles between you again. You didn’t mean to say so much. But somehow, with him, the words come easier than you expect. And still, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Not yet.

But he nods, slow and solemn. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than most,” you murmur, softer still. “He never wanted anything from us. Not even a thank you.”

You don’t say the rest. That in some ways, Phainon taught you that not all men come bearing knives beneath their smiles. And maybe… maybe Mydei could be one of them, too. “Enough about me,” you say after a beat, forcing a lighter tone. “I bet you have stories that are far more worthwhile to hear.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flitting down for a moment as though considering it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, lips curving. “Depends on who’s listening.”

You raise a brow at him. “That sounds like a prince’s way of dodging.”

“It’s worked so far,” he admits, unapologetically amused.

But you catch the glint in his eyes—the kind that speaks of walls he’s not quite ready to lower. He’s not being cruel. Just careful. You know that kind of silence all too well. So you pivot, gently.

“Fine,” you say, leaning back on your palms. “Then let me ask you something real.”

That gets his attention.

“Is it true?” you ask. “That you don’t die?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not alarm, not defensiveness—but something older. More tired. You continue before he can pretend ignorance. “They say you walked away from death. That not even blades or poisons or the sea can keep you.”

For a moment, Mydei says nothing. Then—

“No,” he says, voice like flint striking stone. “It’s not true.”

“I do die,” the prince adds, and there’s a strange stillness to him now, like a sword balanced on its edge. “Just not permanently.”

“I’ve been killed before. My lungs have filled with blood. I’ve drowned. I’ve been burned. I’ve been sent to the nether realm where the dead drift, where the living are not welcome. And every time—” He tilts his head slightly. “—I’ve clawed my way back.”

“Clawed?” you echo.

He nods ever-so slowly. “The nether realm is not a quiet place. It’s full of things that shouldn’t be remembered. Things that don’t forget. I kill whatever stands in my way. Until the path home opens.”

You can hardly breathe for a moment.

“Sounds lonely,” you whisper.

“It is,” he says simply.

But there’s no sorrow in the way he says it. No anger either. Just the truth. Heavy and hard and worn like old armor. And suddenly, you understand the look in his eyes—the way it always seems like he’s staring through time itself. Because maybe he is. Maybe he’s already lived a hundred lifetimes. Maybe the only thing that’s ever tethered him back to the present… is the choice to return.

“Can anyone else just kill their way out of the nether realm?” you ask, the words half a jest, half wonder.

Mydei's lips twitch, but his gaze doesn't waver.

“…If there was,” he murmurs, “I think I would’ve run into them by now.”

You fall into silence at that, eyes dragging over the lines of him—his broad shoulders, the golden hue of his skin kissed by something celestial, and the red marks that wind down his arms, chest, torso. Not scars. Not tattoos. Something older, etched into him like language itself. Wordlessly, your hand lifts. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath warm skin. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Just watches you. Your fingertips trace the red markings slowly, following the curl of them as they wind over muscle and bone.

“This body is special, then,” you say, voice almost reverent. A beat passes. His breath hitches—barely—but you catch it.

“Cursed,” he says quietly. “Or blessed. Depends on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

His gaze flickers down to where your hand rests, still trailing those strange, divine brands.

“…Ask me later,” he says, softer now.

As though he’s not ready to name what he is. As though something about your touch is unraveling the edges of him. You don’t move your hand from his chest. You feel the warmth of him—too alive for someone who’s clawed his way back from death. Too human for a man on the precipice of godhood. He looks at you, eyes shining gold even in the low light, flickering with something he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Later, then.”

And you should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stepped back and said goodnight, like the polite fiction you both pretended to believe in. But you don’t.

Instead, your hand slides higher, fingers grazing his collarbone, resting against the side of his neck. You’re closer now. When did that happen? His breath mingles with yours, his lips parted slightly, like he’s on the edge of a word he can’t find.

Then it happens—slow and inevitable.

He leans in first, but it’s you who closes the gap.

The kiss is soft the moment your lips touch. Careful. Testing. The kind of kiss that asks a question neither of you can put into words. His hand finds your waist, anchoring you like you’ll vanish, like maybe he already thought you would. It’s only when you deepen it, that he lets out the faintest sound against your mouth—half a sigh, half a surrender. And for a moment, there’s nothing holy or tragic about either of you. No gods, no ghosts. Just this. Just now.

You forget what it means to be someone broken, and he forget what it means to be someone burdened. You just feel. Your lips part just barely from his, breath catching between the narrow space that remains. His hand still rests at your waist, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your robe. You search his face, trying to decipher if he means to pull back or dive in again.

“I thought you weren’t here for this,” you whisper, your voice trembling not with fear, but the weight of wanting.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back to yours, and a soft laugh escapes him—low and rich, like the crackle of embers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “but what sort of man would I be if I left you wanting?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, not quite a smile—more like something delicate unraveling. His words coil around your ribs like silk, tightening gently, beautifully. You should say something clever, something to keep this from slipping too far.

But your mouth finds his again before you can even try.

The quiet between you lingers after the kiss, but it’s not empty. It thrums with something unspoken, something deeper than words. Mydei’s breath brushes against your skin, warm and steady, his hands still resting at your waist as if anchoring himself in your presence. You don’t say anything when you lean in again. You don’t have to. The moment folds in on itself, soft and slow, like the hush before a storm. Your fingers trace the red markings on his chest again, not out of curiosity this time, but reverence. There’s something sacred about the way they wind across his skin, the way he lets you touch him like this—open, unguarded.

He follows your lead, hands gliding up your spine, over your shoulders, until they frame your face. When he kisses you again, it’s not with the urgency of want, but with the ache of longing. As though he’s been waiting to do this properly. As though he knows this might be the last night he’s allowed to feel human. The world outside your room fades, replaced by the rhythm of shared breath, the brush of skin against skin, the silent promises made in the space between heartbeats. The weight of your histories—his battles, your chains—falls away for just a little while.

What remains is tenderness.

Your clothes fall away one by one. Amidst the passion that seeps into your very bones, you find it in you to make a quip about how much easier things are when he’s not wearing his armor. Mydei scoffs, but there’s no sign of annoyance on his face. Just the subtle endearment for something—someone he never knew he could connect with so deeply. 

He’s careful with you, even when your hands wander, even when your heartbeat quickens under his touch. There’s a reverence to the way he holds you, like he’s afraid to break something delicate, even though you’ve long since learned to be unbreakable. His fingers slide into you with perfect precision, the slick between your legs granting him enough lubrication to make you feel every sensation there is to give. Your velvet walls clamp down on him with fervor, curling into the heat of his indestructible body as he spreads you open for him. 

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Too good for me.” 

There’s an undertone of something you can’t quite name that accompanies his words. But the notion is lost on you when he curls his fingers just so. A broken whimper escapes your lips, unable to stifle it as Mydei continues to hit that sweet, sweet spot inside you. You feel it far too soon—that telltale sizzle of release. It bides its time, tying your stomach in knots until the pressure in your navel becomes too much to bear. Mydei growls into the curve of your neck when he feels your body spasm beneath him; having given into the pleasure so easily, it awakens something primal within him. It’s like your body is on fire. Sensitive to the touch wherever his skin meets yours. Part of you wants to recoil, to beg for respite. Too much, too much, too much— 

Sensing how deeply he's unraveled you, Mydei tempers the urgency of his touch into something gentler—tender strokes that barely skim your skin, grounding you, reminding you he's still here. That he's not going anywhere. As if in silent apology, he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose—soft and reverent.

“All I want,” he breathes, his voice rough with restraint, “is for you to feel good. Do you trust me?”

You know he already holds the answer in his hands, but still, you blink through the blur of your tears until his face comes into focus—fractured by light and emotion, and yet still so beautiful. With a shaky breath, you reach up, fingers weaving behind his neck, and pull him into a kiss that speaks the answer for you.

“Yes,” you whisper into his mouth, like a vow you’ve been holding your whole life. “I trust you more than anything. More than anyone.”

This kind of vulnerability is something you never imagined you could offer so freely. Not after everything. Not to anyone. But with Mydei, it doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like remembering something you thought you'd lost: the ability to feel safe in someone’s arms, to be seen without shame, to be held without fear. Despite yourself, heat flares in your cheeks at the sight of him—aroused and aching. His leaking cock strains against his abdomen, flushed with a need so primal, he practically grinds the throbbing shaft between your supple thighs. 

“I need you,” you breathe, voice trembling, desperate. Your hand slips between your thighs, guiding him with aching intent. “Please, Mydei… just—please.”

He gives in to your wishes—he’s starting to grow much too weak against them. Mydei guides his length into your dripping heat, the head of his cock penetrating you with the same cautious anticipation he exhibited during your first night together. 

And then, inch by inch, you feel whole again.

For a while, the two of you remain tangled in that moment—heat blooming between your bodies, thick and breathless. The stretch of him should’ve been too much, but all you can feel is how right it is. How perfectly he fits, like he was always meant to be there. He groans, a proud lion reduced into nothingness when you purposely clench the walls of your cunt around his poor length. You find yourself grinning mischievously when Mydei starts speaking in that language long lost to time. You should ask him about that sometime—when your heads aren’t clouded with sheer desire. But for now, you live in the moment. 

“I regret not finding you sooner,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A moment of clarity hovers across your mind, and your first instinct is to tease. “Why? Would you have bought me out of this brothel if you did?”

“Perhaps,” Mydei murmurs before suckling a band of hickeys above your collarbones, initiating slow yet languid thrusts that have your toes curling with bliss. “But if I had found you sooner, you never would have had to live the life you lead. I would’ve stolen you away from Lethe myself.” 

You know those are just the words of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Men tend to start running their mouths whenever they’re high on the feel of your cunt pulsating around their cocks. But Mydei has a knack for being candid about all sorts of things.

“Would you—hah! W-would you have put me in a cage too?” you taunt and it gets you the exact reaction you want. Mydei snaps his hips harshly, nearly punching the breath from your lungs. “Dress me up in the f-finest of silk and flaunt me to the world?” 

“No. Never.” He grits his teeth so tightly, you swear you hear the strain in his jaw. “I’ll make you mine, but only on your terms. Only if you want me to.”

Even in the haze of desire, he manages to remain the most honorable man in all of Okhema. The thought of it, the weight of his words, makes something warm well up inside you—so overwhelming you could weep with joy. His raw honesty encourages you to wrap your arms around his broad back—holding him so close that he can’t ever hope to slip away. The heat of his skin against yours is grounding, a reminder that, despite everything, you’re here together, tangled in this moment. When his calloused fingers find the sensitive bud of your clit, you jostle beneath him in surprise. You were so focused on how good he’s giving it to you, that you failed to notice his hands wriggling down to your thighs. 

“M-Mydei—!” you gasp, but he only fucks into you harder. 

Mydei’s breath stutters in quiet, devout gasps, the edge of release so close he could reach for it. But he holds back. Draws out the moment like a hymn. He could stay like this forever—just to savor the weight of your body beneath his, just to feel the hush between you stretch into something timeless. You memorize the feel of him—not just the way his body fits against yours, but the quiet sighs that escape when your lips find the hollow of his throat, the way he lingers on every touch like he’s afraid to let go. 

He’s fire and gold and thunderstorms, and yet he looks at you like you’re the miracle.

Mydei spills into you with reckless abandon, canting his hips with clockwork precision as he fills you to the brim. For a moment, the world quiets—like the tide pulling back before the next great wave. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, breath hitching, arms locked tight around you like he’s terrified of the space that might form between your bodies.

You feel him trembling, not from exhaustion, but from the gravity of it all. As if something in him has broken loose—something raw and sacred and entirely yours. But it doesn’t end there.

You don’t realize what he’s doing when he swiftly breaks free of your embrace. But when his face hovers across your soiled cunt, you make the motions to pull him back up—only for your beast of a lover to devour the mess he’s left in his wake.  Mydei laves at your hole like he intends to feast on you for the rest of his life. He scoops his own cum out with his own fingers, slurping your mixed essence with so much depravity shining in his golden eyes, you can hardly believe he’s a prince. No sane man would look so blissed out whilst doing something so—

“I can feel you,” he growls. “Need you to come for me.”

The words are spoken with such authority, it sends a guilty thrill straight to your throbbing cunt. Mydei latches his lips onto your sensitive nub, fucking his cum back into you with those godlike fingers. You thrash around beneath him, but Mydei keeps you in place with a steady grip–making sure you feel everything he’s willing to give. Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the relentless tenderness he wields like a weapon. Every curl of his fingers, every flick of his tongue draws out a fresh wave of pleasure that crashes through you with no mercy. Your cries are half-muffled by the pillow, but he hears them all the same—drinks them in like a sacred prayer.

“Mydei,” you sob, unable to do anything but hold onto him. Your legs shake around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair like lifelines.

He doesn't stop. He won’t—not until he’s certain there’s nothing left unsaid between your bodies. Not until your body recognizes him as deeply and completely as your heart already does. When he finally slows, it’s not because he’s spent, but because he’s sated. Because he knows you are too. And as he pulls you into his arms, nestling your exhausted form against the warmth of his chest, you realize—this isn’t just release. It’s devotion. A vow whispered into your very bones.

Time passes strangely in the dark. You don’t know how long the two of you stay like this, curled in the comfort of each other’s warmth. His hand is cradling the back of your neck, his breath evening out as you rest your forehead against his shoulder. There are no declarations. No promises. Only the quiet understanding between two people who’ve found something rare in each other—if only for a night.

And that, somehow, is enough.

You are back on the shores of Lethe yet again. 

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air, salt mixing with the sweetness of the breeze. The horizon stretches wide before you, the sea infinite and restless, each wave a soft whisper against the shore. But there’s something else—something familiar, something that stirs deep within your chest.

The souls.

They drift across the water, gliding in and out of the mist that rises from the waves, countless and silent. At first, you don’t see them clearly. They’re indistinct forms, like smoke or vapor, just the shape of something that used to be. They are lost, wandering. Some of them move in clusters, others alone, each drawn to the sea like they were always meant to be here. It’s always been this way. You’ve seen it many times before. The souls spill from the nether realm, drawn across the waters, stretching between Lethe and Styxia. You’ve stood here before, in this same silence, watching as they passed by.

This time, though, there’s something different. One soul catches your eye. It’s faint at first, barely distinguishable among the others, but it glows—a soft, golden light, faint but warm, as if it’s radiating from deep within. You’re drawn to it without thinking. The pull is gentle, but it grows stronger the closer you get. The light flickers in the mist, barely visible behind the shadows of the other souls. But it’s there, unmistakable.

You take a step forward, and the light grows, a shining ember in the endless grey. You know, without a doubt, that this one is different from the rest. It moves with purpose, not like the others who are aimless, lost in their endless drift. This one seems... aware. Alive, somehow.

As you move closer, the light brightens, and you catch glimpses of a shape, a form within it. At first, it’s unclear—blurry, indistinct, like the edges of a dream. The golden light wraps itself around a figure, but it’s not fully defined, not yet. You reach out toward it, a quiet yearning stirring in your chest. Then the figure shifts slightly. You feel it, a subtle movement in the water, and your heart skips. The golden glow swirls, growing stronger, as if it recognizes you, as if it’s meant to find you. The warmth radiating from it is overwhelming. It's like sunlight after rain. You step forward again, closer, closer still, the feeling of it wrapping around you, pulling you toward the shore.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light begins to fade. The soul drifts away, slowly at first, and then faster as the current pulls it back. You reach out, desperate to hold on, but your fingers touch only the mist. The light dims, vanishing into the expanse of souls, swallowed by the sea.

You stand still, the warmth that had filled you fading like the last embers of a fire. The mist thickens again, and the souls continue their endless journey, their forms lost to the distance. But something lingers. The feeling. The warmth. The sense that you’ve witnessed something important, something that has been waiting for you all along. You don’t know what it means, but you know, somehow, that it’s a connection you’re not meant to forget. 

Not yet.

The bells of the Academy chime across the courtyard, clean and melodic like everything else in this part of Okhema. As the students depart for dismissal, you wait by the marble fountain just a ways away from the main entrance. A tree that curls over it offers ample shade beneath the unchanging light of the Dawn Device above.  Nikolas emerges from the throng of students scurrying out. He doesn’t run to you anymore, but his steps are quick, a little uneven, like he hasn’t quite grown into his legs yet.

“We talked about the Titans after our drills today,” he says after giving you a quick hug. “One of my classmates asked if Kephale ever puts the Dawn Device down. Master Theon said, ‘Not once in all of history.’”

You smile faintly, brushing a curl from his temple. “That sounds like something you’d ask.”

He grins. “I would’ve made it sound smarter. And I did 'cause Master asked us to make an essay about it.”

Nikolas tries to sound casual, but the way he looks at you afterward like he’s waiting for you to be proud makes your heart twist a little. It’s only been a few weeks since he first walked through the Academy gates—still all knees and elbows—but he’s already grown so much. They don’t ask for perfect speech or polished manners here. Just grit, and enough fire to stand when the Black Tide comes crawling. This isn’t the Grove of Epiphany, where scholars chase after the elusive truth and speak in riddles. Here, boys and girls are shaped into the last line between the dark and everything worth saving.

You have half the mind to ask if Nikolas wants to make another detour to the Hall of Respite. To treat him to some of his favorite flat cakes. But then an unwelcome voice slithers into the quiet moment. 

“Well, what do we have here? The whore walks in daylight.”

It takes effort to turn, to meet the man’s eyes without flinching. He’s older now, more jowled than you remember, but the silk of his robes and the stink of indulgence are the same. Aeson. One of the men who used to come slinking through the undercity when the sun was too high for shame. He once asked you to sing for him while he undressed. Said you had a voice like smoke, a body like borrowed gold. He was never violent, just entitled. And worse, comfortable.

“I suspected that it was you for a few weeks now but even I knew how much you despised the overworld,” Aeson says, condescension dripping from every word. “Then again, you always did love playing mother to that stray.”

You hear Nikolas bristle at the man’s words, and you put out a hand to keep him from doing anything rash. Even at his young age, he’s seen how men treat you and your sisters like gunk beneath their sandals. And you’ve seen how a boy, raised with so much love even in the dark, has tried to give it all back—to protect the women who became that love for him.

But you’re not in some smoke-choked alley of the undercity. You’re in the pristine courtyard of the Academy itself. And there’s no way in hell you’re jeopardizing Nik’s education just to put some pompous old coot in his place. Elena would never forgive you.

Instead, you give him a flat look before saying, “Go pester someone who’s desperate.”

But the man steps in closer, a haughty look painted high on his wrinkly face. “I remember you desperate, girl. I paid for it. You should be grateful that anyone still looks at you nicely, knowing you're old Agamemnon’s trash.”

And that sinks teeth into you. The insult doesn’t surprise you. You’ve heard worse from softer lips. But it stirs something darker: the memory of what it cost you to not belong. The long, awful ache of surviving by grace of what others wanted from your skin. The truth of it is what burns most. Because Agamemnon did claim you. And now his name clings to you like grease you can’t scrub off.

You square your shoulders. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. But before you can speak, the air shifts like something heavy has entered the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

The voice is low, deliberate. Not loud, but heavy with promise. You and the nobleman both turn. Mydei stands at the edge of the courtyard, backlit by the cold radiance of the Dawn Device. His armor catches the light like forged fire, making his presence all the more unmistakable. There is no rage in his face, only clarity. The kind that makes cowards remember their manners.

“Prince Mydei,” Aeson stammers, dipping into a mock-bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”

“No,” Mydei replies. “You only saw who you thought you could speak over.”

He draws up beside you, a hand hovering—not touching—but near enough that you feel it like heat through fabric. Similarly to how you did with Nikolas, however you did that to prevent. Mydei does so to protect. “You said too much,” Mydei says, voice iron-flat. “And the next time you think of talking to a woman like that, remember this moment.”

A pause. You don't think you remember how to breathe, not in the face of Mydei's quiet fury. Then, as sharp as a blade, he grates out,

“Leave.”

Aeson recoils—stammers something too low to hear—then stumbles back into the crowd, his velvet trailing like a cloak of rot. You follow his hunched form until he disappears completely out of view. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ebb away. Nikolas looks between you and Mydei, uncertain.

“Was that one of the city’s... uh, patrons?” he mutters.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the sting. “You could say that.”

Mydei’s eyes don’t leave your face. Not even as Nikolas tries to catch his attention with a look.  You don’t meet his gaze, but you feel it—the weight of what he didn’t say. The rage he carried in like a blade still sheathed. “Old men like that never forget a girl they once thought they owned,” you say softly, reassuring Nikolas with a smile that takes more out of you than you thought. “Doesn’t mean they matter.”

“You matter,” Mydei says, quiet but unflinching. It startles you only because you didn’t expect for him to put in another word. “They just don’t know what that means yet.” And for a breath, the city stills around you. Not in reverence, nor silence. But in recognition. “Thank you,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. “Nik and I will be off now.”

The prince’s gaze doesn’t shift. His hand lingers near yours, and when you hesitate, he takes a half-step closer. His voice is firm, though his tone softens just slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the undercity.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but the remnants of the encounter with Aeson hang over you like a heavy fog, and the words fall flat in your throat. There’s a pull in your chest—a need for distance from everything that just transpired—and you find yourself nodding before you can think better of it.

“Alright,” you murmur.

Nikolas watches the exchange quietly, still unsure of the silent tension between the two of you, but he follows nonetheless, his footsteps light against the cobblestones. Mydei falls in step beside you, his presence unyielding but steady, like the silent promise of protection. The city stretches out before you, its lights distant and hollow beneath the unblinking gaze of the Dawn Device. The hum of Okhema fades into the background as you walk. 

You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. His proximity alone quells any lingering fear, and you find comfort in the silence that comes with it.

Since that day in the courtyard, walking home together just started...happening. 

Mydei never asked. He simply waited outside the gates of the Academy, where the marble gave way to cracked stone and the air grew thick with real life. Nikolas would spot him first, sometimes with a grin, sometimes pretending he hadn’t been looking for him.  It was a strange little ritual, but one that settled into place before you realized it. Nikolas walking beside one of his instructors like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you beside them both, listening, nodding, adding the occasional remark when Nikolas recounted the latest training mishap or philosophical disagreement with a teacher.

It wasn’t how these things were supposed to go—not a prince, not a prostitute, not a boy from nowhere—but it worked.

And then, over time, Mydei’s steps carried him a little farther. Past the alleys you knew like breath, and the entrance to the undercity that you insisted was far enough for a chaperone. 

Today is one of the two rest days that Nikolas has within a school week, and you spend a chunk of your time helping around The House. It always feels different on slower days like this. Softer, almost. Less like a cage and more like a secret place between worlds—where laughter could still echo against peeling walls, and perfume hung in the air like memory. You hear the rustling of his armor before you see him—familiar now, no longer something that makes the girls stiffen or reach for the knives tucked beneath silk pillows. Just outside, the lanterns have begun to glow gold, and from the hallway, a voice calls out:

“Thalia, your knight’s here again!”

You roll your eyes as you round the corner, but you can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of him. Mydei stands in the foyer with a small basket of fruit in one hand—dates, you guess, or maybe honeyed apricots from the upper district market. He's still donned in his armor, though he’s unstrapped the shoulder pauldrons. Less imposing that way. Still unmistakable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy,” he says, a touch uncertain, as if his presence might overstep.

“Penelope’s braiding Iris’ hair,” you reply. “The rest are pretending not to peek.”

As if on cue, the door behind you creaks. Penelope leans out, a wry grin curling at her lips while Iris stammers out apology after apology for eavesdropping. 

“Thalia, really,” Penelope says, mock-scolding. “You keep bringing in decent men and setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

You snort, and even Mydei’s mouth twitches in something that’s not quite a smile—but it’s close. “I can leave the fruit and go,” he offers.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then, gentler, “Stay. They like you here now, but don’t let it go to your head. Elena’s already figured out how to turn your visits into good business.”

Mydei nods with half a smile gracing his face. He steps further in, letting the warmth of The House wrap around him. One of the younger girls, quiet Calliope, flits by and steals an apricot from the basket. He lets her. 

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor while Penelope retells some outlandish story about a drunk client who mistook her for a goddess. Mydei doesn’t laugh, not loudly—but there’s light in his eyes. One you don’t often see up in the sanctified marble of Okhema’s spires. And maybe—just maybe—The House feels a little safer with him in it.

The following morning, the sky in the overworld is bleached bone-white. The unsetting sun hums high above, softened by distance and with it, Okhema shines, immaculate and hollow. Despite your more frequent visits due to your new job as Nikolas' guardian, you haven't grown to like it much. Too polished. Too sanctified. But today you’re not alone.

Mydei walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, matching yours. He carries your satchel without needing to be asked. You’ve got a list—written in Alexandria’s looping hand—and a basket slung over your arm. There’s something gently absurd about it all. You, running errands in the overworld. Choosing peaches. Haggling for bath oil. The sort of thing the other girls usually do. But today, you offered.

You’re not sure what’s more startling: that no one questioned you, or that you meant it.

The Marmoreal Market is alive. Vendors cry out over pyramids of citrus and hanging lanterns of glass. Incense smoke curls in lazy spirals above marbled stalls. A bard plays something languid on a flute near the olive barrels. The air tastes of brine and roasted almonds. It should be overwhelming. Once, it might have been. But today you just walk. Mydei doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it breathe between you like he always does. You pause to examine a twist of lavender soap. He waits patiently while you hold it to your nose, frown, and mutter, “Too much oil, not enough flower.”

When you change directions suddenly to get to the honeyed fig vendor—the fig vendor, the only one who doesn’t cheat the glaze with sugar water—he follows without question. You almost feel normal. Not broken. Not fallen. Just here.

“Thalia?”

You turn. And it’s like the sun tilts sideways. Daphne.

She looks... different. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Her hair is coiled into a gold-pin bun, her robes the sort nobles wear when they want to look effortless. There’s a softness around her now—a shine to her skin, a plumpness to her face, like love and safety have filled her out. Her bracelets tinkle when she steps closer.

“Gods,” she breathes, laughing. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look... good! Healthier than I remember. And your hair—still doing that wave in front, huh? I always said it made you look like one of those Lethean sirens.”

You manage a thin smile. “It’s you.”

She steps in like she might kiss your cheek, and you let her, though every inch of you braces like it's being touched with salt. “It’s been what—two years? Maybe more? I kept asking Elena about you, but she always just smiled and changed the subject.” Daphne’s eyes flick to Mydei, then back to you with a teasing grin. “And here I thought I was the only one who came out of that place lucky.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, feigning modesty. “Did I tell you? No, of course I didn’t—you’ve been hiding down in the bones of the city. Well, you remember Heron, don’t you? The grain magnate with the crooked teeth and all the rings? Turns out he wasn’t just talk. Married me proper.” She lifts her hand, lets you see the band. “I’ve got a little garden now. A cook. We’re thinking of getting a dromas of our own, but I thought that would be a bit too much!”

You say something. You think you do. It sounds like “That’s nice,” but your mouth feels numb. Daphne laughs again, easy and breezy as a woman who’s forgotten how deep The House used to cut.

“I still remember how Agamemnon used to spoil you, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s not jealousy. I used to think, ‘She must have Lethean blood in her veins to bring a man like that to his knees.’” She tilts her head, studying you. “Funny how things turn out, huh?”

Your grip on the basket tightens. Mydei hasn’t moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching her. Watching you. You lift your chin. Even if you know the man keeping you company is more than capable of stepping in like a guard dog, you don't let him. There are some things in this world that you'd rather not rely on Mydei for.

“I should get going,” you say, and your voice doesn’t crack. “We’ve got things to pick up.” Daphne blinks, surprised. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to—well. You look well, Thalia. Really. I mean that.”

You nod once and turn. Mydei doesn’t speak until the crowd swallows her up behind you. His voice is quiet, but certain.

“Are you all right?”

You keep your eyes forward. “She didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she still cut you.”

The fig vendor appears ahead. You make a beeline for it, needing something solid to do with your hands. Something to hold onto. Mydei doesn’t press. He stands beside you as you weigh fruit and speak numbers and pretend the world didn’t just tilt under your feet. And when you walk away, his hand grazes yours again. Not demanding, but simply offering.

It pains you to pull away—to refuse something he's always given freely—but you avoid his hand altogether. You turn the corner, pushing through the crowd, trying to breathe again. The air feels tight, sharp, as though the weight of everything that just shifted in your chest is pressing down on you. Daphne. A wife. She’s happy now. And yet—something about her—something about the way she carries herself now, so light, so untethered—bothers you.

The House. Agamemnon. The way the air used to feel thick, like every breath was a crime, and the walls hummed with all the things people would never say. Did the time away make her forget the way he used to drag you through rooms like cattle, like property? The way she’d walk in and out of those same halls, always knowing the price of every touch, the cost of every whispered word?

You shake your head. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself. Daphne’s not the one who held your body hostage, not the one who let it break beneath the weight of his need. But...why does it feel like she’s forgotten? A soft laugh. A garden. A gods damned dromas. And in her voice, in her smile, you hear the echo of a life away from all of that. As though the past was just something easily shaken off. It gnaws at you, that inconsistency. The way she walks with ease—like she didn’t have to bleed for it, didn’t have to drown in every unspoken rule of The House, its suffocating power, its price.

You feel it again, in your chest. A tightness, a rawness. And as you push your hand against the basket's rim, trying to steady yourself, the question lingers, still unanswered:

Did Daphne truly forget? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and you... you’re still here, carrying pieces of it, like shards of glass you can’t pull from your skin? You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten on the basket until Mydei speaks—softly, like the sound might startle you if it were any louder. It didn't occur to you that even if you evade him, he'll follow you like a shadow either way. 

“Do you want to go home?”

You glance at him, caught between the din of the market and the roaring in your own head. His eyes are steady. Not prying. Just there. Like a door already open, waiting for you to step through. He takes the basket from your hands without asking. The tension eases just enough for your fingers to ache. He doesn’t rush you. He stays close as you weave through the crowd, his presence a quiet shield against the glances, the voices, the past. He doesn’t say anything about Daphne. Doesn’t ask what she meant or what it meant to you. And that’s what makes you want to cry.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does—and he knows better than to pick at a wound that's still bleeding.

By the time you make it back to The House, the light above has cooled to its twilight hue—soft gold thinning into rose where it filters through the grates. The sun doesn’t set in Okhema. It only shifts, like a watchful eye half-closing. The undercity glows beneath it, wrapped in the kind of light that feels like the end of a long breath.

Inside, things are loud again. Familiar. One of the girls calls out about a client who tried to pay with temple scrip. Someone else has braided jasmine into the worn curtain rods, and the scent clings stubbornly to the air. You smile when you need to, nod when you must, and brush off any lingering edges from earlier like it’s routine. Because it is. No one notices the way your shoulders hitch too quickly when you laugh. Or the way you avoid the looking glass near the stairs. No one, except the man who’s still standing by the door like he doesn’t quite belong—but doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Mydei shifts slightly, readying himself to depart, the way he always does once you’re safely home. But something in you rebels at the thought.

“If you’re not busy,” you say, quieter than you intend, “could you stay? Just for a little while.”

He pauses, brows rising ever so slightly. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Only if you want to.”

A beat of stillness. Then: “Then I’ll stay.”

You turn before your face gives you away. You don’t lead him to the front parlors where guests are meant to lounge. You don’t steer him toward the back alcoves where girls entertain more private company. Instead, you climb the stairs. Past chipped paint and perfumed cloth. Past laughter behind closed doors and one girl humming a tune you haven’t heard since Lethe. You walk until you reach your room.

Your room.

You’ve never brought anyone here apart from your sisters and Nikolas. Phainon’s the only outsider who’s ever crossed its threshold, and even then, only when you couldn’t stand to be alone. This room is yours. A sanctuary carved from hand-me-downs and half-stolen quiet. The walls are soft with age, the bedding faded but clean. There’s a tiny dish of dried figs near the window, even though you'll never finish them. They don't taste the way they do back at Lethe.

There are no doors to your room. Only a curtain of seashells—bright, iridescent, strung together in delicate strands. A gift from Elena, thoughtful as she is. It reminds you of home, of the sea, of the ebb and flow of tides. It’s not a door, not really, but it’s enough to separate your space from the rest of the world.

You open the curtain, casting a sidelong glance at Mydei in a quiet invitation. He hesitates only briefly as his eyes scan the room before he steps inside. The prince says nothing. Doesn't gawk or wander. He simply stands in the middle of there like someone waiting for permission. You amble across the wooden floor, the tension finally unspooling from your spine. Mydei stays close—but not too close—and it strikes you again, how careful he always is with you. Not delicate. Just…respectful and measured.

“Not what you expected?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the modest space.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says softly. “But it suits you.”

You look down at your hands, then up at him. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you say. The words fall like something confessional.

“I’m glad you called for me,” Mydei tells you, honesty bleeding into his voice, and there’s something in it that makes you look at him again.

In the silence, you walk over to a shelf in the far end, one that the prince has been eyeing since he stepped inside. A small, eclectic collection of trinkets are lined up together on its surface. You can feel his gaze touch each item, but there’s no judgment in it—only quiet wonder.

“These are the pieces I kept,” you murmur, and his eyes flick to you as if waiting for a story, a reason.

A small glass vial, still corked, filled with syrupy red wine the color of dusk. “From the lushest vineyard in the entire island. I stole it,” you say with a faint smile. “Ran all the way down the hills with red hands and a mouth stained purple.” Beside it, a faded ribbon, sea salt-blue and frayed at the edges, tied in a lazy bow. “For the dances,” you murmur. “We wore them on our wrists, so even the shy ones could be pulled into the revelry.”

Next, a small, tarnished flute—its surface dulled by time, but the carvings of swirling waves and grapevines still visible. “It only plays when the wind is right,” you say, lifting it briefly to your lips. A single note spills out, thin and wandering. “My mother bought it for me. Said no Lethean should be without music.”

There are seashells, of course—real ones, not like the ones strung in your curtain, but pale and pink and lavender, collected from the shallows. One of them still smells faintly of brine when warmed by your palm. Another is cracked down the middle, but you never threw it away. “The ugly ones are often the ones that lived longest,” you explain, as if it matters.

And then, near the end of the shelf, sits a delicate pendant, the size of a coin, fashioned from mother-of-pearl and set in brass. Its surface has worn smooth from years of handling, but if the light catches just right, the faint outline of a chalice brimming with waves and fruit still glimmers—the old symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of Plenty. You used to wear it around your neck. Now it just rests there, like something left at an altar. You don’t explain that one.

Mydei is silent, not out of discomfort. He watches you with a strange, quiet intensity, as though your memories hold a significance beyond words. His hand brushes lightly across the ribbon, then rests on the shelf’s edge.

“You brought Lethe with you,” he says, almost to himself.

You nod, slowly. “I didn’t want to forget. Even if everyone already did.”

In that moment, everything floods back. The deal you made with Agamemnon. How you packed what little you could into a single satchel and left behind the life you knew. How you walked away from the island you once called home without so much as a goodbye to your mother. But it doesn’t matter now. Agamemnon is dead, and Lethe is gone. Not wanting to spiral back into what Mydei did his best to haul you out of, you walk towards your bed, patting the space beside you.  Oddly enough, he joins you without complaint. Not touching. But close enough that if you shifted an inch, you would. You both sit in silence, the air between you warm, but not heavy. The soft flicker of twilight outside dances across the walls, casting long shadows that stretch with time. The quiet is comforting. It doesn’t feel like the heavy silence of distance, but something closer, like the stillness of two souls finally aligning.

Mydei’s presence in the room feels different now. Less like a visitor and more like someone who belongs here, who fits with the gentle rhythm of your life. His armor clinks softly as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, but there’s nothing forced about the movement. You look up at him, your gaze tracing the familiar red markings on his arms and chest—his half-worn robes draped in a way that speaks of battles fought and distances traveled. 

He doesn’t try to hide anything, not the weight of what he’s carried, not the quiet strength that lingers in every measured movement. His stillness is calm, but you sense the storm just beneath it, the tumult that never fully goes away.

You can feel the question in the air—the unspoken one, hanging between you, something about where this moment will lead. But neither of you needs to speak it. You’ve crossed unspoken lines before, danced on edges, and tonight, the edge feels softer, more accepting. You shift a little, a quiet invitation—your leg brushes his, just enough to send a ripple through the calm. 

Mydei doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, his hand shifts to the space beside you, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your bedding, as if this is something he’s always respected. Your eyes meet, and there’s a quiet understanding there, a promise wrapped in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand. He moves slowly yet deliberately. When his hand finally meets yours, it’s as if the world outside this room falls away, and all that’s left is the soft brush of skin against skin, the way your breath hitches when his thumb runs over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The space between you disappears with that small touch.

Mydei doesn’t rush. There’s no hunger, no desperation—only the kind of stillness that comes after a long journey. You feel it in the way his fingers thread through yours, slow and certain, like he's holding something precious. Like he’s afraid if he holds too tightly, you’ll vanish. Your other hand lifts without thinking, drawn to him as if by instinct, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw. He leans into it, and you can feel the weight he carries, heavy beneath his skin, and still he lets himself soften here, with you.

His forehead presses against yours. Neither of you speak. His warm breath fanning against your face tells you enough. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of the things neither of you could say before. Of every stolen glance. Every almost. Every ache that built into this moment. When he kisses you, it’s not a question. It’s an answer. Warm, unhurried, and steady. His lips taste like memory and promise all at once. And when Mydei pulls you closer—closer still—it’s not possession. It’s presence. It’s the quiet vow that, here in this moment, he is entirely yours.

You fall into him like tide to shore. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something adrift. You feel found.

Sounds of lovemaking fill your room in a way that has never happened before. It's a given that privacy in The House is close to none, but all the girls who managed to catch you bringing your fiery-haired lover into your sacred space knew better than to intrude. They also told the others that upstairs is off-limits until either you or Mydei emerged again. What they don't know is that with Mydei, sex takes a very good while.

He starts the way all men usually do—missionary. Simple, straight to the point. But where you'd often just lie there and let your patrons take you sloppily, Mydei grounds you beneath his weight like he wants you to remember the moment. He doesn't piston his hips with the intent of chasing after his own sweet release. But lets that gaze of molten fire seep into your very bones, his girth spreading your aching walls far apart with each thrust.

You moan his name like you're stringing a litany of prayers. Mydei is all too happy to heed each desperate plea. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your body just several degrees sideways. The angle confuses your brain for a moment, unused to being positioned in such a way. But your thoughts are eventually lost to pleasure when his cock breaches your wet heat once more—bullying past gummy walls that yield all too easily to his touch alone.

"More, more, more," you dole out mindlessly, tears catching in the corners of your eyes. "I need you more."

You're not sure if any of your words even make sense, but Mydei reads between the lines anyways. He slants your lips together, like stars melting into each other. His kiss swallows your cries, tender and consuming all at once—like he’s trying to hold you together with his mouth alone. His hips roll deeper still but slower now, savoring the tremble in your thighs, the desperate way your fingers clutch at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “I’m always here.”

The words break something in you. Maybe it’s the past you’ve tried so hard to outgrow, or the girl who once believed no one would ever stay. Either way, she shatters—and in her place is a woman who is being seen, held, loved in a way that feels like becoming. Mydei presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven. The rhythm of your bodies is a language now, spoken in heat and motion, in the slick slide of skin and the muffled gasps you share like secrets. 

And when you come undone, it isn’t with fireworks—it’s with something quieter. A tremble. A sigh. A sense that, for once, the ache inside you has been met with something that understands it.

He's carrying you by your thighs before you can even form another thought. You think you bleat out a weak protest but Mydei presses your back against the nearest wall like he didn't hear a thing. You feel something dig into your spine, but the pain is eclipsed by raw ecstasy when he slots himself inside you again—a shuddering gasp stolen from his chest while he noses at the crook of your neck. Your nerves are still burning with sensation, but the slide of his cock makes you want him more. Desire him deeper. You're past the point of caring whether or not he'll break you, because you know he will and he'll do it deliciously. 

"You're more than what your past made you out to be," he huffs hoarsely, teeth scraping across sweat-slicked skin. "You're more than just some dead monster's favorite."

Your breath catches as his words sink into the tenderest part of you, far deeper than where his body touches. It makes your pulse throb in places untouched, makes your body arch for more of him, for all of him. Ever since the first time, Mydei has never made you feel like some sort of commodity. 

He makes you feel human. Always. 

His hands are rough where they grip your thighs, but there’s reverence in the way he holds you open, like you’re nothing short of a miracle even now, especially now. His pace slows, deepens. Not to tease—no, it’s devotion. Every thrust says, I see you. Every breath he steals from your lungs is a promise that he’s not here to use you—he's here to worship what's been denied worship for far too long.

"I don’t care what they called you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs to feel your thoughts against his. “You're mine now. If you’ll have me.”

And gods, you do.

You meet him stroke for stroke, mouth chasing his with a hunger that borders on holy. There’s nothing soft left in the room—not the air, not the wall, not your shared breathing—but there is something real, raw, and rising fast. Like the sea in a storm. Like love, if you're brave enough to call it that. His lips find your throat, trailing heat and tremble in their wake. He doesn't kiss you like you're fragile. He kisses you like you're fire—meant to be burned by. Tongue and teeth dragging along the slick curve of your collarbone, he groans your name like it’s some sort of invocation he’ll never stop repeating.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “Every time.”

And Titans, you do—greedy and trembling and insatiable, taking all of him because you can, because you want to. Because his desire doesn’t just touch your body—it drenches it, floods it, marks you in places no one else has ever dared to reach. The rhythm builds again, languid and punishing in its control. He doesn’t fuck like a man trying to get off—he moves like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Etching himself into your marrow, into every twitch and gasp and please. He cups your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. The look in them nearly undoes you.

“You’re not allowed to forget,” he growls, lips brushing yours with maddening restraint. “Not how this feels. Not what you are to me.”

You nod before you can speak, the sound caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. But he sees it. He feels it in the desperate flex of your hips, the trembling grip on his shoulders, the way your mouth parts for his without needing words. You don’t forget—how could you, when he’s everywhere? Inside you, around you, underneath your skin?

His kiss turns hungry again, all heat and tongue, no gentleness this time. Just raw need—his and yours, tangled and indistinguishable. You drink each other in like you’ll never have another chance. His thrusts deepen, rougher now, but still precise—his cock dragging just the right way, hitting every spot that makes your eyes roll back and your breath shatter in your chest. Your thighs start to shake around him, and he feels it, curses low under his breath as shifts your weight to tether further against the wall. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding that slick bundle of nerves already pulsing.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, one laced with reverence and heat and a promise that he’s going with you.

The pleasure rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You shatter around him, trembling and crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only real thing left in a world gone molten. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, forehead pressed hard to yours as he spills into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his soul.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. Your skin sticks where it touches, but you don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Mydei's thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know you shed.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You’re more than what they made you believe. So much more.”

And somehow, in the quiet between heartbeats and aftershocks, you believe him.

The morning carries a softness that feels borrowed—like it wasn’t meant to belong here, but slipped through anyway. At breakfast, the House begins to stir fully, louder with each passing minute. Girls laughing down the hall. Doors creaking open and shut. Water being drawn. Someone tuning a string instrument with off-key determination.

And Mydei is still here.

You spot him in the tiny galley kitchen, sleeves rolled up, red markings stark against the pale curve of his forearms as he folds dough with a focus that borders on reverence. His half-worn robes are still askew from the night before, hair tousled but face composed. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he flips a pan with entirely too much grace for someone who used to command legions.

“Didn’t think you’d stay,” you murmur.

“I said I would,” he says, not looking up. “Besides, Elena refused to take any money as payment for...”

He pauses, face flushing only for a moment. You feel like he's embarrassed by the prospect of paying for what you suppose was a rendered service, but you're past the point of caring about those little nuances. Elena clucks approvingly as she bustles by, balancing a tray of sweet tea. “This one’s more helpful than half the men who’ve ever darkened our doorstep,” she says. “You sure you’re not already married, Mydei?”

He almost smiles. “Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

Calliope, who's lounged in a chair with her legs over the armrest, perks up. “I heard a rumor once,” she says, grinning, “that the Crown Prince of Kremnos has a secret love of cooking and baking. Thought it was ridiculous, but…” She gestures at the evidence: golden pastries cooling by the window.

“It wasn’t a secret,” he says, quietly. “Just not something I could do often. Before.”

The mood shifts for a moment. A faint shadow touches the edge of his voice. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. Shortly after your sisters and Nikolas have helped themselves to Mydei's surprisingly good cooking, you find two clay cups. Inside, you pour the pomegranate juice from the jug Elena leaves on the counter before offering one to Mydei. He takes it and raises a brow when you offer him a pitcher of milk.

“Try it,” you say, smirking. “It cuts the tartness.”

He mixes the two with a flick of his wrist and takes a cautious sip. Blinks. “…Better than I thought.”

That draws a laugh from you. “Funnily enough, there's actually a story about that.”

He glances over curiously as you cradle your cup in your palms, leaning against the counter. “The legend says Phagousa offered pomegranate juice to Nikador after he emerged from the battlefield drunk on the blood of his enemies. Said it would calm the fire in him—make him less likely to kill the wrong people. He took it. Said it tasted like war and sweetness in equal measure.”

Mydei is quiet. He drinks again. “A Lethean offering peace to a Kremnoan,” he says after a pause. “Fitting.”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “And did it work?”

“For Nikador?” He shrugs, then looks at you. “Maybe not. But I think it’s working on me.”

You don’t say anything, just nudge your foot against his under the table. You’re still smiling when the kitchen curtain rustles—and someone stumbles in, awkwardly frozen mid-step. A young man, clearly from Kremnos by the style of his cloak and the glint of bronze on his collar. His gaze darts from Mydei to you, then back again. His face drains a shade paler.

“My—uh—Master Mydei. Sir.” He clears his throat, eyes flicking quickly away from your legs, bare beneath a short sleeping tunic. “I—I didn’t realize you were… here.”

“You are?” Mydei asks, calm as ever.

“Andreas, sir,” the man says too quickly. “I-I'm a patron here. Not often. Just…sometimes.”

You exchange a look with Mydei. He doesn’t smirk, but his silence feels like one. The soldier straightens with a snap. “A-Also, General Krateros is looking for you, sir. Told the entire battalion to let you know it was urgent if we ran into you.”

Mydei nods once. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

The man retreats in a flurry of embarrassment and half-bowed apologies. You and Mydei are left alone again, the moment suddenly fragile with the knowledge that it’s ending.

He sets his cup down. Then, without ceremony, leans in and kisses you. Not a lingering promise—just enough to make you feel like you’re being remembered. When he pulls back, you catch the brief return of that storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” the prince says.

You nod, but your gut twists. You’ve seen too many men vanish behind words like that. And this time… something in the air tastes different.

Like milk stirred into blood.

They meet in the outer sanctum beneath the Marmoreal Palace, where gold and obsidian twist in solemn pillars, and the air always tastes like old fire. Mydei stands alone, back turned, watching the Dawn Device cast long beams across the chamber floor.

“You’ve been difficult to find,” Krateros says, voice echoing off stone. No preamble. Just that.

Mydei doesn’t turn. “You found me.”

Krateros crosses the room in measured steps. His armor creaks with each movement—clean, precise, like the man himself. “That’s not an answer.”

“You vanish for days at a time,” Krateros continues, quieter now. “And when you return, you say little. No reports. No council. You’ve always kept things close to your chest, but this…” He trails off, the restraint in his voice pulling taut.

Still, Mydei says nothing.

Krateros studies him. The faint burn of the Dawn Device catches the edges of Mydei’s profile—the worn robes, the exposed red markings pulsing like coals. He looks less like a prince, more like a relic. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

“I know what you’re doing,” Krateros says. “I know where you’ve been.”

Now Mydei turns. There’s no guilt in his expression, only that cold, unreadable stillness he wears when he’s weighing whether or not to unsheathe something sharp. Krateros doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “But you are a Chrysos Heir. The last son of Kremnos. You carry the blood of kings and the fire of a dying god in your chest. You don’t get to drift like this.”

A pause. Then:

“Distractions,” he says, “will cost us more than time. You know this.”

Mydei’s gaze narrows, unreadable. “And what would you call your lectures, Krateros, if not a distraction?”

“I call them necessary,” Krateros replies, jaw tightening. “You think I don’t understand? That I haven’t been tempted to take some warmth where I can find it? But we don’t have the luxury of choosing comfort over cause. Not with the Coreflame waiting. Not with the Black Tide pressing in on all sides.”

He steps closer now, not as a soldier, but as something older—friend, brother-in-arms, the last remnant of a broken home trying to hold what’s left together. “You led us here,” he says. “We followed you. Through fire. Through exile. Through the death of everything we once knew. Don’t let your crown slip now, Mydeimos.”

There’s a long, brittle silence. Mydei’s jaw ticks, something flaring behind his eyes—anger, maybe, or something far more human. And when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am,” Mydei answers, low and steady.

Krateros watches him. “Yet you act otherwise.”

A beat passes, and he feels like the entire world has tilted several degrees off its axis. “I don’t begrudge you wanting something that’s yours,” his general adds, quieter now. “But you don’t get to lose yourself in it. Not when all of Amphoreus is watching.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mydei lifts his chin, that same old stubborn steel in his voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

Krateros stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Then don’t make the rest of us pay for it if you’re wrong.”

And with that, he turns and walks away—boots echoing through the temple like the sound of time running out.

When you go to pick up Nikolas with the intent on celebrating his first quarter at The Academy, he tells you something unusual. 

“Master Mydei wasn’t there today,” the boy says, even before you can ask how his lessons went.

You pause, blinking. “No drills?”

Nikolas shakes his head, scuffing the ground with his heel. “He hasn’t been there all week. The other instructors are taking over, but it’s not the same. Master Mydei made the exercises feel like... like they mattered.”

He says it lightly, already moving on to recount how one of the boys tripped over his spear and brought the whole line down with him. You smile when he looks up at you, but your thoughts lag behind. You try to brush it off. It’s not like Mydei’s vanished—he still comes to The House often enough. Still lingers in the quiet hours when the world outside feels far away. But… you realize that it's been a while since he last walked the two of you home. Since you last saw him leaning against the sun-drenched pillars while waiting for Nikolas' day to end.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s a Chrysos Heir. Of course he has other things to tend to—greater things, things that were always meant to take him elsewhere. And yet, a small, unwelcome unease begins to settle just behind your ribs. Not loud, not sharp. Just there. Your fingers curl a little tighter around the strap of Nikolas’s satchel as you walk, listening to him talk and laugh beside you.

Something had shifted. You just don’t know what yet. And it’s not just at the Academy.

Mydei still visits The House—but not like before. The frequency of it has thinned, like footsteps fading further down a hall. And when he does come, he doesn’t stay long. Sometimes, he barely speaks. Sometimes, he stands in your doorway for all of two minutes before offering some small, unreadable look and leaving again. He doesn’t touch you anymore. Not like he used to. Not with that quiet hunger that made him feel almost human. He doesn’t reach for you in the way a man reaches when he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t. He used to take comfort in the simple closeness—in being held, in pressing his brow to your shoulder and saying nothing at all. Now he barely lingers long enough to sit.

You try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s too burdened, too pulled in a dozen different directions to find room for softness. You tell yourself that. Again and again. But the warmth is waning, and with it, something unnamed and precious slips quietly from between your fingers. That golden silhouette in the Sea of Souls has begun to plague your dreams again, despite having nothing but peaceful sleep weeks before. And day by day, it's slowly beginning to resemble Mydei—drifting further and further from the shore. 

You're still lost in that thought when the sound of soft footsteps pulls you back. Elena approaches you at the foyer, her gaze steady as ever, but softer than most get to see.

“Come,” she says gently, placing a hand at your back. “Let Iris fetch Nikolas today.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head—just once. “You need a moment,” she adds, lower now. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You don’t argue.

You let Elena guide you, her hand steady between your shoulder blades. She doesn’t speak again as she leads you through the quieter halls, past the small garden and into the corridor at the back of the House—the part that used to feel off-limits, even if no one ever said so aloud. She opens the door without ceremony. You realize where you are only once you're inside.

Agamemnon’s old quarters.

No—Elena’s room now. The heavy furnishings are gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shelves lined with small comforts: books, folded blankets, glass jars of dried herbs and sealed ink pots. The walls still wear the same paint, but the presence in the room is wholly different. The old chill that once haunted it is gone. She took it back. Firmly. Like reclaiming stolen ground.

She gestures to a cushioned seat in the corner, and you sink into it, your limbs suddenly heavier than they ought to be. She doesn’t sit—not yet. She pours a bit of warm tea into a cup and sets it on the table near your elbow. “You’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, tone gentle but without pity. “But you never let anyone read you.”

You don’t respond right away. The room smells faintly of citrus peel and ink. You stare into the steam curling from the tea. “There’s nothing to read,” you murmur.

Elena lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Then you won’t mind if I guess anyway.”

You almost smile. Almost. She finally settles across from you, folding her legs beneath her like she has all the time in the world.

“It’s about him,” she says. Not a question.

You close your eyes. “He still visits.”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s different. He barely stays. Doesn’t even—” You stop yourself. The words catch on something sharp. “He used to reach for me like he was trying to stay tethered. Now he comes and goes like... like it’s a task.” Elena doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers drum once against the arm of her chair. “It’s always hardest to hold onto something when it stops reaching back,” she says finally.

You nod, just once. You can’t bring yourself to say more than that. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t care,” Elena adds. “But whatever path he’s on now… it’s pulling him somewhere you can’t follow.”

You stare down at your hands. “I know. But it still feels like losing something.” She leans forward, brushing her thumb briefly over the back of your hand—a rare gesture of softness from her. “Then mourn it,” she says. “And if it comes back to you, you’ll meet it where you stand. Not where you’ve been.”

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in this room reclaimed by strength and memory. But you let yourself be still for a while, with Elena beside you, the tea growing cold between you, and the truth settling like dust in the warm silence.

No matter how much you hoped, the distance just widens—slowly, then all at once.

At first, it’s just a missed day. Then two. Then a week, and another. Until eventually, Mydei stops coming to The House altogether. No familiar footfall. No pause outside your curtain. No voice saying your name in that low, quiet way that once felt like it belonged only to you. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he’s busy. That he’s important. That you were foolish to expect anything different.

There, you try to return to old rhythms—take patrons again, smile when you need to, pretend your body is yours to give rather than a thing left behind like an empty shell. You let your sisters dress you up in gold and laughter, let yourself be seen again, touched again, admired again. But nothing fits quite right anymore. None of them are him. None of them have his silence, his gravity, the way he made you feel like you were the one thing in the room that mattered.

You should’ve known better. He’s a Chrysos Heir. The future of Okhema. He carries burdens most men would shatter under. You had no business placing your heart in hands already full with destiny. Mydei is not like the others—you know that. He didn’t use you. He didn’t forget you. He just… had somewhere else to be. Something bigger than you to answer to. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

In a moment of foolish desperation, you even try to reach out to Phainon. You think maybe he’ll know something. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. Maybe he’ll offer some sliver of truth that makes it easier to bear. But Phainon, too, is gone. Not a whisper of either Chrysos Heir's presence left to trail after. And for the first time in a long while, you start to wonder if you're the one being left behind—not because you were unworthy, but because some things aren’t meant to stay.

Just like that, you’ve slipped back into your old life.

The one you had before Mydei ever crossed The House’s doorway. Silk draped over your shoulders, bracelets tinkling at your wrists, voice low and teasing when it needs to be. You smile the way you’re meant to, laugh when it’s expected. To anyone watching, you’ve returned to form—graceful, poised, untouched by the ache he left behind. But in private, you still let the pain simmer.

You still wake in the middle of the night, clutching your sheets, heart thrumming with the echo of dreams you can’t fully name. Always the same: a golden silhouette adrift in the Sea of Souls. Always just out of reach. Always walking away. And still, you go on.

Tonight is no different. One of your regulars has come by—a young man, handsome in that polished, golden-boy way. Elena says he likes you. Really likes you. She catches the way he watches you like you’re more than just a passing indulgence, like he wants something real. Something lasting. But you’ve already gone down that road. You know better now. You light the lamp. Offer him wine. Let your fingers graze his shoulder as you guide him down the hallway—not to your room, never your room—but to one of the House’s standard chambers. Comfortable, detached, forgettable. Just how it should be.

You’re halfway through undoing the knot at your shoulder when the front door slams open. Not gently. Not cautiously. It’s the kind of sound that slices through everything—through music, through laughter, through the sighs of someone trying to forget. It echoes down the halls, startling a few girls into silence. The hush that follows isn’t just surprise. It’s recognition.

You barely hear Elena’s voice from beyond the corridor, sharp and uncertain: “Thalia.”

You pause. The young man on the couch shifts, half-rising, brows furrowed. You don’t give him a word of explanation. Just press your robe back into place, step out into the hall, and follow the tension crawling down your spine. You round the corner. And there he is.

You’ve seen him in lamplight before, cloaked in shadows and quiet rage. But this time—this time he looks like something pulled from another realm entirely. His hair has grown longer, burnished gold streaked with fire, one side neatly braided, the other loose and tangled like he hasn’t slept for days. His skin is dusted in sweat and ash, and the red markings on his arms burn brighter now, like veins of molten ore running beneath his flesh. His eyes find you. And gods, they’re tired. Not in the way of men worn down by time, but of someone who has looked too long into a fire he could not escape. There’s distance in them now. Not coldness—but something deeper. Like he’s gone someplace you can’t reach, and left the door half-open behind him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to. Because standing there in the House's low flickering light, Mydei looks nothing like the man who used to listen to your stories in the quiet after midnight.

And yet, for one awful, aching second, you wish he did. You don’t know what he’s lost. What he’s won. Only that whatever road brought him here, it was not kind. You want nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms. To forget the silence. The ache. The long, hollow stretch of nights he wasn’t there. But time has carved you into someone sharper. Someone careful. And when you finally speak, your voice is cold enough to frost over the doorway. Whatever softness once lived in you for him has learned to hold its breath. You’ve patched yourself up too many times to tear open at the seams now.

So when you speak, it isn’t tender. “What are you doing here?” Your voice echoes in the narrow hall, too poised for how fast your heart is beating. You don’t give him time to answer. You straighten your shoulders, glance behind you at the door you just stepped out of. “I’m busy tonight. With a patron.”

The words taste sour, but you say them anyway. You watch the shift in his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze hardens, jaw tightening like he’s biting something back. There’s a fire in him—there always was—but now it crackles at the edges, no longer tempered by gentleness. Not rage, not quite. But something close. Still, you hold your ground. You won’t let him look at you like that. Like he still has the right. You’ve taken yourself apart piece by piece to survive without him, and now he shows up—unannounced, unchanged in all the ways that still hurt. You clench your fingers in your robe, exhale through your nose. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you with eyes that have seen too much, and a silence that says he knows it. But you’re not ready. Not yet.

For several days, Mydei attempts to reach out, and for several days, you refuse him. 

Elena constantly tells him that he's the last person you need to see. But Mydei has Kremnoan blood running through his veins—stubborn, unyielding, relentless. He doesn't take no for an answer. His presence lingers like a shadow, and it becomes a silent war of wills. Finally, Iris, sweet, gentle Iris, who’s always been the heart of this place, is the one to snap.  You hear it from the hall—a raised voice, sharp with frustration, followed by silence. The next thing you know, Iris is standing between Mydei and the door, her face flushed with the strain of trying to be firm.

“If you don’t leave now,” she warns, voice trembling with quiet fury, “I’ll call the guards.”

It’s a rare thing to see Iris so resolute. But you know she’s doing it for you, for the pieces of you that have been broken and scattered too many times. Later, you overhear the girls talking, gathered in hushed voices. You stand just out of sight, pretending to be absorbed in something else, but the words sink into you like a slow poison.

“I never wanted to turn him away,” Iris whispers, the sound of her voice raw with something you can’t quite place. “But... If he left and vanished without a trace, maybe... maybe that would be better for her. He was the one who made her happy once. I haven’t forgotten that. But now...” Her voice cracks. “Now, he’s the reason she’s in so much pain.”

You feel the weight of her words like a stone in your chest. And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to feel the ache of it all—the loss, the betrayal, the gaping hole that used to be filled with his presence.

Is this all that's left between the two of you after all?

The next morning, The House is quieter than usual. Even the laughter from the girls seems dulled, as if they, too, are caught in the fog of yesterday’s storm. You wake early, before the sun has fully risen, and the weight in your chest hasn’t left. If anything, it has settled deeper. The ache is no longer sharp. It's something quieter now. Constant. You leave without telling anyone. No makeup. No disguise. Just a long shawl draped over your shoulders and sandaled feet slapping against cold stone. You don't know where you're going until you're already there.

The Marmoreal Palace gleams under the light of the Dawn Device, pristine and untouched. Here, the world feels distant—like something imagined rather than lived. Inside, the air is warm and still, a mix of sea-salt and something floral you can’t place. Steam curls in lazy tendrils around the painted columns. You disrobe in silence and slide into the water with only the barest splash, letting it cradle you like a memory you can’t shake. The baths are quieter than you expected. Until they aren’t.

“You’re here,” comes a familiar voice.

You flinch, not because you’re afraid, but because you weren’t prepared to hear him. Phainon stands at the edge of the pool, looking only mildly surprised to find you already there. His long white hair is damp at the ends, his robe half-slipped from his shoulders. He hasn’t changed, not much—but your heart clenches anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “You disappeared too.” He blinks at you, as though he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing you’d say. “I did,” he admits, quiet and unapologetic. “I had to.”

“Of course you did,” you murmur, sinking further into the water. “Everyone has to.”

A silence stretches between you. You’re too tired to keep the edge in your voice, but it’s there nonetheless. The warmth of the bath does little to ease it. Phainon doesn't enter the water right away. He sets his robe aside and sits on the pool’s edge, feet dipping into the blessed waters. “I go here a lot when I need to get something off my mind,” he says instead of answering. “I suppose the same is true for you as well?”

You don’t respond. You don't trust your voice not to break. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again. “The Black Tide started rising faster than any of us expected. We had no choice but to act—quickly.” You shift, water rippling around your shoulders. “So you just vanished.”

“I told him we should say goodbye to you first,” he says softly, finally looking at you. “He wanted to. But there was no time. We left at dawn the next day.” You don’t realize you’ve curled your fingers into fists until your nails bite your palms beneath the surface. “So where did you go?”

Phainon exhales. “Castrum Kremnos.”

Your gaze snaps to him. He continues, slowly, like the words are stones he must carry across a river. “Mydei needed to reclaim something that was lost. Something his people had forgotten. Nikador’s Coreflame. The power that was once theirs before the Titan fell into madness.”

“He fought for it. We all did. The Coreflame is back where it belongs now, in the Vortex of Genesis. Waiting for someone worthy to take it up.” You look away. Your voice is thin when it finally comes. “So that’s why he left.”

“He’s not just trying to be a prince anymore,” Phainon says. “He’s preparing to become something else. A protector. A demigod. The Bastion of Okhema.” You close your eyes, letting the steam soften your expression, though it can't quite dull the ache in your chest. “And you?” you ask. “Are you becoming something too?”

Phainon smiles faintly. “I’ve always been someone in the background. That hasn’t changed.”

That's not an answer. You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Sensing your unease, he leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “I just didn’t want you to keep waiting in the dark, thinking he abandoned you. He didn’t. Not really.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still trying to fit all the pieces together. The silence stretches again—only this time, it doesn’t feel so lonely. Outside, the golden light deepens, catching the mist like spun thread. You don’t feel lighter, not yet. But at least now you understand what happened. The mist swirls around you both, catching golden in the morning light. For a long time, you say nothing. Just the sound of water, soft and steady, and the occasional hush of distant footsteps echoing in the marble halls. Then, finally, you speak—your voice low, but clear.

“I was cruel to him.”

“I didn’t see him,” you go on. “Not once. Not when he knocked. Not when he waited in the hall. I made my sisters turn him away. I let Elena speak for me. I didn’t even... I didn’t even ask why he left.” Your voice catches. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry. Too hurt.” Phainon looks at you, not with pity, but with something gentler. Something like understanding. You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “He tried. And I—I let my silence answer him. I thought it would protect me. I thought... if I didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t hurt as much when he disappeared again.”

“But it still did,” Phainon says softly.

You nod, just once. “And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to say anything to him again.” Phainon’s expression is hard to read. The bathwater reflects golden across his features, giving him a soft, solemn glow. “He wouldn’t fault you for it,” he says at last. “He doesn’t carry anger the way most people do. But he does carry weight. The kind that never really leaves you.”

You let the silence stretch again, letting his words settle in the spaces your regret has carved out. “I thought he was choosing something else over me,” you admit, your voice almost a whisper. “But it was never about that, was it?”

“No,” Phainon murmurs. “It was about all of you. All of us. The people of this city. The ones who still believe in something better.”

You lean back against the stone, letting the warmth seep into your bones. The water may have been blessed by a goddess, but it can’t wash away everything. Still, it helps. “I think,” you say after a moment, “I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was worth saying goodbye to.”

“You were,” he says simply. “You are.”

You don’t thank him for the words. But you don’t argue either. Phainon stretches his legs out into the water, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something almost peaceful about it now—like the ache has found room to breathe. Then, casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather, he says, “If you ever want to get away from the city... there’s a spot by the eastern slopes. Hardly anyone goes there. You can see all of Okhema from up top. Even the Dawn Device looks small from there.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounds oddly specific.” He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “Just thought you’d like the view.”

There’s something veiled beneath the words—something left unsaid. But Phainon is too practiced at deflection. You don’t press him, but the suggestion lingers in your mind like a note in a half-finished song. One you intend to see through until the end.

Later that afternoon, after making Phainon swear he won't disappear without a trace again, you leave the marble gates behind. The route he mentioned winds through the less-traveled parts of the city—stone paths lined with ivy, stairways sun-bleached and cracked, quiet courtyards where birdsong carries between empty alcoves. The air feels different here. Less ostentatious. More honest. The slope rises slowly, and the buildings thin out. Eventually, you're left with wildflowers brushing your ankles, old roots breaking through forgotten stones, and a sky that feels far too big.

And then you see it.

Tucked into the edge of a cliff, half-forgotten by time, is a small, crumbling terrace. Vines have crept through broken latticework, and moss clings to the faded stones. There are remnants of garden beds—empty, but outlined lovingly, like someone had once planned to grow something beautiful here. It would’ve made a lovely garden. And standing at its edge, back turned, bathed in gold and shadow, is Mydei.

He’s not in armor. Just loose robes, wind-tossed, the markings on his skin catching the light in flickers of red and copper. There’s a weight to his stance—heavy, as if he might as well replace the Titan who bears the world on his back. But there's also a quiet sort of anticipation lingering there. As if he’s been waiting. You stop. The wind carries the scent of dried leaves. And in that instant, all the breath you’d held over these past weeks escapes you.

He turns—slowly, carefully, like the world might shift beneath him if he moves too fast. And when his eyes find yours, they soften. He looks like someone who’s walked through fire just to make it here. Someone who never stopped hoping you would come. You don’t say anything, but your feet carry you forward. Because he’s here. And somehow, so are you.

He watches you approach. Still, unmoving—as if the moment might scatter like birds startled from branches. But you've committed enough mistakes to know when you're supposed to make up for them. 

“Mydei,” you breathe, unsure if you even want to say his name. It tastes like salt and grief on your tongue.

His eyes meet yours, steady. He doesn't address you with Thalia like the rest of the world, but with a name you trust only his voice to say. The sound of it makes warmth simmer beneath your skin, slipping into the cracks that time has broken into your soul.  You stop a few steps away. Mydei doesn't come closer. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting. You try to hold it in, all of it—the storm, the ache, the betrayal you swore you'd buried. But it frays at the seams. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

“I was cruel,” you say. The words come through clenched teeth, tears spilling even as you try to swallow them. “You tried to see me. I wouldn’t even look at you. I didn’t let you speak. And now…” Now you’re the one standing here, hoping he’ll listen to what you have to say. “I thought you left me,” you whisper. “Not just me. Everyone. But especially me.”

It sounds selfish, yet he doesn't deny it. He doesn’t make excuses. He just lowers his gaze, jaw tightening for a breath before he says, quiet as dusk, “I should’ve told you.”

You shake your head hard. “I didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not why.” He looks up again. “There wasn’t time. It all happened fast. The Coreflame… Castrum Kremnos…” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s reliving it. “I didn’t want to go without saying anything. But I had to.”

Your chest caves, air escaping you like a punctured wineskin. “And when you came back…”

“I didn’t know where to start,” he says, and his voice carries the sort of quiet that borders on sadness. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“Because you were.”

He accepts that. Just nods, slow and quiet. You glance around the terrace, at the garden-that-never-was, and back at him. “This is where you’ve been?”

He gives a small nod. “There’s a place just down the slope. An old house where it’s quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.” He looks out toward the city. “I didn’t want to stay in the Marmoreal Palace. It’s… easier to think here.”

You wipe at your face again, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’re crying and how dry his eyes are.

“So you’ve been alone all this time?”

His voice is soft. “Not really.”

You look at him again, confused. Finally, Mydei steps forward—not all the way, just close enough that you can hear the breath he takes before he says, “You were always with me. Even when you hated me.” Your mouth trembles from his honesty, and you don't know what to make of it. He challenged a god and won, yet his thoughts still drift to you?

“That doesn’t make this hurt less,” you whisper.

“I know.”

In the silence, he doesn’t ask if you want to come with him. Mydei just starts walking down the slope, and when you don’t stop him, when your steps fall in beside his, it’s enough. Your footsteps fall quietly along the worn path. Behind you, Okhema glows with its usual light—soft and steady, as it always is. The sun never sets here, but the city feels quieter now, like it knows to dim its voice when the world needs rest.

The place he stays in is small. Unremarkable. Worn wood creaks beneath your feet, and the stone floors have seen better days, their surface chipped and cracked in places. The room is sparsely furnished, without any of the pomp you might expect of someone of his lineage.

There are no guards. No banners. Just a kettle by the hearth, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, and a half-finished meal on a plain wooden table. It feels like a room for someone who wants to be forgotten. Or perhaps just needs the space to remember.

He pours you water from a ceramic jug and offers it to you wordlessly. Your eyes catch the bottle of wine sitting beside his bed—an afterthought, a companion for moments too heavy to be filled with words. You take it, uncork it with a quick twist, and drink. The liquid is sharp, its warmth moving down your throat like a slow burn. Mydei doesn’t comment.

His gaze lingers on you, and in the quiet of the room, it feels heavier than any words could be. You sit on the edge of his bed, and it’s strange, the intimacy of it. The way it feels small beneath you. The way his presence feels familiar enough that it cuts deep. He stays standing at first, watching you for a beat too long, before slowly sitting beside you. 

"Phainon told me about the trial," you say, your voice unsteady, more vulnerable than you mean it to be. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, your eyes still not meeting his. "Nikador’s Coreflame. That you’re going to take it."

He nods, barely a movement. “I am.”

“When?”

A long pause hangs between you, thick with things neither of you can say.

“Tomorrow.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather the pieces of yourself back together. “Of course.”

It should have been easy to accept. Yet you swallow hard, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, and your hands tremble slightly as you take another drink from the bottle. He watches you quietly, and for a long moment, you just sit there, caught between the past and the future, each breath heavy with things you wish you'd said earlier.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mydei murmurs, his voice heavy with the weight of all the things he’s already lost.

You laugh, but it's bitter, a raw sound that catches in your throat. "It never was, but we're here anyway." The wine burns as it slides down, but it feels like nothing compared to the burn in your chest, the ache that’s been there since the first time you pushed him away. The silence between you isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softened, worn, tired. And you know it’s not just the long day that’s tired. It’s you. It’s him. It’s everything in between.

“You know," you begin, your voice quiet now, more frayed than angry, "we could’ve had more time. All those days you waited outside, and I—” Your voice cracks on the last words. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier. But it didn’t. I just...wasted what little we had left."

His eyes are soft when they meet yours, as always, there’s no judgment in them. Just understanding. And maybe that’s worse. Because understanding makes the hurt feel heavier.

“I would’ve waited as long as it took,” he says, and his voice breaks, just a little. It’s the quietest thing, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he speaks too loudly.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget how heavy it all feels. The reality of what you both are about to face. The gravity of your mistakes. You look at him, really look at him. Not the demigod. Not the prince. Just Mydei. The man sitting right next to you, exhausted and hurting, full of things he’s never said, and so much he’ll never get to. And then, almost without thinking, you cross the space between you.

The distance doesn’t feel right. It never does. So you reach out and kiss him. Not out of desperation. Not even out of need. Just out of acknowledgement. Of everything you were. Of everything you are. And everything you’ll never get to be.

The kiss is tender, slow, like you’re both trying to savor it before it slips through your fingers. His hands come to rest on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your fingers tangle in the fabric over his shoulders, and you feel the rough texture of the red markings beneath your touch.

His body is warm, solid against yours, like the only thing holding you together in the midst of the unraveling. But in spite of it all, you climb on top of his lap and his hands meander to your hips like clockwork. Mydei breathes out your name again—your real name—and it takes every ounce of self-control to not unceremoniously spear yourself on his hard, leaking cock.

Instead, you hold on to the tenderness in his voice, guiding his length slowly into you as you sink yourself inch by inch. His golden eyes observe in quiet rapture as you envelop him in the heat of your cunt. And for a moment, time stills. It's only you and him in this world. No higher calling. No inescapable destiny.

Just two lovers entangled in each other's embrace. 

You both linger not because you have to—but because neither of you can bear to end it. When you kiss him again, his mouth tastes like grief and gratitude, like unspoken apologies and quiet forgiveness. When you finally part, it’s not with a gasp, but a breath.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper, your voice shaking against his skin. “That it wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just—just survival. I chose you. Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Mydei lets out a quiet exhale, one that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for too long. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I chose you too. Every time.”

You swallow hard, and it burns. Like all the things you’ll never get to say are rising up at once. “But you have to go,” you say, and you hate how much it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The prince nods. Not because he wants to. But because he has to. There’s no anger in it, no bitterness—just that quiet, devastating calm he always wears when the world asks too much of him. And this time, it’s asking for everything.

He brushes his knuckles along your cheek, trailing them down to your jaw, memorizing the shape of you like it might be the last time. Maybe it is. “I’ll come back,” he says, softly, reverently. “Even if I’m not the same. Even if I come back a god, or a shadow of one—I’ll still find a way to be yours.”

You shake your head—wanting to refuse, wanting to insist that he shouldn't choose you over the rest of the world. But your voice fails you when you bring your hips down once more and the tip of him kisses a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“Just… don’t forget this,” you manage, struggling with sincerity when your mind is overloaded with pleasure. “Don’t forget who you were before.”

His lips press to your brow—firm, steady, lingering—and the warmth of it spreads like a vow you’ll carry in your bones.

“I won’t,” he says, a shadow of regret already flitting to the surface. “Because you’ll be the part I remember most.”

You want to say more. You want to tell him that remembering won’t be enough. That memory is fragile, easily rewritten by divinity or time or duty. But instead, you stay there, wrapped in him, letting the silence fall like a shroud around your tangled limbs. Words feel too small now, and besides—he’s still human. For just a little longer.

You lie against him in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his warmth grounding you. The world outside doesn’t shift—there’s no setting sun, no stars to blink into view. Just the bright, aching stillness of Okhema, stretching on like it always has.

Mydei shifts slightly beneath you, his voice low and gravelly. “What do you want most in the world?”

You blink, not expecting the question. The wine dulls the edges of your thoughts, but not enough to soften the truth. You tilt your head up, looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes search yours like he needs an answer—one that matters.

“In this moment?” you whisper. He nods once. You swallow. The answer feels foolish, but it’s the only one that comes.

“You.”

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Longing. Love, too, but buried beneath it all is something heavier. Something finite.

He shakes his head slowly, gently. “That’s not something I can give.”

It doesn’t feel cruel. Just honest. You exhale, the breath shaky, and let your gaze wander to the walls, the table, the pale jug on the hearth. The silence presses in again, not oppressive but inevitable, and you dig past the ache, the wanting, to something deeper.

So, softer now, more to yourself than to him, you say,

“A fig tree.”

Mydei's golden eyes startle as he tilts his head. “A fig tree?”

“Mm,” you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you. And it’d be mine. Just mine. Not in someone else’s garden. No clients, no watchers, no debts.” You smile, but it barely lifts your lips. “I’d name it something stupid. Figgy, or Kephale’s Ass.”

That gets a laugh from him—low and surprised. But when you glance his way, he’s already watching you differently. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the wish beneath your joke.

“You’re serious,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m tired of wanting things that cost too much.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for your hand where it rests between the folds of the blanket, his fingers brushing yours—tentative, warm. You don’t pull away. And in the silence that follows, you both know: he’ll claim Strife's Coreflame tomorrow, and you’ll remain here with this—this moment, this ache, this impossible tree blooming behind your ribs.

You close your eyes. And when you finally sleep, it’s not peace that cradles you—it’s the ache of knowing morning always comes. Because when it does, nothing will be the same.

News of a new demigod spreads like wildfire.

Trumpets blare from the upper terraces, their notes caught and carried by the ever-blazing sun. Laurel garlands are tossed from balconies. The Kremnoans, long-suffering and scattered, gather in droves across the plaza steps of the Marmoreal Palace, crying and singing in a tongue most in Okhema don’t understand. But you recognize the shape of it—reverence. Relief. Rapture.

Their king has risen.

The rest of the city does what it always does when faced with something greater than itself: it hopes. Whispers pass from market stalls to sun-washed colonnades. He’ll stop the Black Tide. He has to. He has the strength now. Maybe the nightmares will end. Maybe the tide will be driven back into the deep where it came from.

But you don’t go aboveground to hear any of it.

For a long time, you don’t leave the undercity at all. The lamps still flicker, The House still bustles, Alexandria still braids jasmine into the curtain rods. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.

You don’t read the news scrolls. Don’t look at the mural of the Dawn Device glowing gold above. You pass the stairs leading up without a glance. And when others mention the name Mydei, you simply excuse yourself, as if you’ve grown bored of the story.

But Elena notices. She always has. The way you pause by the seashell curtain longer than you mean to. The way your makeup is lighter these days, your smile more practiced. How you move through the House like you’re carrying something delicate and heavy all at once.

She doesn’t say anything, but the tea she leaves by your bedside is your favorite kind. The chores she assigns are quieter, further from the crowd. On days when the sun feels too loud, she dims the lanterns near your corner without a word. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Just the kind of help that doesn’t ask you to admit you need it.

And then, one day, Phainon comes.

He doesn’t knock—just waits outside your curtain, patient as ever. When you finally let him in, he looks older than you remember, like something behind his eyes has sunk deeper into itself. You sit on the floor. He doesn’t offer pleasantries, nor does he mention the revels or the rumors.

“Mydei’s gone,” he simply tells you straight away.

You say nothing.

“He left this morning. Headed east, back to Castrum Kremnos. There are reports of the Tide breaching the mountain passes. He’s going to defend the border.”

Still, the silence persists.

“He didn’t tell me where exactly. Didn’t tell anyone, really. Just said it was time.”

It’s that last part that does it.

Something in your chest—fragile and waterlogged for days—splits down the middle. The breath you pull in is shuddering, tight, and the laugh that escapes you is barely a sound at all. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like you can stop it from coming, but you can’t. Phainon stays with you. He doesn’t try to stop you from crying, nor comfort you with false words. He just sits there as you fold in on yourself, as your body heaves with the grief of it, the hollow and the heat of it. The kind of grief you only feel when you lose something you were never meant to keep.

He reaches over, quietly, and squeezes your shoulder. In the distance, the bells of the Palace ring again. Not for you. Not for him.

For the god they now call Strife Incarnate.

For the man you loved.

And ultimately lost.

Years pass in the blink of an eye.

Okhema, still burning beneath the tireless light of the Dawn Device, becomes a sanctuary for the displaced. City-states once proud and untouched by ruin collapse beneath the weight of the Black Tide. Their people arrive in droves—haunted, half-starved, wide-eyed with grief—and the city takes them in. The sanctity of its alabaster spires strains under the weight, but it does not break.

Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs push back with fire and fury, golden shields against a growing sea of death. They are everywhere and nowhere—always spoken of, rarely seen. Even when they stem the tide in one corner of the continent, it seeps through another. Victory comes in fragments. Defeat is slower, quieter.

But still, life goes on.

Nikolas has grown into adulthood. Taller. Sharper. These days, he wears the armor of one of Okhema’s elite guards—the kind that gleams like polished sunstone. These days, he's too busy to live anywhere other than his company's assigned barracks. But he brings gifts sometimes—candied nuts, new thread, secondhand books for the girls. He doesn’t linger long, but when he sees you, his expression softens. He bows his head, always. Not with ceremony, but with something gentler. Something that says: I remember where I came from.

Down to the undercity. To the House.

The House that is much different now. No longer a brothel, but a resting place for the weary. At the start of the exciting change, Penelope asked, why didn't we turn this into an Inn the moment that old bastard died? A sentiment echoed by yourself and your other sisters. Elena answers simply.

"Because I wanted us to start, not from the wealth Agamemnon made off of our suffering, but with the money we all earned on our own terms." 

Rooms that once held secrets now hold stories. Travelers sleep beneath patched roofs, fed by kind hands that ask nothing in return. You stayed through every change. Through every wave of newcomers. Through every whispered prayer sent up toward the unblinking sky.

You haven’t heard from Phainon in years. The last thing you received was a letter, edges sun-bleached and curling. He didn’t say much—but what he did say stayed with you. That it was no small thing, to keep a soft heart in a world that rewarded hardness. That kindness, in hands like yours, meant more than most people would ever understand.

At the end of the letter, he told you: If you ever need a breath, a moment, a sliver of peace—go back to the eastern slope. The place where the light hits just right. Where hearts had once been laid bare.

You hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But today, while clearing out a drawer, you find it again. The edges of the paper are curled. The ink faded in places. But the words remain. You read it three times before setting it down. Then you pack a small bag with water, a slice of flatbread, and nothing else.

The walk is longer than you remember—not because the distance has changed, but because the world has. This part of the city, once overgrown and forgotten, is no longer deserted. Homes have been built into old stone. Children run barefoot down winding paths. Lanterns hang from beams softened by age, and laughter drifts like wind through the open spaces.

You almost turn back, unsure if this place remembers you.

“Are you lost?” a voice calls from the side of the path.

You turn. An older man with silver in his beard and a scar across his brow stands beside a cart of firewood. His sleeves are rolled up, arms weathered from work. Not a soldier anymore, but something about his posture says he once was.

“I’m looking for an old terrace,” you say. “The one that looks over the eastern rise.”

He studies you. Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, though you don’t recognize him. Still, he nods and sets down the bundle he carries.

“This way,” the man says, ushering you further.

You follow him in silence. Through quiet lanes. Past gardens planted with practiced care. The city didn’t build these homes—people did. Survivors. Settlers. Refugees who carved something that's now theirs from the wreckage.

“The people of Castrum Kremnos live here now,” the man says, almost offhand. “Most of us settled after the last wave several years ago.” He glances back at you. Slows. “Rumor has it that this is where Mydeimos spent his last days as a man. Before he crossed the threshold into divinity.”

You say nothing, despite that same exact scene flashing behind your eyes, but the bitter memory is cut short the moment your eyes find the once-abandoned terrace.

The garden plot is still there—but it’s not wild anymore. It's thriving. Every inch of soil breathes with care, with memory. Herbs spill over low stone borders, blossoms lean into the sun, and trailing vines curl like quiet laughter around hand-hewn posts. It doesn’t shout its beauty—it hums with it, steady and sure.

And at the heart of it all stands a fig tree.

Tall and deeply rooted, its bark dark and knotted with age, its limbs outstretched like open arms. The leaves catch the wind with a soft rustle, and from its branches hang ripe fruit—heavy, sweet, and low enough to reach.

A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you.

And it’d be mine. Just mine.

The man slows beside you. “That tree’s been here a while now. We were told to plant it. Given seeds and a spot. It was the prince's final order before leaving for Castrum Kremnos.”

You look at him. “He… Mydei asked for it?”

He nods. “Didn’t say why. Only that it had to grow. That it mattered because it belonged to someone important.”

You step closer to the tree, fingertips brushing the bark. You recount the past several years, where it always felt as if you were wading through a sea of mist. You would even think to yourself that maybe you're becoming one of those wandering souls in your dreams. But this very tree that was planted here on the whims of a man who still thought of you even past his divine countenance.

It mattered... 

Even after all this time. Even after he became something more than mortal. This fig tree—this patch of earth—tells you he remembered. That part of him stayed.

You stand beneath its branches, and for a long while, you say nothing at all.  The wind rustles the leaves above you. The figs hang heavy in the warm light—sweet and low.

Here, at last, something is yours.

Something he left behind.

When you return to The House, the sun is still high above Okhema, as it always is. The basket in your arms—given by that kind old stranger who you know now as Krateros—is heavier than you remembered, brimming with ripe figs, their skin warm from the walk.

Nikolas is the first to spot you. He bounds over, looking like he was still fourteen despite being in full uniform, and snatches one from the top before you can say a word. “These are real?” he says, mouth already full. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Your other sisters drift into the foyer like petals on a breeze, drawn by the smell, the sight, the rare smile tugging at your lips. They ask what the occasion is. You shrug, setting the basket down where everyone can reach.

“No occasion,” you say softly. “Just… felt like it was time.”

You don’t tell them about the eastern slopes. Or the fig tree. Or the man who once stood beneath that sky beside you, heavy with a goodbye neither of you could speak. You don’t need to. Because for the first time in your life, you are not looking back.

You're no longer the girl from the sea, from an island long lost to time. The one who only lived out of fear and anger at the city who made her the way she was. You like to think it was Mydei's presence who made you realize all the things you're not, but part of you knows he would say something along the lines of, No. This was all you. 

And it was. 

You sit among your sisters and the boy you all raised together, the sweet taste of fruit on your tongue, and let the moment hold you—not as someone who was left behind, but as someone who still remains.

And in the warmth and laughter around you, you begin to understand:

Some loves don’t end.

They simply grow roots in the quiet parts of you.

...and keep on living.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[bakughoust]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[bakughoust]

“satoru gojo if you don’t shut up i am banning you from sex for an entire year.” ☆

satoru frowns against your neck, where he tries hopelessly to stifle his own moans. he’s spooning you in a tangled mess of limbs and bedsheets, almost pathetic in his attempt to restrain himself. he feels like a hormonal teenager all over again.

“you know,” he half-whispers, half-moans into your ear. “i don’t think he’d care all that much if he woke up. i think he’s in love with you actually, i’d probably get to watch nanami kento beg on his knees to join us. ohh i like that idea actually, we should wake him—ah!”

you don’t know how else to quieten him down, so you reach behind you to pinch his side. all it does, really, is make him yelp and drive his cock even deeper into you, which makes you moan in turn.

you and satoru hadn’t had sex in so long, what with missions taking up so much time and the threat of societal collapse being somewhat of a libido-inhibitor. so when your joint mission with nanami ran over, and the higher-ups put you in a shared hotel room, satoru took opportunity as it struck. and you didn’t stop him.

now he’s balls deep inside of you as you lay facing the sculpted back of kento nanami. he’s laying with his back to you, breathing evenly in his sleep—each breath he takes pronounces the muscles of his back beneath the thin grey sleeping shirt he’s wearing. it does more to you than it should.

“you’re so fucking wet,” satoru whispers in your ear as his pace quickens. “what—you like this or something? being fucked five feet from nanami like this? hell, i like it. like showing you off. i'm like... sticking it to the man right now, babe.”

“he’s not even awake,” your eyes roll back as his tip brushes mean against your g-spot. satoru teases you with an open mouthed kiss to your neck, and then nips at the same spot.

"you sure, pretty?" he practically coos. "i think he's fighting for his fucking life right now. he was breathing like a monk until i mentioned him joining us."

you narrow your eyes at the sleeping man on the other bed. he's stilled and silent and obnoxiously toned and you swear you're getting wetter by the second and you also swear gojo can feel it because he's grinning against your shoulder like a fucking lunatic. you're about to brush him off, defend your coworker and friend and tell satoru to hurry up and make you cum so you can sleep when you see it: nanami shifts his hips.

it's so small of a movement that you might have imagined it, but you're too busy imagining how hard he must be to have to readjust like that. what must be going through his mind... listening to the two of you fuck like you're trying to get over something. he's either torturing himself with want right now or drafting up a letter to the higher ups in his head. maybe both.

"he's either awake," satoru reaches down and lifts your leg a little to reach sweet new depths inside of you. "or having the nastiest wet dream of his life."

something churns in your stomach, apprehension if you were a better person, and you part your lips to tell satoru to stop being an ass, but what comes out instead is a breathy moan so desperate it makes both men stiffen.

and nanami exhales. loudly. not in the sleeping man sense, this is choked out and heavy with something you don't dare name.

"oh nanamin," satoru sing-songs. "if you're going to cum in your boxers, come here and do it with a better view."

“satoru—” you hiss, mortified, melting at the same time, “stop—”

divine intervention is the only explanation. you must have some serious karma point stacked up and pocketed for a rainy day because, just as your breath hitches again, kento nanami is sitting up and planting his feet on the floor, eyes set dead on the two of you.

his pyjama pants are tight. when you let your gaze fall from his messy hair to the complete and visible outline of his hard cock, you think your heart stops. this is unseemly, and unprofessional, and everything that could be considered inappropriate. and if kento decides to walk out and complain, you and satoru are fucked, special grade status be damned.

“…you’re both ridiculous,” he says flatly, voice sandpapered. "this is wrong. abhorrent. foul."

he sounds exhausted. morally affronted. except his dick is so hard it must hurt and his eyes haven't once left where satoru's cock disappears inside of you. his gaze is heavy on you like a second set of hands. it's ungodly. you feel blasphemous, like maybe if nanami just looks at you a little longer you'd cum from that alone.

satoru thrusts deeper into you, but speaks to nanami. "you're hard."

"and you're loud." nanami exhales slowly, like he's giving himself a full ten-count to resist the urge to murder or run or maybe both. then he stands, finally meets your eyes, and softens his gaze a little. "you want this?"

your body answers for you, hips rolling back and pushing yourself deeper on satoru's cock. your thigh trembles where gojo holds it up and your voice comes out breathless and wrecked. "yes."

satoru groans, of course, and makes a show of squeezing one of your boobs in his hand. nanami doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t need to. his attention is all on you now, laser-focused and reverent like you’re a fucking sacrament. he reaches for your jaw, guiding your face up until your lips part just from the force of his presence.

“good,” he murmurs. “because i’m going to fuck you, both of you, until i can think straight again—and if i have to hear your voice even once during it, satoru, i will be gagging you."

your heart-eyed boyfriend cums inside of you at the implication alone.

and that is how you end up on your hands and knees in a twin hotel room in the dead hours of the night. kento nanami fucks his cum back inside of you for the second time that night, fingers digging so tightly into the fat of your ass that you don't doubt satoru will be teasings the marks left behind for days to come.

you splay your fingers over your boyfriends thighs, which is the only touch he's been granted since cumming inside of you. you stare up at him, he's got lidded eyes and this desperate look on his face as he watches nanami fuck you from behind, each thrust pushing your face just that little bit closer to his painfully hard cock.

though he can't complain, not with nanami's tie rolled up and stuck between his teeth. he tries, though, guttural moans and half-discernible pleads for more can hardly be heard over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

you don't know why you never thought of satoru as a cuck. oddly, he's the type. still, that pretty look of desperation on his face is enough to have you squeezing around nanami's fat cock.

"settle down, gojo," nanami chides, squeezing your ass as if your boyfriend could feel it. "you're taking me next."

[bakughoust]

Always the Quiet Ones*

*this is a revamped reupload of my previous fic

✽ summary: eren mistakenly took his new lab partner for being quiet, only to discover she was so much more than that. ✽ content: ~12.5k word count. eren jaeger x female reader, college au, one shot, mutual pining, smut, fluff, casual sex, praise, light spanking, explicit consent, alcohol, explicit language, explicit sexual content, reader discretion advised. 18+ ✽ a/n: i just really missed this fic </3

It was the honest-to-God truth when Eren said he wasn’t looking to catch feelings for anyone. But then you came along.

You were harmless enough—nothing more than his quiet lab partner in anatomy. He didn’t know what to think of you, other than you had a tendency to keep to yourself. On the rare occasion you spoke up, your words were always brief, pertinent to whatever assignment was at hand. But more often than not, you’d only address Eren with a cursory nod when he’d take his assigned seat beside you.

The class was awful enough, with two-hour labs being the worst part of Eren’s week because he spent them in a fumbling and awkward silence. But if you wouldn’t bother to glance up from your book when you talked to him, then he would treat you the same. He brought the bare minimum to conversations. He gave one-word answers; a specific grunt for yes, another for no, each you had to learn.

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were, for lack of better words, like that. Quiet. Standoffish. Withdrawn. He had a few theories on the matter—only because lectures were just that boring. His most probable theory was that you were shy. That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it?

Perhaps you were the type of student who took her classes way too seriously. He guessed you to be in your third year, like him. Maybe you were trying to get into a competitive graduate program. Or maybe you really liked anatomy. You seemed to like the textbook an awful lot, always reading far too closely in the way nerds do in cartoons. But other times, it was almost as if you were avoiding looking him in the eye.

Then there were the days—usually when Eren felt particularly disgruntled—that your quietness irked him to no end. He knew it was irrational to care so much, but damn it, why were you like that? And all the time, too. You must be stuck up. What else could he blame your perpetually cold shoulder on? He wasn’t proud of it, but sometimes he believed you were a bitch. Simple as that.

Eren’s theories could go on and on, but they all skirted the truth. At least, you didn’t think yourself a bitch. No, the reason behind your reserved demeanor was much more straightforward than that.

You had a stupid crush on Eren.

A girlish, twirling-your-hair-around-your-finger middle school crush. That made your stomach feel hollow and full, somehow at once, and had you gushing to your roommate despite knowing you’d never act on it.

It’d been like this since last semester, though you weren’t even sure Eren knew of your existence until Professor Hange partnered up the two of you.

God. Thinking about it now still riddled you with anxiety. You swore up and down that you were going to die that day. Like actually keel over from a heart attack in the middle of class and die.

In another universe, perhaps this forced proximity would have excited you. Maybe he would have given you his phone number to text about homework, and in that universe, you would have been giddy over it.

Unfortunately for you, in this universe, anatomy was far from your strongest subject. Very, very far.

You drove yourself mad over all the ways you’d inevitably embarrass yourself in front of Eren, lab after lab. It terrified you to where you wouldn’t dare ask him a question. What if you sounded dumb? So you’d press on without having him repeat himself and only scribble down what little you could manage.

It was despicable. It was despicable, and you knew it, and you still didn’t change a thing because it was much easier to pretend Eren wasn’t there to begin with. Even if it meant you’d started seeing your grade slip.

You hoped to keep that—and your crush—a secret, but there was one day he got a bit too nosy for your liking.

Professor Hange handed your lab report back, face down, like always. You knew professors did that for everyone, no matter the grade, but sometimes the rule felt targeted at you.

You didn’t want to, but you forced yourself to peel back the corner and take a peek. Unsurprisingly, a lousy grade met you on the other side. Again.

For someone wanting to hide their score, you weren’t as careful as you should have been when sliding the paper into your folder. Eren leaned back in his seat, just far enough to steal a glimpse from over your shoulder. For research, obviously. If you liked anatomy so much, then you must be pretty good at the subject.

But what he saw surprised him, especially when thought about his grade in the class. It slipped out on a chuckle when he said, “Wow. Are you even writing anything down?”

You startled, slamming your folder shut. “Huh?”

You couldn’t tell if Eren was joking or not. He was, but it didn’t come across as lighthearted as he had hoped. He often let his thoughts carelessly spill into words, but you didn’t know about that nasty habit of his. All you could think was shit, because he had finally figured out that you had no idea what you were doing.

Admittedly, Eren felt a little guilty once he saw the panic wash over your face. He cracked a smile at you, maybe for the first time. Still, his eyebrows furrowed in pity, like he couldn’t hold it back.

“The lab,” Eren clarified. He pointed to the crumpled paper, half in the folder, half poking out. “We do them together every week. How are you screwing up that badly?”

What kind of question was that? You gave him a hard frown and regretted thinking he’d be anything more than curt with you. Pity brows or not, you weren’t feeling much sympathy from him.

You didn’t reply, just stared past him blankly as you imagined how this horrible moment would torment you as you tried to fall asleep that night. You only snapped from it when you heard his chair drag against the tile. He sighed—a bit too loudly for you to consider natural—then started putting his belongings into his backpack.

“Look,” Eren began. He glanced up at you once he’d zipped his bag shut. His eyes made you flighty. “You don’t have to get stuck with a shitty grade. I bet I can help.”

His voice was flat, and you didn’t like his delivery much, but beneath it, there was a glint of kindness. You weren’t sure where it came from, and frankly, neither did Eren. He attributed it to his guilt for speaking so thoughtlessly. It was hard not to, what with the way your face—always so stoic that he’d think you were made of marble—turned sullen. He didn’t like how it made him feel. More than that, he disliked knowing you could pull such a reaction from him.

“You still have my number, yeah?” Eren asked.

You nodded. You did, in fact, still have his phone number. It was in the top corner of the first page of your notebook. He wrote it down after your first class together like you hoped he would. You decided not to do anything with it. You didn’t even save it, too worried about the possibility of drunk texting him.

“Good,” he said. “We can meet up sometime to study together.”

“Okay, yeah. Thanks,” you said, quietly at first, but your confidence grew with each word when you realized this might not have to become one of your top ten most embarrassing memories.

“Sure.” Eren stood up and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He smiled at you again. It was real this time, big enough to make your stomach flip. “I can’t let my lab partner flunk out on me.”

So that was where everything began. And by ‘everything,’ you meant how you and Eren would study together occasionally. Nothing more. Definitely not the fun sort of studying—you know, like having him study your anatomy rather than the pictures in his textbook. Oh, well. You could still dream.

It took two study dates (your term for them) before you didn’t sit on the edge of your seat around Eren. As lame as it sounded, he made you incredibly nervous, more nervous than you felt around him in class. And like in class, you tried your hardest to keep your eyes on your text. You knew if you looked at him, you’d turn into a pile of goo before you could even look away.

It was shameful to admit, but you’d catch yourself stealing glances at him, but only when you were certain he wouldn’t notice. The times when he was jotting down notes because you liked how he looked when he was pensive. His dark brows would sit low over his eyes, and his bottom lip would jut out ever so slightly. And sometimes, only when truly stumped, he’d run his fingers through his hair in thought. You liked that, too.

By the time midterms had come and gone, you started seeing Eren more and more, meeting outside of class twice a week—a third if you had a report due. By then, it was impossible to allow your heart to flutter every time you were around him, otherwise it was bound to give out.

What you wanted to call study dates quickly became what felt like tutoring lessons. And just to be clear, you were not the tutor. But after Eren had you convinced his willingness to help was genuine, you didn’t worry as much about sounding dumb. He never seemed bothered when he had to explain a topic, even if you went overboard with the questions.

It was nice to not have to think so hard around him. He’d poke fun at you because you always mixed up dorsal and ventral, and you never let him live down spelling ‘brain’ as ‘brian.’ “It was one time,” he’d always complain back to you.

After getting scolded one too many times in the library for goofing off, other spots around campus had to make do. Then that turned into you going to Eren’s place, just a five-minute walk from your lab building.

Eren lived in a house with three other boys. Jean, Connie, and Armin. You found Jean and Connie to be nice enough based on the handful of conversations you had with them. But Eren blamed them for the reason you didn’t study at the house often, accusing them of being too distracting to think straight.

Eren wouldn’t ever tell you this—hell, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d confess this to—but the real reason he didn’t like to study at his place was Armin.

Armin. Eren’s blonde best friend for the last ten years. His roommate that you would describe as cute as a button and sharp as a tack. He knew much more about anatomy than you and Eren. When Armin was bored, he’d join you on the couch and answer the questions Eren couldn’t.

He couldn’t pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He always knew Armin was smarter than him; it had never been a problem before, but now it irked him ceaselessly. Instead of trying to sort it out, he decided going to your apartment was the better solution. Your roommate, Hitch, was more tolerable.

It was near final exam week when it hit you, a smack-across-the-face reminder that you still had a crush on Eren. It happened when your study dates became less of a one-on-one thing and more like a group hangout.

You were friendly, something between classmates and acquaintances, with the peers sitting around you. One girl, Mina, told you she, Thomas, and Samuel were getting together to prepare for the upcoming final. She insisted you and Eren should join.

You didn’t respond right away. You couldn’t, not with the way your stomach churned when Eren answered for you.

“She needs all the help she can get,” he said, giving you a playful pay on the shoulder. He was only joking, but you wished he didn’t sound so eager. You especially wished his hand, innocently placed on your back, didn’t make your face burn.

You got over it quickly. It was difficult to stay bitter at people you got along well with, so much so that you’d accomplish more chatting than studying. Luckily for the rest of you, Eren and Thomas knew enough to help you skate by.

But when Eren began texting in the new group chat more than he’d text you, you weren’t afraid to say you noticed a sting. It felt like you’d let your chances with him slip by because, next semester, you wouldn’t be his lab partner anymore.

You left the exam feeling okay at best. You walked out with your head down, not paying any attention as Mina caught up to you. She invited you to come by her place that Friday night, that some of your classmates would be there to celebrate the end of Professor Hange’s pop quizzes. You thought little about it when you said yes.

You were at the get-together for an hour, maybe longer, when someone was drunk enough to start a game of Never Have I Ever. After your second beer, you felt just adventurous enough to play.

Mina’s living room was on the smaller side for hosting, but it was nice enough. She had everyone crowd around, sitting where they could, whether it was on the sofa or the floor, and in the center was an old beer. It’d warmed from sitting out for a few hours, according to Samuel, and chugging it would serve as punishment for putting the last of your fingers down. And while you were tipsy, you certainly hadn’t drunk enough for that.

You would, of course. But you didn’t know it then.

You sat on the floor, legs folded to your chest, with your hand growing tired in the air. Only your index finger remained standing when Mina shouted it was her turn.

“Never have I ever had a body count higher than five,” she announced.

A few people put a finger down, but it didn’t matter. You let your forehead drop to your knees in defeat. Everyone started laughing, hounding you to drink the beer when you whined, “Do I have to?”

If you weren’t busy downing that lukewarm can, pouting as you went, and your audience wasn’t too busy heckling you, maybe someone would have noticed how Eren went quiet, how a firm crease formed just between his unsettled brows.

He couldn’t articulate the feeling, but it reminded him of the one he got when he saw you laugh with Armin. Some strange burning, uncomfortably deep in his stomach. It made him not want to look at you any longer.

Your body count didn’t offend him. After all, he had to put a finger down for the same reason. Though you surprised him, he had to admit, but that wasn’t new. The more he learned about you, the more he realized his assumptions about you couldn’t have been more off—specifically the ones about you being a bitch and good at anatomy.

Eren studied you from across the room. Your nose crinkled; giggles spilled from you as you tried, for the second time, to finish the rest of the beer. Eren had heard you laugh—many times, actually—but something about it always made his chest go tight.

His thoughts ventured further, wandering, wondering if you crinkle your nose the same way when you come.

He could see you beneath him, naked. Brows pinched together cutely, teeth dipped into your swollen bottom lip. He could feel your thighs under his hands, soft and giving under his palms as he slipped between—

It was so wrong of him. To be in a room full of people and pretend as if you were the only two people there. The only two people to exist.

That swarming in his gut burned hotter. He took another sip of his beer like it would dull it.

There was a moment of doubt. Almost like a hangnail, he could pick and pick at it until he created a wound of his own making. What was so wrong with him that made you uninterested?

He could deny naming the sick feeling as much as he wanted, but Eren knew what it was: insecurity. He was jealous of people he didn’t even know, for no other reason than they had the chance to be with you in all the ways he craved.

He felt fucking pathetic for it.

Eren didn’t stay at the party long after that. You left Mina’s just before midnight and didn’t think of much of that night, or Eren, for the rest of the weekend. On Monday, you checked your final grade for anatomy, and by some miracle, you passed the class.

It was well into winter break when you saw Eren again. You bumped into him at a house party, when there was about a week left until classes started and everyone was trickling back to campus to celebrate the new year.

You didn’t expect to see him this soon—actually, you weren’t so sure you’d ever see him again. Anatomy was the only glue holding you together. You wished you could say you had more faith in the friendship, in him, but he hadn’t talked to you since Mina’s party. You thought he would have at least been curious to know how you did in the class.

It was probably better this way, you told yourself, considering you nearly failed the class because of him. Well, you technically passed because of him too, but you wouldn’t have needed to worry about failing if he wasn’t your lab partner.

All that for a silly crush.

You stumbled into Eren toward the end of the night, the time when parties turn spacey and liminal; the limbo dividing night and day. A few lights were on now, and whoever was in charge of the music had clearly given up a while ago. Everything was a not-so-subtle sign pointing toward the exit.

Believe it or not, you wanted nothing more than to go home. You would have been out of there thirty minutes ago if it weren’t for Hitch. Your loveable, yet self-proclaimed ditzy roommate had disappeared.

By the time you thought to search for her, you had already drunk past your limit. You were dizzy, starving, and having poked your head into every room and around every corner. No Hitch, but you walked in on a lot of dry humping.

The last time you saw her, she was one of those dry humpers. She was all over some guy you guessed to be the reason she wanted to come to the party. Anyway, you were sure you’d catch his name tomorrow morning.

You were too distracted, too bubbly from the leftover New Year’s champagne, to see what was in front of you—even if he was rather tall, broad, and hard to miss. You didn’t even look twice as you walked past Eren. He’d only grabbed your attention once you heard your name, disappointed that the voice was too deep to belong to Hitch.

You spun around and the floor tilted with you. It took you a few steps to straighten back out, but once you did, your vision settled on Eren.

He gave you a lop-sided smile, serving as nothing more than a hesitant greeting. He only made it more awkward by throwing in a cheeky, “Long time, no see.”

You offered a chuckle that was only half-forced, the other half genuine simply because it was easy to impress anyone after they’d spent the night drinking.

And because you’d spent the night drinking, you felt all weird when you looked at Eren. You weren’t upset with him—maybe disappointed. Not disappointed in him exactly, he never owed you his kindness, but disappointed by what could have been.

But now that he was here, getting shoved closer and closer with each passerby, you didn’t know what to think other than you should’ve skipped that last drink. You’d hoped to feel more like yourself the next time you saw Eren. The last thing you wanted was to get tangled up in him again; you weren’t sure you’d be able to unravel yourself a second time.

Eren took a willing pace toward you. Your gaze was boozy, eyes hazy and distant. He recognized the look and had a feeling you wouldn’t speak first, so he asked, “Were you looking for someone?”

“Hitch,” you said. There was a pause. You weren’t sure if he remembered he’d met her. “My roommate.”

“I know.”

“We were supposed to leave to get food, but I think she took a guy home,” you told him, for no reason in particular. “Last time this happened, I walked in on them doing it on the counter.”

Eren laughed, harder once your face winced at the memory, a sight seared into your brain, for sure. “You should really consider finding a new roommate.”

“And in the meantime?”

“You come back to my place,” he said, so casually that you were positive you didn’t hear him right. Your face must have given you away, and he tried to play it off with a shrug. “What’s the big deal? You’ve slept on my couch before.”

He was right. You’d fallen asleep on his couch while studying once. Okay, twice. He teased you about it, saying you got drool everywhere.

“That’s different,” you said sheepishly. “That was an accident.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place,” he teased.

“Maybe you shouldn’t make your flashcards so boring!”

Eren liked his simple flashcards. He actually preferred them. Not everyone needed to spend more time color-coding and highlighting their flashcards than studying them.

He tilted his head with the sort of look that said, stop being so stubborn. "Fine. Then how about you tell me how to make them look nicer on the way to my place? I was just about to leave, anyway.”

He took a step backward, daring you to follow, and then another, until he turned on one foot and headed for the front door. He knew you’d follow him, and thoughtlessly, you did, trailing right behind.

You called out to him, “You don’t really need them now, do you? The class is over.”

“I just thought you might need ‘em.” Eren bounded down the porch steps, tossing a glance over his shoulder, ready to catch the expression you’d make when he said, “Figured you had to retake the class.”

You wished you had shoved him down the steps, but he had already crossed the lawn. He walked with longer strides than you and didn’t seem concerned about whether you could keep up.

“Thanks for that,” you replied begrudgingly.

“Anytime.”

It didn’t take long for you to near campus. You walked along the main drag, lined with various bars and late-night bites that thrived in the college town’s nightlife. It made it impossible to tell the time, what with every club still playing music loud enough to thrum in your chest, its beat perfectly in tempo with your every step—those of which were still struggling to match Eren’s.

“Did you still want to get food?” he asked.

“Hm?” You couldn’t hear him over your shuffling, your feet dragging against the sidewalk. They’d started hurting hours ago, and this jaunt certainly wasn’t making it better. You really shouldn’t have worn the new shoes you received over the holidays.

“You never listen, do you?” Eren didn’t say it with annoyance but with a laugh. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”

“No, you just mumble a lot,” you defended. “And for your information, I’m not retaking anatomy. I passed with a C.”

“A C-plus or a C-minus?”

“Plus,” you said with inflated, drunken confidence.

“I’ll alert the media,” Eren replied. You stuck your tongue out at him, though you knew he wouldn’t see it. “Now tell me, did you still want to get food or not?”

“I didn’t think it was still an option.”

“‘Course it is.” He finally looked back at you from over his shoulder, just in time to watch you stumble over a crack in the sidewalk. “I think you could use something to eat.”

Eren rounded the next corner, a block short of the street he lived on, and led you a few doors down to a diner, breakfast served 24 hours. You expected to flag down a street vendor over sitting down to eat, but you couldn’t complain about some drunk pancakes.

Eren chose the booth in the back after the hostess instructed you to seat yourselves. The place was small and smelled of stale coffee—just as any diner would at this hour. And stale or not, you knew you’d need to down a mug or two if you wanted to sober up.

The server flipped your ceramic mug over and filled it to the brim. If it were nine in the morning, steam would pour out like it did in the movies, but you didn’t want to know how long this coffee had sat out.

You took it with cream, then dumped some sugar in, too. Reaching for a second packet, you caught Eren staring as you tore it open, hands folded around his mug.

“Something the matter?” you asked.

“Want any coffee with your sugar?”

“Ha-ha.” You added the sugar, now out of spite. When you took your first sip, it tasted as bitter as you expected.

Now that you were off your feet, the pain gnawed at you. You wiggled your shoes down, just enough for your heels to slip free from the backs. But it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t bear to keep them on another second—the diner was empty anyway. Once they were off, your feet pulsed as if they had their own heartbeat. 

The server took your order before disappearing again, only making rounds to offer a warm-up here or there, one of which you accepted. This time, when you added another packet of sugar, Eren kept his comments to himself. There was a lapse in conversation, one you spent fiddling with the paper scraps.

“You know,” he started. You peered up from the wad you’d rolled between your thumb and forefinger. He sat back in the booth, looking out the window with a quiet sort of chuckle. “I thought you hated me when we first met.”

You matched the laugh, yours more disbelieving. “Hated you? I don’t think I knew you enough to hate you.”

As if he were thinking aloud, he said, “You were always so quiet.”

“Being quiet doesn’t mean you hate someone.”

Eren’s eyes flashed from the window to you. “Then what does it mean?”

It was easier to talk to him when he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze felt smothering. You avoided him, your attention retreating down to the spoon you twirled anxiously around your mug. The clanging of ceramic was the only sound between you because you still hadn’t responded.

“I don’t know,” you said, hoping you would have come up with a more profound answer by now. “It just means you’re quiet, I guess.”

A short stack of pancakes interrupted Eren, slid right between the two of you and decorated with a gooey scoop of butter. He’d only ordered a coffee, even after you insisted on paying as a thank-you for tonight, so once the server left, Eren was quick to jump back into the conversation, much to your dismay.

“But you’re not quiet, and you’re not all that shy either,” he told you like he’d caught you in a lie. You urged him on with a raised brow. He scoffed. “Don’t give me that. I know that’s not you. I saw you dancing tonight.”

Your hand stalled as you reached for the syrup. “You saw me dancing?”

He played it off with, “Well, yeah. My so-called quiet lab partner actually knows how to dance? It just surprised me, that’s all.”

“If you saw me earlier,” you said, forking a slice of pancake, “why didn’t you come and say hi?”

Strike that—Eren almost played it off. He couldn’t hide his shifty eyes, or how long it took him to excuse it away. “Oh, I think someone grabbed me for a game of beer pong or something. I don’t remember.”

That never happened. Eren knew it, and it looked like you knew it, too. The truth was he didn’t go up and talk to you because he’d spent the last two weeks convincing himself he wasn’t into you. The party turned out to be the ultimate test of willpower, which he so evidently failed.

Eren even went as far as reinstalling all the dating apps he’d long sworn off. He dumbly assumed if he went on a date, maybe even brought a girl home, then he’d be in the clear; he wouldn’t think about you anymore. But by the time dinner was over, Eren knew there wasn’t any use in taking things further. He’d spent the evening comparing her to you, finding himself every time she laughed because it didn’t sound like yours.

Then he saw you tonight. Of course, he had to see you tonight. And of all the things you could have been doing, you were dancing. Having fun, enjoying yourself. He favored you like that, when you were carefree. You were nothing like the girl he thought he met in class.

And when Eren heard your laugh—strangely more remarkable than any other, like he’d gone deaf to anything but you—he couldn’t even remember why he tried to stay away from you.

But here you were, seated across the booth from him, cheeks stuffed with pancakes, and he had no clue what he was supposed to do next. He’d spent the entire walk wrangling with himself, scared that if he had you, even in the most innocent of ways, he wouldn’t be able to get enough.

Eren knew he shouldn’t be thinking like this, not yet, because—fuck, what if you still didn’t want him back?

Eren only lied about beer pong because he couldn’t outright confess to needing a drink before talking to you. He was so close to getting away with it, too. If you’d gone for another bite a second earlier, if he’d thought to take a sip of coffee to cover his face, maybe you wouldn’t have spotted the flushed bridge of his nose. So subtle yet telling enough that you had to bite your inner lip to prevent a smile.

You held your fork before your face, inspecting the square of pancake as a string of syrup dripped onto the plate. You were rather flippant about it when you finally told Eren, “It’s because I had a crush on you.” 

“Huh?”

You plopped the pancake into your mouth, chewing so slowly that it nearly killed Eren. Once you swallowed, you finally said, “I had a crush on you. That’s why I was so quiet.”

Eren said nothing in return, even with you staring him straight in the face, expectant. You waited—for what felt like an eternity but was more like a second—until you couldn’t take the ambivalence any longer.

Your half-laugh fell flat as you went on to explain, “That, and you always got better grades than me. I didn’t want you to think I was dumb.”

Almost as if he didn’t hear it, still fixed on what you’d said before, he asked, “Do you still?”

It was a simple question, just three words, yet he said so much more than intended.

You knew what he was asking, but you played dumb. “Still what?”

“Have a crush on me.”

You thought it over while you took another bite, eyes on him like he already had the answer. He did. You both did. Still, you let the question hang heavy between you for another moment. You weren’t entirely ready to lay your cards on the table. Yet.

You tossed him a small smile as you answered, “To be determined.”

Eren nodded once, lips folded together in a similar sort of grin. “Got it.”

That didn’t mean your answer satisfied him, though. He watched as you took another sip of coffee, then immediately reached for another sugar packet. Before you could pour it in, he shielded the mug.

“But you better figure it out before all that sugar kills you.”

You swatted him away. “Yeah, it’ll definitely be the sugar that kills me, not the keg stand I started the night with.”

“You did a keg stand?”

He said it like he didn’t believe you. You giggled, “Only because Hitch talked me into it.”

Eren laughed with you despite shaking his head. “See, what did I say? You surprise me.”

You had only taken a few hobbles out of the diner before your heels started hurting again. The pain intensified with every step, and you sucked your teeth sharply. You noticed two fresh blisters, one on each heel, when you put your shoes back on before leaving, but thought you could handle the short walk to Eren’s house. But now, you wished you were still drunk enough to ignore the burn.

“Everything okay back there?” Eren asked.

You were behind him again, but not because of his long strides. “Yeah.”

He thought it sounded unconvincing. He looked back to confirm his hunch just in time to see you stumble.

“It’s my shoes,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped walking, turning to you. “Why are you apologizing?”

You stammered, “I don’t know.”

“Just take ‘em off.”

“I’m not going to walk around barefoot.”

“Didn’t say you had to.”

You didn’t get what he was saying, even less when he turned his back to you. Then, when he bent slightly at the knee, it made sense.

He couldn’t be serious right now. 

“My house isn’t that far. I’ll carry you there.”

Okay. He was being serious. He was ready and willing to give you a piggyback ride.

You didn’t intend to laugh, but it was only because this situation was so ridiculous—and partly because of your own anxiety, fizzling at the thought alone.

Eren took it differently, shooting you a playfully offended look when he said, “What? You think I can’t carry you?” He straightened out, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began walking away. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

“Wait!”

You wanted to blame it on your feet or because you didn’t want to slow him down, but you had to be honest with yourself—aching feet or not, were you really going to pass on this opportunity?

Eren flashed a smile over his shoulder. “That’s what I thought.”

Ignoring his boasting, you ripped off your shoes. He took them from you in one hand, and then let you hop onto his back. His body didn’t give like you would expect, and his arms felt sturdy as they looped around your thighs.

You hadn’t had a piggyback ride since you were probably eleven years old, but you didn’t remember them feeling anything like this. Eren’s neck was warm against your arms, exceptionally so in the crisp night air. His hands were even hotter, having you convinced they’d sear themselves into the backs of your thighs.

He jostled you forward, higher onto his back. “Hold on tighter or else you’re gonna fall off.”

You hugged him, pressing your chest against his back. You’d never been this close to him before, close enough that his hair, only loosely tied back, brushed against your face. Faint notes of his cologne—warm like amber, but there was something you found refreshing about it—tickled your nose. You drew in closer, inhaling the scent, him. 

Eren worried you might have felt the roll of his throat when your breath broke over the nape of his neck. How embarrassing that something as innocent as a piggyback ride could send his heart racing. As if suddenly, he was back in junior high, and it was his first time holding a girl’s hand all over again.

If this was all he’d have of you tonight, or ever, he’d be happy with just that. Even if it meant he’d wake up with a sore back. He wanted to earn your heart, even if he wasn’t so sure your crush had ever gone away. 

The house was too dark for you to make out a thing. You stilled in the entryway, just behind Eren, and waited for him to walk ahead.

Not a second later, he flipped a light on from the kitchen. Your eyes adjusted after a few blinks, and he appeared again from around the corner. He wore a look of trepidation, staring at you like you were a lost puppy he’d taken in and didn’t know what to do with.

“Can I get you some water?”

“Sure,” you replied. “Thank you.”

He waved a hand toward the sofa, saying, “Make yourself at home,” before disappearing again. 

You’d hardly made yourself comfortable by the time he returned. You didn’t even realize how rigid your arms were until you uncrossed them to reach for the water bottle Eren handed you.

He sat on the other side of the old couch and it squeaked beneath his weight. 

“I imagine you wouldn’t want to sleep on the couch in a house full of guys,” he started, settling into the couch. “Take my room, if you want. I can sleep out here.”

You almost choked on your water, immediately shaking your head. “I’m not going to take your bed.” You couldn’t, possibly. You’d never even been in his room before. “You didn’t even need to go to the trouble of letting me stay the night.”

“Out of all my troubles,” Eren said with a certain warmth to his face, “you staying the night is the least of them.”

You smiled at him. You smiled at him, and you had no clue how it pulled at his heart. It was shy, no greater than a curl of the very corner of your mouth, yet he craved nothing more than to feel the shape of it under his lips and memorize the taste. 

“Okay.” You finally gave in. You could have ended it there, and you probably should have, but you nervously rambled on, “But, really, if it’s too much—if you want me to go, I can call a—”

“I don’t want you to go.”

You stammered, opening and closing your mouth as you pretended you had any clue what you’d say next. Something changed; you didn’t know what. An energy shift, a new glint in his eyes—that look he was giving you.

Maybe it was more accurate to say that everything had changed.

There wasn’t much air to your voice when you said, “I don’t want to go either.”

Your admission was barely a whisper. So delicate that Eren wasn’t even sure you intended to say it aloud. Your eyes were big and genuine, like you had revealed some vulnerable part of you. He couldn’t look away, risking losing what little composure you hadn’t stolen from him yet.

You liked him like that—getting to witness such an unguarded look on a face that was always hardened. Soft and electric, all at once. You never thought he’d look at you in such a way, only in your dreams, and you didn’t want it to end. 

Now or never.

“Eren?”

“Yeah?” His voice was just as taken as yours.

You knew yourself as anything but bold, but right then, you were. Purring your words when you asked him, “Why are you always so nice to me?”

The distant light from the kitchen cast shadows along the angles of his jaw, highlighting how it tensed.

“Am I?” Eren asked. His voice had gained a new rasp.

You nodded.

“How so?”

“You know,” you said slowly, knowingly, leaning into him. “You walk me home when I’m drunk. Carry me when my feet hurt.” You tucked your legs beneath you, sitting back on your calves, knees bumping up against his thigh. “You let me spend the night, even offer me your bed.”

Eren thought you might kiss him right then, but you only giggled. “Not to mention, you tutored me in anatomy for an entire semester without complaining once.”

You rested a daring hand on his leg. He looked from it to you before teasing, “I think I might’ve complained once.”

He moved with you, at your pace. He cupped your cheek, and you tried not to melt into him.

“But I can’t help myself.” His thumb traced over your skin. “You’re very cute when you’re drunk and when you’re proud of yourself for passing a quiz.” He unexpectedly grins. “And when you hold your book too close to your face when you read.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.” 

You didn’t press the subject any further because it didn’t matter; you were so close that the tips of your noses were nearly brushing against each other. With your face still in his hand, he swiped his thumb along your bottom lip. Unwittingly, you wetted them like you wanted a taste.

Neither of you wanted to be the first to crumble the wall, the one you spent a semester building together, so tall that there were times you couldn’t see over it.

You might have been feeling courageous, but you knew you’d regret it the next time you saw Eren on campus. You could see it now, the smug smile he’d give you from across the hall, or the far side of the green—wherever you’d inevitably bump into him again. He’d turn you into a puddle right on the spot. 

That didn’t concern you. Not after you heard the needful groan he stifled from the very back of his throat, and you desperately wanted to hear it again.

Eren caressed your face. You tilted into him until your forehead pressed against his, and you could feel his breath on your lips.

“I still have a crush on you,” you whispered.

“Yeah, I know.” He wasn’t cocky about it, but soft. He sounded relieved. 

Your hand left his thigh, traveling higher until you had it splayed against his chest. The muscles twitched beneath your touch. Eren couldn’t help but wonder if you knew what you were doing to him, how insane you’d driven him. You had to.

“So,” you said, long and drawn-out.

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt, the tips of them grazing and pinching like you wanted to yank him to you.

“Are you going to do something about it?”

Spoken like a true temptress, like a lioness playing with her food. You let your gaze linger intentionally long before locking onto his eyes.

Eren nearly gulped. “Fuck—c’mere.”

The hand he had on your face slipped higher. His fingers wrapped around the back of your head to pull you to him.

What you thought would be a crash of lips was much more affectionate. Instead of kissing you as if he believed he could make up for lost time, he kissed you softly, thoughtfully, like he knew he had all the time in the world with you now.

Your lips parted to invite his tongue in, hot and licking against your own. Your head spun, but not because of the alcohol. Attempting to ground yourself, you snatched a fistful of his shirt with a trembling hand. But the longer he made out with you, taking his time with seemingly no destination in mind, the more helpless you became.

“Eren.” It left you in a gasp, swallowed up before it had the chance to meet the air.

He angled your head slightly, exposing your neck for him to explore. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then you felt his lips at the hollow below your ear, gasping as his teeth skimmed lower.

“Hm?” he hummed, unbothered. Like he was oblivious to how turned on you were, how just his breath against your skin had your thighs clenching.

“That’s why you didn’t want me to leave, right?” Your voice warbled as you spoke, eyes fluttering shut as he began mouthing along your neck, sucking like he wanted to leave a bruise. 

You palmed lower, over the front of his jeans. He was hard, straining against them, and you massaged over his length a few times. You waited and listened for his breath to falter before reaching for his zipper.

“Because you’ve thought about this before,” you murmured. With his jeans undone, you snuck your hand inside his boxer, wrapping your fingers around his cock. You nuzzled your face just below his jaw, peppering kisses, noting his quickening pulse as you began stroking him, base to tip. “Because you were hoping this would happen.”

“Yes,” Eren groaned. He would have tried to hold it back, but he was already staving off his urge to rut into your hand.

“I was, too,” you confessed.

That broke him. Before he knew it, he had you pinned between him and the couch.

Your back hit the cushion with another whine from the springs, louder and more obnoxious than before. When Eren kissed you this time, he didn’t want to take his time with you anymore. Not after hearing that you wanted him in the same ways he needed you.

The couch quickly became too cramped for your liking, with limbs slipping and spilling until you thought you might fall to the floor. Only when your kiss broke—because your head was dangling over the edge of the sofa—did you have a moment to catch your breath, or at least try to.

“You said,” you panted, collecting yourself. “You said I could sleep in your room.” Eren nodded, eyes hazy as he looked down at you. “Maybe you should show me to it now…”

He stalled, his brain short-circuiting for the obvious reason before he picked up on your heavy-handed implication.

“Yeah, okay.”

Eren helped you upright before you untangled yourselves from one another. You climbed the stairs in a hurry, tripping over your feet because you couldn’t imagine keeping your hands off each other. You followed just behind him, your hand in his, as he led you to his bedroom. 

His hands were reckless as they pawed over your body, anywhere they could. Yet his touch maintained a certain firmness that had you weak in the knees, struggling to suppress your whimpers. Each tiny sound seemed to encourage him, riling him until he had you braced against the door, slamming it shut with your combined weight.

Eren caged you in place, with forearms planted on either side of your head. But you would have stayed there, willingly. Forever, if you could.

You almost hated yourself for how submissive you felt to him. He kissed you commandingly, yet gently enough that he could take you anywhere he pleased.

You hated yourself more for getting turned on at just the thought. 

Taking his loose, unzipped jeans between your fingers, you tugged him close, hooking a leg around his waist. You felt his cock pressing between your legs, ground against it because if you didn’t, you thought you might explode; you were only human, after all.

Eren’s hands gripped your ass, helping you roll against him a few times before mumbling, “Bed?”

His voice was shallow, all breathless, like his lungs were running on empty. You liked this version of him—when he was needy for you. 

“Bed,” you affirmed with a bob of your head.

That was all it took before Eren scooped you into his arms, whirling you around until he had you collapsed onto the bed.

You sprawled out with a stretch of your back. It felt so good to lie amongst the billowy comforter, off your feet. You nestled around, almost like you could have lulled off right then—almost.

Eren turned on his bedside lamp, and though the light was dim, you felt keenly aware of his gaze on you as you peeled off your shirt. It bunched as you snaked it over your head, its slinky fabric hugging your body, revealing your bra with a subtle bounce of your tits. Every part of it, of you, was so shamefully sexy, Eren couldn’t get enough.

His hands closed over yours when you reached for the button of your jeans as if to tell you, let me do it. You allowed it, watching as he opened the front of them. His fingers glided along your stomach until he reached your hips. From there, he pulled the fitted denim down your legs. You kicked them to the side once they’d reached your ankles.

The sight of you, ready and beneath him, had him overwhelmed, to say the least. He didn’t know where to look—he didn’t even know where to start.

His fingertips, though lightly calloused, felt exceedingly gentle as he trailed them over your bare skin. So softly that if you closed your eyes, you might not even know he was there. He started just beneath the underwire of your bra, then down the length of your stomach. At your hip, his touch tickled, and you squirmed so cutely beneath him.

Eren wanted to say something witty, but the sight of you stirring below him had him spacey, leaving him quiet. Even the chuckle he gave was practically inaudible, just a huff through his nose. 

Despite the fog, Eren had a fleeting moment of lucidity. He blinked, hard, like it would clear his head. You struggled to read him, staring at you like you’d given him reason to be suspicious.

Then he asked, “How are you?”

You mirrored his suspicion, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m good. Um, how are you?” 

His face scrunched like he was about to say, not good. It made you nervous.

You perched on your elbows, interested, waiting on him. He ran his fingers through his hair, the same way he always did when he was trying to concentrate.

“We’re a little past exchanging pleasantries, don’t you think?” you joked, mainly because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to say.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Eren brought his hand to his forehead like he could capture his thoughts before they slipped away. “Like, I mean—” Coherency was hard, especially with you laid out before him, head tilted with curiosity, staring up at him through pretty, heavy lashes. Had they always been that long?

Finally, he blurted out, “Are you still drunk?”

You were relieved to learn nothing was wrong. You thought over your answer, taking inventory of your body, every fiber of your being only wanting him.

“Not really,” you said with a slight shrug. “Those pancakes were a real lifesaver.”

He still looked hesitant. You took his hand, giving it a small squeeze before smiling at him. “I want this. Like really, really want this.”

Eren let out a short laugh that softened you up even more. With your assurance, his fingers began dancing along your skin again, pulling lightly at the band of your underwear. He played with it, his once-boyish expression turning more brazen as he asked, “Then is it okay for me to touch you here?” 

His voice was gruff, the timbre of it still ringing between your ears. You couldn’t help the sound it pulled from you. A sweet little moan, so delicious that Eren felt his cock twitch before he could even remove your underwear.

“Yes,” you murmured, eyes fixed on him, on his fingers. They pushed beneath your panties despite your hope that he’d simply take them off.

That single, breathy word gave Eren the go-ahead. He crawled over you, holding himself up with his free hand. Propped on your elbows, your face was inches away from his. So close that with just the tilt of your head, you were kissing him again. 

Eren’s fingers ventured lower, sweeping between you teasingly, but it was as if he was teasing himself.

"You’re so wet,” he groaned, still playing with you. He’d circle your clit until your jaw went slack, then remove the pressure just to trace your entrance. “All for me?”

“Mhm.” You exhaled indulgently when his fingers returned to your clit, rubbing languidly. When you lifted your hips for more, his circles became tighter, quicker, giving you exactly what you needed. You let go then, allowing your wobbly elbows to give out.

Eren chased after you, nipping down your neck until he found the spot he’d learned you liked best, especially when he sucked on it. He yanked a sharp whine from you, another as he continued leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

Eren, Eren, Eren. You were consumed by thoughts of him, only him. Consumed by how good he made you feel and every place you wanted him.

And when you cried out, “Ah—all for you,” you certainly weren’t thinking about how desperate you sounded for a guy who’d been nothing more than your lab partner until tonight. 

That did it for him. In one impulsive motion, Eren stood up straight, hooked his fingers around the band of your panties, and tore them off with ease. Once they were out of his way, lost amongst your other garments, his hand was rightfully back between your legs.

He pumped his middle finger inside you first, curling it just right to have your back arching, your breath already hitching in your throat.

You thought he’d be arrogant about it, how he already had you, quite literally, bending to his will. But he’d already lost himself in you, every bit of you. Your tiny gasps, spilling from kiss-swollen lips. Your bra and the way its straps had limply started falling down your shoulder, exposing the supple skin of your chest. How pretty your cunt looked, taking his finger.

His pace ignited that familiar feeling within you, but as quickly as it started burning in your stomach, you’d lost it just as fast. 

With a frustrated sob, you opened your eyes to see why he’d rudely edged you like that.

Eren yanked his shirt over his head and threw it aside. “I wanna go down on you.”

You felt his words hot at the back of your neck—either that or it was the sight of his deceivingly toned stomach. Whatever it was, you couldn’t decide before Eren started stripping from his jeans. And if you were still unsure why you’d clammed up, the tent in his boxers, large and threatening to undo you, was most certainly it.

You tried your best to look at his face when you asked, “Don’t you think we should be fast? All of your roommates are home.”

That was the last thing Eren wanted. He wanted to have you, all to himself, for as long as you’d allow. But that was easy for him to say now; his willpower had already started waning.

“They’re sleeping. Don’t worry about them.” Eren thumbed circles against your inner thigh encouragingly, making it difficult to say no to him. At least until he cracked his usual devilish smile. “I thought you said you were quiet.”

The daggers you shot him said enough. You had only started to quip something back when Eren shut you up. He leaned over you, encasing you in his warmth. You felt his lips, his tongue, at your neck, running along the silky skin.

He sucked at the lobe of your ear, and the airy giggle you gave traveled straight to his cock. He kissed your collarbone as he tugged down the cups of your bra. Though his breath was warm, it sent goosebumps scattering across your chest. His tongue flicked over one of your perked nipples, and you rewarded him with a moan—even louder once he took it into his mouth.

You were so, so sensitive. All for him, too. Eren craved to discover every nook on your body he could kiss and every sound you’d make in response. He wanted to learn every last part of you, especially the ones that would have you wrecked. 

He continued kissing down your stomach, with him lowering to his knees on the ground. Taking your legs, one in each hand, he pulled them back to make room to settle between. He placed them over his shoulders, bringing you in until your bottom half hung off the side of the bed.

Eren palmed over your thighs. He left kisses there, too, his lips so close to where you wanted him the most.

“Let me taste you.” His voice was a quiet plead. He pressed a kiss against your inner thigh, then another, with his eyes fluttering shut like he wanted to savor you. “Please.”

You’d lost your voice somewhere in your throat. You could only nod in response—a bit too eagerly, perhaps. Eren gleamed up at you. He clearly wanted to smirk but was smart enough not to risk it this time. 

You’d felt only his breath at first. It quelled the chill bedroom air. Next, it was the very tip of his tongue. Pointed, it ran through you, painfully slow but still enough for you to suck in a breath between your teeth.

“Spread your legs wider for me.” You did as you were told, completely at his mercy. It must have pleased him because you swore you felt him grin against you as he praised, “Good girl.”

You made an embarrassing sound at that. One you didn’t expect. Eren surely didn’t expect it either, but it excited him, knowing how you were weak to his words, to his voice. To him.

With you now fully on display for him, he couldn’t resist burying his face into you, even if he had fully intended to tease you longer. His tongue flicked your clit, sending pulses of electricity shooting up your spine.

You shifted your hips, raising them to meet his mouth. His tongue was steady, never slowing once as he leaned into a rhythm you liked, that had your fingers laced in his hair and undoing his bun. With just a little more, angling and guiding his tongue to just the right spot, it was like you suddenly saw sparks of white behind your eyelids. 

“Eren—ah,” you panted frantically, “right there.”

He had the flat of his tongue against your clit, lapping in tandem with your rocking hips until your thighs began shaking.

“I got you,” he said, wrapping his arms around your legs and locking you into place. “Just relax for me.”

Eren continued having you feverishly, filling the bedroom with a mixture of your wispy cries and groans of his own. It was as if he was just as desperate for you to come as you felt, worshipping every squeak and squirm he could get from you.

“I-I’m—”

His eyes meet yours. You looked breathless, your mouth hanging open in a vain attempt at pulling in tattered breaths. When he let go of your thighs, they dropped to his shoulders.

Not breaking his pace, his thumb replaced his tongue so he could ask, “You need more?”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

“You want my fingers?” His thumb left your clit. You mourned the loss only for him to trace a finger down your entrance before dipping it inside you.

“Oh, fuck.” You writhed in response. “Yes.”

He used two fingers this time, collecting his spit and your slick before pushing them inside you. There was little resistance as he worked his fingers in and out of you. He returned to tonguing your clit, giving it a few kitten licks before picking up right where he left off.

You were getting close, so close, and if time could allow for it, you would have stayed like that forever, just shy of becoming entirely undone. 

There were many times, admittedly, when you imagined Eren having his way with you, wondering what it’d feel like for him to finger and fuck you. But never did you think he’d beg to have you like this, nor did you imagine the sight to absolutely ruin you. 

Eren’s face flushed a blossomy pink, spanning across his cheeks. You were so wet; he was so wet. Soaked, actually, in your arousal—a mess you might have cared more about if you weren’t about to come.

His green eyes, darkened like you’d never seen before, found yours, and he moaned. He felt pathetic for it, but what had him feeling even more pathetic was how he couldn’t stop himself from shoving his boxers down his thighs. He took hold of himself, seeking any semblance of relief because you were possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen. But he knew you’d look even better coming on his tongue.

You whimpered when you saw him fisting his cock, nice and fast. He was so hard for you, and you weren’t shy about staring. You couldn’t even fake it, too curious to see exactly how he liked it, watching him fuck his fist with quick breaks to give extra attention to his sensitive tip. You thought about how he’d fuck you, how he’d like it then, and it sent you over the edge.

Your cries came out choppy and strained until your voice cut out entirely. You sobbed silently, carelessly, rolling your hips over Eren’s tongue and using him. You wanted to drag out the feeling for as long as you could. By the end, you were quivering, exhausted, and could no longer keep your eyes open.

Eren had to stop pumping himself, or else he would have come from that alone. He sat back onto his calves, one of his hands palming over your thigh while the other soothed your clit, just to ease you back down. You looked like you needed it, all wrecked, legs limply spread for him, just like he hoped.

God, he annoyed himself for pretending he never wanted you because you—you were a dream.

The only thing that could wake him from such a dream was your voice.

“Eren?”

He loved it when you said his name.

You sat up to look at him properly, but it felt like there were a ton of bricks on your chest. Eren appeared quite the opposite, entirely unfazed. He had his cheek smushed against your thigh, staring unabashedly at the finger he lazily pushed back inside you. You jolted at the intrusion, still sensitive; he could tell by the way your muscles spasmed around his finger.

The feeling mesmerized him: you sucking him in for more. He didn’t even look at you when he replied, “Hm?”

You would’ve thought knowing his eyes were on you would embarrass you, but you were still so touchy from your orgasm that the winding feeling had already returned. It coiled in your stomach, begging to be snapped again.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Eren loved hearing that even more.

He finally looked at you then, and you imagined that if he were a dog, his ears would have perked up like you said the magic words.

“What was that?” he asked, more playfully than you expected. You didn’t like it, not with the grin he wore to match. “I couldn’t hear you. You were mumbling.”

“You heard me the first time.”

He ran his finger teasingly up the crease of your thigh. “Say it again.”

It tickled. You fussed, “Eren, come on—”

“No, I don’t think that was it. I think you said something else.”

“Just—” You sighed dramatically before giving in. “I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Eren.”

He beamed at you, proud of both you and himself. He grabbed his boxers, still sitting mid-thigh, and removed them entirely.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Eren stood up and didn’t give you the chance to respond before flipping you onto your stomach. You felt his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. His fingers skated lower, down to your bra before undoing its clasp. When you pushed yourself to your forearms, you felt your bra fall, its straps hanging loosely around your arms.

“You look so pretty like this,” he told you as he grabbed your hips, raising you to your knees. He stroked himself a few more times with one hand and smacked your ass with the other.

“Eren!” you yelped. “Roommates!”

“I thought I told you not to worry about them,” he said, punctuated with another smack.

The print of his hand still stung when you heard rustling behind you. You peered over your shoulder to see him tearing open a condom. He rolled it over his cock, and all the while, his eyes kept you—naked and with your ass in the air for him—pinned to the bed. 

He flattened a hand against your lower back, putting an arch in it. With the other, he spread you, aligning the tip of his cock with your entrance.

Eren guided himself in more slowly than he wanted to, listening to you whine as you adjusted to his length. It was a bit of a stretch, but it was easy enough for him to push inside, having already prepped you with his fingers, leaving you aching for him to fill you with more.

When his pelvis was flush against you, he felt your walls flutter around him, squeezing his cock so perfectly he thought you must be made for him. A groan bubbled in his throat, low enough that it was nearly a growl. The sound made your heart skip, right between your lungs, so you clenched again to encourage another.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that,” Eren hissed.

“Doing what?” you asked innocently. Then you did it again.

Despite the warning, he didn’t protest it. Instead, he started moving, thrusting into you leisurely. He was self-indulgent about it too, spreading you with his hands so he could admire how well your cunt looked with his cock in it.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he muttered, quiet enough that it was as if he were talking to himself. “So fucking good.”

“Eren.” The whine in your voice drove him crazy.

His hands, large and demanding, curved over your hips. The blunt end of his nails dug into the fat of them as he pulled you back to meet every snap of his hips. The indecent smacking of skin-on-skin bounced off the bedroom walls. You didn’t complain this time, only let your head drop between your shoulders. Your eyes screwed shut as you became lost in the throes of pleasure all over again.

“Eren,” you cried again.

He didn’t stop fucking you to ask, “What is it?” 

He folded over you, his hand snaking up to your neck and taking hold of your chin. He turned your face to look at him, so he could see what you wanted. You couldn’t form anything other than wimpy chants of ah, ah, ah, sounding mangled as he squished your cheeks.

“Tell me how you want it.”

His words alone made you bite back a moan.

Finally, you managed to say, “Harder.”

Eren smiled, all slack-jawed and toothy. You would have found it irresistible, yet totally ill-fitting if you could have seen it. But how else was he to react?

He placed a kiss on the back of your neck, then another on your shoulder. It was unexpectedly doting, until you felt his fingers curve around your throat. Though you knew what was coming, you still squealed when he hoisted you upright, with your back sealed against his chest. 

Eren held you there, fucking up into you, harder, like you asked him. Your flimsy bra flopped around your arms with each of his thrusts. He groped at your breast, taking your nipple between his fingers, rolling and pinching at it until you were mewling.

He continued taking you as if you’d always been his, and you let him have you. You let him use you like you only existed for his pleasure, with your head feeling heavy as it lolled back against him.

But you were so much more than that, and Eren was determined to make you come again. He wanted to feel it.

“Touch yourself,” Eren breathed, right into your ear. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. “I want to hear you when you come this time.”

Your hand slithered between your legs. The very tips of your fingers bumped into Eren’s cock as you got yourself off. Legs wavering at the added pressure, you were practically vibrating when you came, your heart pounding in your ears. There was no doubt he heard you this time around.

It was difficult to remain upright. You fell from Eren’s hold, landing on the bed forcefully with him toppling right over you. You were still riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucked you into the mattress, and it had your thighs squeezing together so nicely for him.

“I’m—ah, fuck—I’m close,” Eren grunted.

It surprised you when he pulled out, but it didn’t take long before you realized he was rolling you onto your back. Eren manhandled you like you were weightless; he had your arms tossed above your head, pinned in place with a single hand around your wrist. He pushed back inside you, hard and fast, with a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“I need to see you.”

Your stomach flipped at his words like they were poetry. Fuck. He had you so irrevocably wrapped around his finger. And maybe you were merely lovelorn and looking for something that wasn’t there, but you swore he looked as though he were just as ensnared as you.

Your mouth sought out his in a sloppy kiss. It was suckling lips and colliding teeth, smothered grunts and groans as you ground against one another, but you didn’t care; you enjoyed every messy, frantic minute of it.

You wanted to touch him, wriggling until he released his hold on your wrists. You took his face between your hands. His eyes were moony and heavy-lidded and had you swooning.

“Fuck, Eren—I want you to come,” you gasped.

Easy enough.

He came hard. As perverted as it sounded, you wished you had a camera. You wanted to remember how his eyes snapped shut, to record every sound. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering against you as if he could reach any deeper. 

His breath was hot against your already sweltering skin. It was hard to breathe, especially under his weight, but you wanted to hold him for a little longer.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t realize you’d been grazing your fingers up and down the back of his neck until he lifted himself off you. He let his gaze linger on your face, like he wanted one last look, then nudged his nose against yours before getting up.

You laid still, only watching while Eren straightened out and disposed of the condom. Your legs felt too soft and lazy to move, so you only let your eyes follow him as he stepped into a pair of sweatpants.

"The invitation to stay the night still stands, right?” you lightly sassed.

“No, I was actually going to call you an Uber home.” Eren rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You giggled as you pushed yourself up. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hallway, last door on the right.” He took one look at you, then started digging around in his dresser. He tossed something at you, aiming it at your head by the looks of it. You snatched it just in time. It was one of his T-shirts. “You can wear that.”

You held it by the sleeves, inspecting it. “Is that weird?”

“It wasn’t until you asked that.” 

You pulled the tee over your head before adjusting it. Your underwear came next, but you felt more hesitant about the jeans.

Eren noticed, assuring you, “They’re sleeping, I promise,” as he put on a shirt of his own. “Just be quick.”

“Okay.” You left, but poked your head back in to say, “I’m leaving the door cracked so I know which room is yours.”

He laughed. “All right.”

You followed his instructions, even trying to be quick about it, too. You peed, washed your hands, and only stared at your bruising collarbone for ten seconds before rushing back down the hall.

Eren was in bed when he saw the door swing open. “Look at you, Ms. C-plus, not getting lost.”

You pulled a face. “Whatever, Brian.”

Right on cue, he complained, “It was one time.” You mouthed it along with him. 

For whatever reason, you didn’t crawl into bed with him right away. You felt a bit like a deer in headlights, blinking at Eren as you waited for something. You didn’t know what. He looked sleepy, with his hair still unkempt from your fingers. Seeing him like this, with you dressed in his shirt, about to curl up under his sheets—were you supposed to go along with this like it was normal?

When you finally thought of something to say, Eren cut in first. “You can’t seriously try to take the couch after that.”

That was exactly what you were about to do. He chuckled, knowing he was right by the purse of your lips. He lifted the blanket for you—once again, like this was entirely normal for you—and said, “Get over here already. I’m cold.”

Eren was extremely difficult to say no to, but you knew that already. You got into his bed with no contest and let him lay the comforter over you.

Either his pillows were just that soft or you felt that exhausted because your eyes went heavy almost immediately. Eren reached over you to turn out the light, but let his arm fall on top of you. He hugged your waist, not hesitating to pull you into him.

He nuzzled into the back of your neck, pulling a giggle from you. “Are you always this clingy after sex?”

Eren hummed an affirmative sound, tickling you again.He was most definitely never this clingy after sex. But there was no way he could keep his hands to himself, not with how good you looked in his shirt, just barely long enough to cover anything. Maybe his intentions in lending you a shirt weren’t entirely pure—so sue him. You wearing his clothes was a sight he could get used to. One he had a feeling he’d get to see much more often.

[bakughoust]

katsuki comes home, marches right up behind you in the kitchen, and tosses you over his shoulder.

"katsuki!" you shriek. you only barely let go of your steaming, freshly-poured cup of tea in time for it not to go flying as your world goes topsy turvy. "katsuki, what are you—?"

the man whose shoulder you find yourself so unceremoniously hoisted atop doesn't say anything, just carries you off in the direction of your bedroom and flops you down—in a surprisingly gentle way—into your bed.

his hair is still damp from his post-patrol shower, like he hadn't bothered to dry it before racing home. his cheeks are a bit pink. his eyes are narrowed in determination, but still loving.

"what is going on?" you breathe in bewilderment, sprawled out underneath your husband. there are butterflies in your stomach that you can't explain. there's an anticipation thrumming through you that you don't quite understand.

"i'm fuckin' sick of people being so damn nosy all the time," he says, his jaw clenching as he spits out the words.

his hands rest on your thighs as he stands between them at the end of the bed, holding you tightly, but not painfully so. they slip up under the hem of your oversized t-shirt, the one you'd been planning to wear to sleep, until you feel the heat of his palms on your hips.

"and who are 'people'?" you ask.

"just... everyone," he mutters with his brow furrowed in frustration. his fingertips knead into your waist, and you resist the urge to wiggle down the bed into his touch. you click your tongue in admonishment.

"that's not very specific," you remark, a bit cheeky, and katsuki's fingertips press harder into the soft give of your sides as he flashes you a fond, warning look.

"the assholes in the press, strangers in the street who stop me on patrol, the bastards at the commission, my old man and the hag, even fuckin' izuku's been up my ass lately about it," katsuki rattles off a list of names that don't really mean all that much to you without context.

"about what?" you ask him.

katsuki's palms flatten against you, slipping down until the rest over your tummy. he peers down at your body from his place between your legs, your skin exposed now that your t-shirt's been pushed up to your ribs. he sneaks a glance at you through the fan of his lashes.

"... havin' babies."

your breath hitches, and he quickly looks away.

"oh?"

katsuki hums in response to the inquisitive little sound you make. a low rumble that comes from deep in his chest and makes you want to squirm. that makes you want to press your thighs together for relief.

"... even the little guy's been givin' me hell about it."

'the little guy' meaning izuku's very sweet four-year-old son, tenko, who thinks his beloved uncle—referred to almost exclusively as kaccha!!—is responsible for hanging the sun in the sky and has the answers to practically all of life's questions.

you feel similarly, and therefore get along very well with the kid.

"well, that's a real problem, huh?" you murmur, and your husband's thumbs sweep up against your skin. he hums again, that same sound that drives you crazy.

he looks at you, properly this time—pinning you with his stare, as though you'd ever think of running away. the red of his eyes is as dizzying as the day you met him.

"think we can figure out a solution to it?" he asks you, his voice breathy. hopeful.

he takes you by the hips and drags you slowly down the bed until your hips are flush against his. your shirt rucks up over your chest in the process, but you make no move to pull it down again.

you reach up, and katsuki dips until your arms can embrace him—winding their way around his shoulders so you can pull him into your space. he kisses you sweetly, once, and then again a little longer.

"yeah," you whisper against his mouth once he pulls ever so slightly away, answering the question still left hanging in the very narrow space left between your bodies. "i think we can try."

[bakughoust]

you return to london for the third excruciating season of being touted on the marriage market. you're exhausted. bored. unsatiated. it's set to be more of the same, until word spreads of a prestigious visitor bound to shake up the ton.

calibernus reader x ryomen sukuna (fem! reader) chapter: 1/? word count: 5520 cw: none explicit. set in regency era london so undertones of misogyny and arranged marriages. also available on AO3

please enjoy this first chapter of something I hope evolves into something bigger!!!! also I need you to take this at face value I'm not a historian.

London, 1815. 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat as the carriage bounces left to right, navigating where the dirt road joins the solid stone pathways of the city outskirts. You roll your shoulders to a symphony of cracks and clicks, and wince at the ache. 

“Hardly a becoming expression...”

Your grandmother chastises you from her seat opposite. Instead of challenging the elderly woman, you purse your lips and arrange yourself into a more composed demeanour to please her - and hush her criticisms. 

As you roll through the cramped streets of Notting Hill and Portobello, you feel the oppression of the city weigh on your shoulders. You pass fishmongers and greengrocers, store-fronts and beggars all attempting to earn a day’s coin for a loaf of bread and glass of ale in the evening. There’s a weight to them, too, almost as if a dark cloud of smog lingers around the city folk, waiting to be dispelled by a gust of wind that never comes. There’s just so much noise in London; there’s a near-constant underlying groan, as if the city’s lungs are clogged by the smoke and the very people themselves, coupled by the visual chaos of building upon building, person upon person, shadow upon shadow. Each year you become so acclimated to the space and freshness of the country that the return to London is harsh. Jarring.

Owing to yours and your family’s status, you return to London during the summer months to once again participate in the social season, leaving the spacious and freeing Wiltshire estate of your mother’s in favour of a Mayfair townhouse with neighbours squashed on either side. You’ve never relished in the functions of high society; the balls and the parties are beautiful, yes, but it’s the falseness of it all that bothers you the most. From an early age, all you remember wanting is to find a love match and escape with them to the country for good, perhaps taking up travelling and seeing some of the world that you often feel like is being kept from you. Alas, since your debut three years ago, your luck in finding a husband is apparently being withheld, too, alongside your family’s preference that you marry for money. Your elder brother’s recent nuptials have only solidified one simple fact: you remain alone.

As you roll into the wealthy district of Mayfair, your grandmother emerges from her shell to begin her analysis of the ton. She knows everyone, along with every ounce of their business. Her review of every passing couple, stranger, or household is a masterclass in gossip; every affair is accounted for, every engagement, every argument, every scandal. She has eyes and ears everywhere, and you don’t doubt her being in the pockets of several - if not all - of the households you pass by way of a talkative butler or scullery maid. 

You block out her rattling as she refocuses her attention on you and the lack of a ring on your finger. She’s determined, vehemently so, that this will be the year she sees you leave the family home, especially given that your brother has just brought someone in. She’s listing the year’s eligible bachelors when the townhouse creeps into view and your muscles begin to relax at the thought of some solitude finally being within reach after such a long journey. Before the carriage rolls to a stop, you steal a glance towards your mother, who is looking at you with a complex expression which silently says I have dealt with this and worse for twenty-five years since marrying your father. You can manage a further twenty-five days. 

*

The family townhouse is expansive and lavish, all the riches that come with your father being the Duke of Wellington evident in the staff lining the pathway to greet you, and the decor with no expense spared throughout the house. On the walls are portraits of Wellington’s past hanging alongside landscapes of the English countryside (your father frequently boasts about the Constable hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room). Throughout the house are large windows allowing the sunlight to stream in and on almost every table is a vase of fresh flowers; should you close your eyes, you can almost imagine being back in the countryside. 

You hurry out of the carriage and cordially greet the household staff in the foyer, lingering a little longer in front of a certain one - the gardener’s son, Edward, who stands alongside his father. The two of you have been friends since childhood, ever since Eddie was old enough to start shadowing his father in the gardens of Mayfair. They have always been good to your family, and in turn, yours has been good to them - not that your grandmother approves of the friendship. But, you’re lucky enough that your mother and father turn something of a blind eye to it. After silently vowing to catch up with one another later, you disappear up the stairs to your bedroom, doing your best to ignore the familiar groans of the house as you navigate each step. 

*

In the warmth of the June sun, the garden is flourishing with colour. The lawn is a vibrant green, and the bordering flower beds are alive with lavender and foxgloves feeding fat, hungry bees. It’s almost as if you aren’t in the middle of a city at all. 

“That’s my handy work, I’ll have you know.” 

A voice calls from behind you, snapping you from your contemplation as you bask in the sunlight. You turn and see Eddie, typically bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his blonde head of hair reflecting the sun like a mirror. He’s changed into his gardening uniform of an old shirt and well-worn dungarees, speckled with mud and pollen, and is leaning on a rusty shovel as he gloats. 

“Of course, I’d expect nothing less,” you reply, relaxing into a smile, “can’t have you following your father like a lost puppy without learning anything.”  Eddie feigns being shot, clutching his chest and stumbling backwards. “You wound me!” 

“As if someone with such impenetrable pride as yours could be wounded,” you retort, feeling smug. Eddie regains his footing as a moment of silence falls between you and he rests the shovel against the wall of the house. 

“3…2…1…Hands!” 

You both then shoot your hands up in faux-surrender. Your eyes dart to his left hand, and his to yours.

“I knew it,” comments Eddie, lowering his arms, “still holding out for love? Another year being touted on the marriage market must surely be worth a drink or five to quell the stress.”

“And for you,” you argue, feeling a warmth in your cheeks and averting your gaze.

“Ah, but I don’t have a grandmother ready to ship me off with the next man who can rub two coins together.” 

You scowl at your friend. “Well, thank goodness you still only have the one, otherwise she might’ve seen me shipped off with you.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Touche, madame. A worthy first spar! I shall limber up and be sure not to fail our next.” 

*

One week later

The days fly by in the slowest possible fashion.

Just one week in London feels simultaneously like a blur and a drag. The immediate chaos of the streets as you step out of the front door speeds up time such that you blink and half your day has gone by; but at the same time, sitting and listening to every shred of gossip makes every minute feel like an hour. Your mother and grandmother have dragged you out to all of Mayfair’s tea rooms and you’ve been subject to daily appointments with the modiste for your dress for the King’s party, along with updating your wardrobe in an attempt to revive it for the new season. 

You take a seat at the dining table alongside your brother and sister-in-law, grateful that the cooler evening has rolled around at last, and rapidly fan yourself to combat any lingering heat. Eventually your father appears and takes a seat at the head of the table, and only then is a small bowl of soup set down in front of you by one of the butlers. After saying grace and sipping the warm broth, your father commands your attention. 

“We are to throw the first party of the season,” he announces, addressing the room as a whole. There’s a beat of quiet, although you sense that your mother has been in charge of the arrangements since before your arrival; the announcement is not news to her.

“The first?” asks your brother, “such a statement is usually reserved for His Majesty, is it not?” 

Your father nods as he chews on a piece of bread. 

“Correct,” he answers, mouth semi-full, “however, I have it on good authority that His Majesty is hosting a guest this season. A royal guest, at that.”

You feel the energy in the room heighten as your grandmother digests the revelation. Even from across the table you can see the glimmer in her eyes. 

“And said guest is supposedly delayed in his travels from overseas, and so will not make it in time for the King’s original schedule. We have been granted the first party of the season with the royal’s to follow. His Majesty sees no reason to delay the season and so has granted us the honour.”

The buzz at the table is tangible, and you almost feel compelled to join in were it not for the realisation that your grandmother is, quite predictably, about to take charge of the conversation. 

“Foreign royalty!” she gasps, “is he…arriving alone?”

She casts a not-so-sly glance in your direction at her implication of the guest being a bachelor. Your father nervously wrings his handkerchief in his hands as he, too, steals a glance towards you. 

“That, I do not know,” he concedes, “I certainly haven’t heard much of anything at the club. I’ve yet to even hear a name.” 

The cogs in your grandmother’s head turn feverishly; if this foreign king was arriving with a wife, the word would be that His Majesty is hosting two dignitaries this season, not one. She turns to your mother. 

“Hmm, word travels quickly amongst the ton. We will know soon enough. We will return to the modiste tomorrow; this one will need a far more elegant gown if she is to stand above the other, younger debutantes this year.” 

“Grandmama, I -”

“You will hold your tongue, young lady!” she snaps, “if you cannot find a man to marry in London, you shall have to settle for a foreign party! I shouldn’t imagine that this opportunity will come to pass again.” 

You do as you’re told and swallow your words; words that want to argue against being touted before a man nobody in your family - nobody in the city - appears to know, words that want to ask, what is the true horror of not marrying this year? What do they have that I don’t? Questions begging answers, what if I don’t want to marry this stranger from a strange land? The table falls quiet at her outburst, but you’re struck by an odd courage, and don’t drop the matter immediately. 

“Grandmama…” you begin calmly, taking a deep breath, “perhaps we should wait to find out just who this person is first? If not even father has heard anything about him, who’s to say he’s a compatible match?”

Your grandmother scoffs. “Compatible? My dear, you are entering your third year on the marriage market. I am a hair's breadth away from marrying you off to that gardener’s boy you are so fond of. At least then you will finally realise the importance of a worthwhile match, never mind whether it is compatible.The squalor of the city’s outskirts, I’m sure, will offer you all the perspective you’d need. You will certainly no longer have the funds to be so picky then. A love match is a child’s conquest, and you will do well to remember it.”

Her words sting, not only you but the others at the table, and yet nobody comes to your defence. The matriarch continues with her meal as if the venom she spits doesn’t colour the taste of her food, and your parents avoid your gaze. For all your father’s grandeur and influence, you have never seen him stand up to his own mother, especially not when she aired her intentions and opinions on his children’s futures. It’s a stark reminder that your grandmother held a title and influence long before anyone else in the room, and built her foundations on a match based on everything other than love. With the sting of both her words and the reluctance of the other members of your family to come to your aid, you bite your tongue and finish your meal in silence before excusing yourself. 

Silently cursing the lateness of the hour and knowing that Eddie had long since gone home with his father, you retire to your bedroom and stew on the evening’s events alone. Why does it bother you so much? There is something easy about accepting your fate, knowing that your parents and grandmother would do their utmost best to get you in front of the King and his guest in the hopes of securing an engagement. There’s something almost tempting about going along with it just to be free of your grandmother’s scrutiny. Nothing is certain; this mystery man making such a journey might not wish to take a wife three years past her debut and will instead look for a more youthful bride with more childbearing years on her side. But it’s the principle of having everything decided for you, the assumption that you will go quietly to the arms of not only a stranger, but a stranger who doesn’t even call England home. That you would abandon everything you know and love simply because your grandmother wills it so. What is so evilabout wanting to find love?

As soon as your brother announced his engagement, you knew that your chances of any match, love or otherwise, would slim down to none. What with him being the eldest sibling, eldest son, it had been some time since you’d accepted that his prospects were far more revered than your own. The future Duke of Wellington mattered far, far more than his little sister. You were thrust into the spotlight upon your debut while he was still a single man, and you’d received ample attention as the sister of the ton’s most eligible bachelor, but his engagement and marriage in the past year were sure to see that attention dwindle to naught. How is it fair that he was able to live so freely and marry only when it suited him while you’d spent almost three years being pressured to marry every man who looked in your direction? 

A sigh slips from your lips, stale but just as heavy as ever.

While wallowing in self-pity is an attractive thought, you roll your shoulders and sit up straight in the bay window seat you’ve been gazing out of, looking over the well-manicured gardens. Despite the near-blinding pressure, you resolve to stick to your convictions and look for a love match. You have seen far too many young women wed men that saw them as no more than vessels for their heirs, and you were determined not to meet the same fate. If you were to live in the shadow of your brother, then you were going to do so on your own terms. 

As you climb into bed the first step of a makeshift plan enters your mind; find out just who this mystery visitor is and attempt to put yourself one step ahead. 

*

The front door has been unlocked since early morning to allow the stream of vendors easy access in and out of the house. The modest ballroom to the house’s rear has been aired and heavily decorated, with the three sets of double-doors open wide to allow the impending guests to spill into the garden. Enormous silver vases rest on pedestals, bursting at the seams with baby blue hydrangeas and delicate violet sweet peas, alongside a plethora of tapered beeswax candles. The string quintet has set up their stools and sheet stands along one wall to play for the guests long into the night. Outside, simple lanterns adorn the trees and bushes to bring light to the garden as the moon slowly appeared. 

You head downstairs to join your mother after spending hours getting ready with your lady’s maid. Your grandmother has ordered you to wear a shimmering baby blue dress - in keeping with the party’s celestial theme - and a crystal bandeau keeping your hair in place. You cannot deny that the house looks beautiful; you just wish that you didn’t find these parties so tedious. 

Alongside your mother, you greet your guests with a warm smile, and in a lull you turn to her. 

“Will the King and Queen be attending?” you ask. She keeps a keen eye on the ballroom. 

“They have been invited, of course, but whether they will appear is anybody’s guess.” 

You nod gently, thinking as much. Often the monarchs don't unveil their plans to attend an event until the very night itself. A place has been reserved for them at the far end of the room, but you doubt that it’ll be used. If the King delayed his own party owing to a late guest of honour then it was highly unlikely that he’d attend someone else’s party instead. Nevertheless, there’s a gentle sink in your stomach at the realisation that you won’t be meeting the rumoured guest tonight.

Before long the ball is well underway, with the strings reverberating through the room alongside the footsteps of keen dancers, and laughter of already tipsy guests. You don’t deny that your mother throws an impressive party, but after a couple of hours drowning in the sea of dancers, you need some fresh air. There are clusters of people throughout the garden making the most of the cooler evening, and you recognise almost all of them. London’s elite are never ones to turn down a party, certainly not one thrown by the Wellingtons. You wander to the small fountain at the garden’s centre and are relieved to find it empty; you take a seat at its edge and let your shoulders relax, feeling lighter already.

“Bit rude of the host to duck out of the party early, isn’t it?” 

You almost leap out of your skin as Eddie’s voice pierces the quiet. You whip your head around to see him peering out from one of the bushes wearing a smug grin. 

“Will you stop sneaking up on me!” You scold him, but there’s no genuine anger. If anything you’re relieved that he’s here. Wait - why is he here? 

“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “your brother slipped me an invitation, but I daren’t go inside. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of dear Grandmama’s less than approving gaze.”

You smirk, understanding his reasoning. You’re grateful for your brother’s consideration, nonetheless, and make a note to thank him later. 

“That’s fair,” you reply as Eddie takes a seat beside you, “probably for the best. Although, I am glad you’re here.”

“Surely you’re not being nice to me for the mere sake of it?”

You attempt to swat him with your dance card that hangs from your wrist. 

“No, actually! I need you to do some digging for me.” 

“You… do realise that I already dig for you? As my job. For your family. In this very garden. In fact, I was digging up that flowerbed over there just last week…” 

“Eddie!” You scold him once again. Amusing he may be, but he was never the best at realising when you were genuinely asking for his help. “I’m being serious.”

Your friend pauses his default persona, and his expression shifts into one more serious as his eyebrows gently knit together. 

“Well, now I’m interested.” 

“Good, you should be,” you begin, and instinctively check for any potential eavesdroppers. “Word has spread of the King hosting foreign royalty this season; surely you’ve heard?” 

Eddie looks up momentarily, as if searching his brain for the information.

“Maybe someone mentioned it at some point. It doesn’t ring many bells but yeah, I’ve heard something along those lines. What about it?”

You glance once more around you. 

“I need you to find out who it is. The guest. Find out anything you can and report back to me.” 

The man looks back at you with a perplexed expression, no doubt silently wondering what you want the information for. You’d never asked him for such a thing; information of this kind was never a priority for you, gossip even less so. 

“Alright,” he agrees, “I’ll see what I can find out; no doubt one of the staff is letting something slip at the pub. Why do you need to know, anyway?” 

You swallow nervously. “Gut instinct, I suppose.” 

Eddie doesn’t buy your reasoning, but doesn’t push you any further. He makes the connection that, if the rumour was true, that your father and grandmother would be lining you up in the hopes of securing an engagement, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind. 

“I’ll see to it. The pints are on you, then. One for every sliver of information. Deal?”

You smirk, and hold out a gloved hand. 

“Deal.”

*

Your father arrives buoyantly at the breakfast table, wafting an envelope high above his head.

“The invitation is in!” he declares, eliciting a groan from your brother who is hunched over a plate of untouched toast and jam, repulsed in his hungover state. 

“Hush, darling, your father is speaking!” Your sister-in-law swats his arm so quickly you almost miss it, and you can’t help but grin. 

“Invitation?” askes your grandmother, interest piqued as she reaches for her teacup.

“To His Majesty’s ball,” your father clarifies, in three days’ time.”

“Three days?!” your mother gasps. From beside her, your grandmother’s eyes are wide.

“Such short notice! We shall have to deliver a hefty bribe to the modiste if the girls are to look their best in time, this is least appropriate!” 

Despite being already married to your brother, it is still of the utmost importance that your new sister-in-law fit in with the family, which means looking her best in eye-wateringly expensive finery. You feel your palms begin to sweat at the mere thought. 

“Then so be it,” your father concedes, “do what you must. Just ensure that everyone is putting their very best foot forward.” 

Your father glances at you and you do your best not to roll your eyes at his failed attempt at subtlety. 

“Is there at least a theme we may cater to?” asks your grandmother, her voice thick with outrage. You look back at your father who is inspecting the invitation thoroughly. 

“Not that I can see,” he says, “no doubt it will be a spectacle; His Majesty does have a taste for the extravagant...” 

There’s a symphony of sighs and muted discussion across the table as your mother and grandmother launch into damage-control, laying out a plan for you and your sister-in-law. Your mother calls on a butler, instructing him to cancel tea with the Wessex’s and dinner at the Portland’s, freeing up the calendar as much as possible. Is this really going to take three days’ preparation?

“You must go and get dressed at once,” orders your mother, neatly folding her napkin on the table, “the modiste opens in under an hour, we mustn’t dilly-dally.” 

With a stifled groan you excuse yourself from the breakfast table and make your way back to your bedroom at a deliberate snail’s pace. The arrival of the invitation, while not wholly unexpected, was a kick, and if nothing else, put a stop to what you had hoped to be a marginally calm day.

*

Credit where credit is due, your mother and grandmother were right to head to the modiste early. 

You were the first to be seen, but soon the shop was packed to the brim with debutantes and other ladies on the hunt for a husband, their invitations seemingly also having arrived in the morning’s post. If you’d have arrived any later, there was a genuine risk of losing your grandmother to an aneurism. There was an almost panicked buzz in the air as they poured over fabric and ribbon samples, placing orders to values that almost made your eyes water. The King’s ball is always the most coveted invitation of the season, but this year’s fascination feels decidedly different. You leave the modiste, having hammered your father’s bank account. It feels entirely excessive, but by now you’re familiar with the rigmarole of what it meant to be invited to the King’s ball, let alone to be attending it.

By the time you get back to the house it’s dusk, and you’re exhausted from being pulled left and right, and there’s a sore patch on your hip where the modiste had nicked you with a pin. There’s nothing you want more than to disappear to your bedroom and exist in silence for the remainder of the night, but you have other plans. 

Dinner is a speedy affair as you barely fill up on partridge and potatoes before pardoning yourself, citing needing your “beauty sleep” as the reason for your early departure. There’s a hint of a grin on your grandmother’s face as you go, and you feel smug that your ploy has worked. No doubt she’s imagining that you’re finally starting to take things seriously, paying a little extra attention to your appearance to please the good King’s prestigious visitor. 

Your lady’s maid dutifully follows you to your bedroom where she begins helping you dress for bed; untying your bodice and slipping the silky fabric off of your shoulders before replacing it with the looser nightgown. After removing the pins from your hair and brushing through any tangles, she bids you a goodnight before leaving you to your own devices. You waste no time in removing the nightdress entirely and throwing on a plain white shirt in its stead, and dig out a pair of deep brown britches which you keep hidden in a chest at the foot of the bed. You stuff your feet into a pair of old leather boots and glance in the mirror, remarking on your appearance; perhaps a little unkempt, but ridding yourself of your material riches is paramount on nights like these. It’s only a short while until the sun has dipped far enough beneath the horizon for you to see Eddie’s lantern glinting at the far end of the garden. You gently swing your window open fully and carefully lift yourself over the threshold, using the slightly protruding windowsill and wisteria lattice to slowly climb down until you reach the garden patio. Beside you is the window to one of the drawing rooms where you hear your grandmother and mother gossiping about the Hatton’s daughter and her “sickly” appearance at the modiste, and feel content that they’re too immersed in conversation to notice anything untoward outside. You tiptoe around the garden’s edge, careful not to trip or draw attention to yourself as you make for the back gate where Eddie waits with his trusted lantern. 

“Another expert escape,” he comments when you reach him, “you should consider being a smuggler for a living.”

The streets of London at night are so very different than during the day. As you walk the familiar road away from Mayfair with Eddie, you can’t help but bask in feeling lighter, as if the weight of expectation is lifted from your very shoulders. Your parents, especially your grandmother, have always talked about how dangerous it is for young ladies after dark in London, but you seldom feel safer than when Eddie is by your side as you head towards Shaftesbury Avenue under a blanket of stars. There’s an air of risk that you cannot deny, but it is this risk that makes you feel all the more… free. 

The well polished streets of Mayfair are left behind as you enter Soho. While Mayfair is owned and dominated by the elite, Soho is almost a world away. At the district’s very edge, tucked down an inconspicuous alleyway off the main thoroughfare sits The Straw Doll public house. Owned by Eddie’s uncle Roger, the pub is a hidden haven away from the bustle of society and city life, not to mention cleaner than most others in the area. The two of you have been sneaking away here since you were fifteen years old, when your grandmother began her tirade of preparing you for the marriage market and Eddie’s uncle took pity on you and offered your first sip of ale to dull the stress. It is always a deeply welcome escape. 

As you walk in, the darkness of the evening left behind in favour of a warmly lit bar and flickering candles, you greet the familiar regulars and Roger behind the bar before placing your orders. Two glasses of liquid gold are slid across the mahogany bar, and the first sip leaves you with a foam moustache as you delight in the bitterness. As you pull up a seat alongside Eddie, Roger leans an elbow down on the bar as he polishes a pint glass. 

“How are we tonight, darlin’?” he asks. You rest down your glass with a sigh. 

“The King’s ball is in two days’ time,” you reply, and immediately Roger’s eyebrows shoot up in understanding. 

“Ah,” he chimes, “my condolences.” 

You can’t help but smile at his cheek. 

“Actually, Rog, that reminds me,” Eddie interrupts, “any more about this foreigner? You heard anything from Purse yet?”

Percy, a butler at the palace, frequented the pub, and was often a reliable source of information if needed - usually at a price, which contributed to his affectionate nickname. 

“Purse ain’t worth his weight in shit, however…” Roger slings the towel he’s been using to dry the glass over his shoulder, “he has come through with a tidbit, I’ll give him that.”

The juxtaposition of Roger slating Percy in one breath and praising him the next amuses you, but your interest is piqued too much to dwell on it. You're ready to lap up any information you can get on this godforsaken visitor that’s stirred the ton into a frenzy that will undoubtedly go down in the history books. You instinctively lean in so that your face is barely two feet from Roger’s, keen to keep his information from spreading. 

“So, according to Purse,” he begins, lowering his voice so that only you and Eddie can hear, “this fella’s been delayed on his way here which is why His Majesty had to bow out of his ‘do.”

I know that, you think, tell me something new. “He’s come a decent way, I think. Far East, Purse reckons.” 

You feel your eyebrows raise. The Far East? It seems unusual that an eastern diplomat would make such an exceptional journey; you don’t recall the King ever having a visit from a dignitary based so far afield. 

“Bloody ‘ell,” Eddie comments, “must be important.”

“That, he is,” says Roger, “Purse says that His Maj’ didn’t even invite him; he just had word that he was coming over and Maj’ has been bending over backwards to accommodate him ever since. Ain’t got a clue who it is, but he’s causing a lot of bother.”

There’s a sudden sinking feeling in your stomach as you regret ever having asked about the visitor in the first instance. Whilst you’d known that the King only ever entertained noteworthy guests, you hadn’t anticipated this one to be quite so significant; not to the tune of inviting himself regardless of whether he was welcome or not. If your grandmother knew exactly how important this man supposedly was, you were sure you’d be under lock and key until the ball. You swallow nervously, and Eddie registers your sudden discomfort. Roger heads to the other end of the bar to scold a patron for spilling yet another pint on his polished bar top, leaving you and Eddie alone.

“Ah, come on,” he says, gently elbowing you as he reaches for his glass again, “he ain’t the second coming. He’ll be exactly the same as the rest of ‘em, I guarantee it. Besides, this is all coming from Purse, remember. Take it with a pinch of salt.” 

Not feeling reassured but appreciating the sentiment, you offer him an uneasy smile and sip at your own ale in silence. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps this nobleman is of the same ilk as every other one you’d met; boorish, arrogant, sure of himself to a fault. Nothing you haven't dealt with before. Still, the uneasiness in your stomach plants itself firmly, and you know that until your curiosity is satisfied, it will fester whether you like it or not. 

[bakughoust]

You haven’t seen Satoru in weeks.

Winter is a busy season. Seasonal depression stirs negative energy in the air, cultivating cursed spirits left and right. It makes it hard when he’s away on a mission, and then you’re away when he’s back, a constant cycle of missing one another. Your relationship becomes moments, only mere minutes together before the reality of life takes one of you away.

Yet, you two make the most of it.

”Satoru.” You gasp as he thrusts in harshly, the desk beneath you creaking in protest. Your nails retaliate by leaving traces down his arms. Sex has become this, quick and rough, neither of you wanting to waste time.

“Sorry, baby.” He slows slightly, fingers drifting down between your legs. “Missed you.” His teeth sink into your bottom lip as you try to muffle another moan.

It doesn’t take long to feel yourself getting close. He sees it too, and it spurs him on, his brows furrowed in concentration, his—

There’s a frantic knocking on the door.

For a moment, the two of you freeze. You want to bang your head against the desk, knowing what will come next.

“Not now.” Satoru turns his head and practically barks at the door. The burst of anger and cursed energy makes you involuntarily clench around him. His reaction is immediate, the way his eyes whips back to yours, his eyes dark. In return, you offer an innocent smile.

“I- I’m sorry, Gojo-san.” Ijichi’s anxious voice just barely makes it through the wood. “I-I-It’s an urgent call. A Special Grade was spotted in Roppongi.”

Satoru closes his eyes. He looks so tired, you think, as you trace shadows on his face that shouldn’t be there on someone as young as him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers when you cup his cheek.

“It’s okay.” You tell him back. Gently, you push him off, immediately feeling empty, hollowed. You watch as he picks up his clothes from the floor.

He hands yours to you, but you shake your head. Satoru raises a brow.

“Hmm” Your fingers slide back down to where his left off. Blue eyes follow the movement, drinking in the sight of them disappearing inside of you. “Have to finish up first.”

His smirk returns. “Won’t be as good as me.”

“Maybe you can show me when you’re back.”